My smile faltered at the sight of Sydney at Home, who looked nothing like Sydney at Work.
Her hair that was normally pulled into a bun on top of her head was wavy and unruly, pulled out of her face by a bright orange headband tied at the top of her forehead. It wasn’t curly like her daughter’s, but it was wild in its own way, barely tamed by that scrap of orange fabric. And the way she carried herself was different somehow, as if she were strolling in the park with nowhere to be. That guard she always hid behind, that shield that was always up seemed to not even exist at all.
She smiled at me as she wiped her hands on a rag, a tired smile on her face — along with a few smudges of dirt. I did a double-take at her overalls and gardening belt, my curiosity climbing as I noted the dirt stains on her knees.
“It looks like you’re the one who’s been playing football,” I teased.
Sydney chuckled, opening the door wider so I could step inside the foyer with them. Paige was staring up at me with a giddy smile, bouncing slightly.
“I’ve been working in the vegetable garden out back,” Sydney said, leading me through the foyer and into an open space that seemed to serve as the living room and dining room, both. College Game Day was on the television, and in the kitchen just off to our right, there sat a basket full of the evidence of that garden’s existence. It was on the counter next to two dirty gardening gloves and a sheer.
“Wow,” I mused, walking straight to it and picking up a carrot from the top. “Carrots, cauliflower, Brussel sprouts…” I paused, picking up a familiar herb. I turned to her. “Basil?”
Sydney nodded, folding her arms where she watched me. “You didn’t call it a pile of leaves,” she commented. “I’m impressed.”
I chuckled, but before I could ask another question about her garden, Paige sighed, flopping down at the dining room table. “Mom’s got a garden. There are carrots and stuff in it. Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay, we’ve covered it now, can we please get down to business here?”
She clasped her hands together in a plea, eyes wide and little feet dangling under her chair.
“Paige Marie, that was rude,” Sydney said at the same time I burst into laughter.
“No, no, it’s okay,” I assured her, taking a seat across the table from Paige. “I like the excitement. You really do love football, don’t you?”
Paige’s face leveled, the most serious I’d ever seen her. “More than anything in the world, Coach.”
“Except her mother, of course,” Sydney said, kissing her daughter’s hair — which was presently a wild fluff of half curl, half wave.
Paige waved her off with a groan, but smiled, too, and Sydney hung her hands on her hips.
“I’ll pour us some lemonade and start working on lunch while you two get down to business,” she said, offering me an apologetic smile before she made her way to the cabinet next to the sink. My eyes followed her up until the very moment she stepped on her tiptoes to reach the glasses, and I noticed the smooth, brown skin exposed between her tiny tank top and the overalls she wore over them. That gap between them gave me a view I’d never had before of her slim waist, and her hips as she wiggled to reach the top shelf.
I swallowed, tearing my eyes away and back to Paige.
Who was watching me with a smirk.
“So,” she said, glancing at her mom and back at me pointedly. “Football.”
“Football,” I echoed, ignoring her smile that said she knew something I was trying to hide. “Let me ask you something, Paige — do you get your feelings hurt easily?”
“Nope,” she answered quickly, nodding once before she sat up straighter in her chair. “I’m tough, Coach. I can handle anything.”
“Anything?” I asked, leaning toward her as Sydney dropped off two glasses of lemonade on the table. She smiled at me before making her way to the basket on the counter, and again, my eyes followed her, watching her unpack each ingredient with care.
“Anything,” Paige said, knocking on the table to pull my attention back to her.
“So, if you show up at football camp next summer, and all the boys on the team make fun of you and call you names and shun you out of their groups and make you feel like you don’t belong, you can handle it?”
Paige rolled her eyes. “Please. I’m only nine years old and I know that boys are stupid and their opinions don’t count for anything.”
Sydney high-fived her daughter as she walked past to turn the volume down on the television.
I chuckled. “And if you go out there and work twice as hard as those boys who are teasing you, and end up being twice as talented, and yet, your coach still doesn’t give you the same playing time as they get… can you handle that, too?”