It’s not that I don’t enjoy taking part in the designated community service projects the Jags’s owner requires each of us to complete. Quite the opposite. I appreciate being able to return to my alma mater and donate my time to others. God knows, I learned a lot from this program years ago.

But, man. There’s no denying some of these parents are just straight-up douchebags.

Case in point, Sammy Tate’s dad.

“Hey, Jones!”

I literally feel the muscles in my face tightening, anticipating a scowl, because I recognize the fact that Nathan Tate is about to have yet another complaint. Or request. Either will end up sounding like a complaint, so it doesn’t really matter.

Slowly, I turn from where I’ve been ensuring none of the kids have left behind any personal belongings, like water bottles or sweat towels. It’s crazy to consider, but even eight-year-olds have superstitions. If they had a great session on Monday and used the white sweat towel with red stripes, you better believe they’ll have that same damn towel during the rest of their sessions.

“Sir?” I force myself to maintain a casual tone. Unbothered. Like I haven’t already picked up on every single indicator that he’s about to light into me and get pissy over something I did—or more importantly, what I didn’t do.

“I think we need to chat about you giving Sammy more opportunity to get his hands on the ball.” Nathan slips his hands into the pockets of his athletic shorts. This pose causes his cotton shirt to stretch over his large, protruding rounded belly as he fixes a menacing look upon me.

I can’t seem to get through one of these youth sessions where I’m tasked with helping these kids with the basics of throwing passes and the fundamentals of football without this guy trying to steamroll me with the way he believes I should handle things.

“I spend the same amount of time with every participant.” It takes every ounce of my willpower not to speak through gritted teeth and prevent a snarl from entering my response. This guy is one of those typical parents who’s trying to live vicariously through their kid, to make their dreams come true.

Dreams that usually have nothing to do with what the kid wants.

The man takes a step toward me. “Well, you and I both know he shows more promise at being a QB when he graduates and heads here to UF.”

Jesus. The kid’s eight years old, for Christ’s sake.

“Mr. Tate, if you’re unhappy, maybe you’d prefer to take Sammy over to GHS where they have another summer football clinic available.”

I offer this casually, calmly, while I internally chant, Please go give the people hell at Gainesville High School for a change.

I hate shoving a troublemaker on others, but this dude is pissing me off.

“I might just do that.” He huffs out his response and stalks off toward the bleachers where the rest of the parents are seated. Dude has a stick up his ass, that’s for sure. Poor kid’s got to hate having to deal with him on a daily basis.

“Sorry, Mr. Jones.” A small voice draws my attention from Mr. Tate’s retreating back, and this time, I offer an easy smile to the young boy standing before me. His eyes peer up at me with hesitance as if he’s preparing for me to tear into him.

Makes me wonder just how often his father does so. And that thought is far too disturbing. I sling an arm around the lanky boy’s shoulders and tug him in for a split-second hug that’s long enough to let him know things are cool but quick enough not to draw attention from the other kids because I don’t want them giving him shit. Winking at him, I say, “No worries, buddy.” I lift my chin in the direction of where the others are lining up for a speed drill. “Let’s head over and get started.”

At the bright beam of his smile, I’m reminded exactly why I’m doing this. He starts jogging off, then stops abruptly and turns slowly. His expression is devoid of the smile from a moment before. Now, he’s somber; his features tainted with such desolate sadness that it makes my chest tighten painfully.

“You miss your mom, too?”

At first, my brain bypasses the implication and instead zeroes in on the fact he’s bringing up my mom. The subject isn’t exactly off-limits, but I certainly don’t enjoy talking about it. She passed away from ovarian cancer and not a day goes by that I don’t wish she could be here and witness everything I’ve accomplished.

Then it dawns on me. The “too” in his question.

I clear my throat, uncomfortably tight with emotion, and I’m grateful for the dark sunglasses that disguise the sheen I know my eyes have. A million responses flitter through my head, but instead, I choose the simplest one. Simple but truthful.

“Every day.”

He nods and appears far too serious—far too mature—for a kid his age. Turning, we fall into step as we make our way to the others. “Think they’re watching us?”

“Without a doubt.” I grin, thinking about the completely unexpected way my best friend, Emma Jane, or Blue, came into my life. “In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s helped me out a few times along the way.”

“Cool.” He flashes me a shy smile. “Thanks, Mr. Jones.” Then he runs off and gets in position.

Throughout the remainder of the drills and even after the final boy has left the field for the day, I find myself wondering if Mom has something else up her sleeve.

And whether it has anything to do with Ivy.