Luca (Chicago Blaze 2)

“It’s okay for me to go, right?” I say.

“They said if your mom can’t go, someone else can. A resonsirile adult.”

I grin at her mispronunciation as I walk into my closet to get dressed out of sight.

“I’m resonsirile,” I call out. “And I love muffins.”

I put on a pair of khakis and a blue dress shirt, grabbing dress socks and shoes on my way out of the closet. I squint as I pass the open doorway of my bathroom, checking my hair.

It’s a mess. I run into the bathroom and quickly brush my teeth with one hand and my hair with the other.

“Let’s go,” I say to Emerson. “You okay with eating school lunch today?”

“Sure,” she says glumly.

I glance down at her outfit. She’s wearing gray leggings and a red and gray striped dress. My babysitter Sheila is a fifty-something mom of two boys who are in college, and she’s a lifesaver when it comes to picking out clothes for the girls. Emerson’s outfit is cute, but her brown curls are sticking out in every direction.

“Let’s fix your hair,” I say as we jog down the stairs.

“We’re gonna be late,” Emerson protests.

“I’ll be quick.”

I run my hands under the kitchen faucet and wet them, doing my best to tamp down her curls.

“Hey, let me know about this stuff from now on, okay?” I say. “We have to put it on the schedule.”

“Which one?”

I consider. I’ve got a hard copy schedule hanging on the pantry door, and I keep one on an app on my phone, too.

“Both,” I say, locating a comb in a cabinet and trying to tame her hair with it.

“Don’t you read the emails from my teacher? It was in there.”

“Uh…”

I read them sometimes, but I don’t mention that.

“Ouch.” Emerson pulls her head away from my reach. “My hair is fine, let’s just go.”

Her hair looks bad, but if she doesn’t care, I’m not gonna sweat it, either.

All my efforts at small talk on the way to school fall flat. I don’t know if Em’s bad mood is because we’re running late or something else.

Her elementary school is a sprawling two-story brick building with lots of windows and rows of trees lining the sidewalks. I’ve only been here a couple times since she started kindergarten.

As soon as we walk in, a girl approaches Emerson and hugs her. Emerson lights up and I breathe a little easier.

“Where’s your mom?” the other girl asks.

“My mom’s dead. This is my Uncle Luca.”

Her solemn tone guts me. Part of me is glad the kids no longer burst into tears when the subject of their parents comes up, but it’s not much easier to hear them explaining in a perfunctory way that their parents are gone.

“Luca Campbell.” A tall brunette approaches and holds out her hand for me to shake. “So nice to finally meet you. We’ve been hoping to see you at PTA.”

“Hi.” I shake her hand and she laughs.

“Oh, I didn’t even introduce myself, I’m sorry. It’s not every day I meet a pro hockey player. I’m Stephanie Hollis, Peyton’s mom.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Come on, Uncle Luca.”

Emerson takes my hand and pulls me down the hallway. I’m glad I don’t have to extricate myself from that situation. Stephanie was looking at me like a choice cut of meat.

The woman at the registration table lights up when I give her our names.

“You’re the hockey player!” She reaches to shake my hand and presses her other one on top of mine as we shake, and I’m relieved to see a giant diamond on her ring finger.

I’m not here to meet women; I just want to make this event the best I can for my niece.

The woman, wearing a nametag that says, ‘Giada,’ looks at Emerson with big, sympathetic eyes. “Honey, I’m so sorry about your parents.”

Emerson responds automatically. “Thank you.”

“And you—” Giada flashes me a big grin. “Taking in three kids like that—”

“They’re my family.”

“Still, it has to be hard. If you ever need anything, I’d be glad to help. My husband and I have three ourselves, and I don’t see how either one of us could ever do it alone. It’s a tag team some days!” She laughs and I smile politely.

“Anyway…” She waves a hand and passes us nametags to stick on our shirts. I put the pink heart-shaped sticker on the breast pocket of my shirt. “I’ve got a curly-haired one myself, if you need some advice.”

Her judgmental perusal of Emerson’s hair aggravates me. I can’t stand people who insert themselves into the lives of others.

“Where do we go from here?” I ask.

“Just head over to the muffin line,” Giada points to a long line of moms and bouncing kids. “And we hope to see you at more school functions, Luca.”

I don’t know if her comment is designed to make me feel inadequate, but it does. I can’t even handle all the kids’ homework, practices, games and appointments without help from Sheila. Between hockey and home, I’m usually beat. There’s no way I can fit anything else in.