Page 150 of Married to the Scottish Player
My mom is sniffling. “I just can’t believe she’s already a whole year old!”
I can’t even walk! I’ve done nothing but sit here, looking cute.
The backyard is filled with people I’m told are friends and family and Daddy’s teammates, but to me, they’re the reason I haven’t been able to nap properly since 9:00 a.m.
One of them tried to give me a bite of cheese earlier, and I’m not naming names, but Uncle Dex got yelled at by Mom because it was too small a piece and she didn’t want me choking.
Now there’s a banner above me that reads:Happy Birthday, Bronte!
Yep. That’s me.
Bronte.
After days and days of searching for the perfect name and Dad losing the battle over naming me MacGyver, they settled on Bronte McBride.
Dad still whispers MacGyver to me, though, under his breath sometimes. Like when I throw food. Or growl at him.
“Such a little MacGyver,” he says with pride—like it’s a compliment, and I don’t even know what the heck he’s talking about.
Anyway, they call me Bronte. Or sometimes B. Or B-Money, depending on how many coffees Dad’s had.
At this exact moment, I’m in a high chair that’s been decorated like a throne.A literal throne.There are vines. There are gold foil letters. There’s a glittery crown on my head and a bow in my hair. Glamma McBride says I’m the cutest thing she’s ever seen!
The cake is bigger than my torso. It’s covered in pink rosettes and edible glitter, and everyone seems emotionally invested in me smashing it with my tiny fists of rage.
Like, deeply invested. Like it’s the Super Bowl and my ability to flail these little fists into frosting is somehow symbolic of joy, freedom, and good parenting.
My mom leans down next to me. Her mascara is clinging to her lashes like it’s in survival mode. “Okay, baby girl. Are you ready? This is your moment.”
My moment to do what? I’m hungry!
I poke at the cake, tentatively.
Hmm.
If I poke it like this, I can—
Dad yells again from his perch. “She’s Doing It!”
Startled, I pause. Someone turns off the Bluetooth speaker. Silence falls like we’re at a golf tournament. All eyes on me.
I blink.
Reach for the cake again ...
Grab a handful of frosting.
And, because I’m a little chaotic by nature, I fling it directly at Dad.
It hits his shoulder.
The room gasps.
And then—
Applause.
Wild, thunderous applause like I just solved world peace.
