Page 267 of Wild Card 13

A kid stood beside the steps with a paper plate balanced in one hand and a hockey stick propped against his leg like he had brought it because going anywhere without it felt irresponsible. He was lean and wiry, with light brown hair that refused to lie flat and a grin he kept trying to control. His shirt was tucked wrong on one side. There was frosting on his thumb.

Alois stood behind him like a guard tower. Protective hovering, I realized, had an actual physical form.

“Ty,” Lo said, “this is Robert Collins. Bobby, this is Ty Burns.”

The kid looked up at me. His eyes were bright, assessing, and much too amused for someone who still had frosting on his hand. “You’re Burns.”

“Most days.”

Lo’s smile deepened. “Bobby is Alois’s best man.”

For a second, my brain simply stopped. I had imagined an adult. Some scarred former teammate. A cousin from Germany. A man with a handshake like a vise and stories that began with European leagues and ended with someone needing stitches.

I had not imagined a twelve-year-old with unevenly cut hair and cupcake frosting on his thumb.

Bobby looked at my face and grinned wider. “You thought I was taller, didn’t you?”

Alois’s eyes shifted to him. “Do not start.”

I looked from Bobby to Alois. “Best man, huh?”

Bobby lifted his chin. Proud. Happy. Not shy about it, though something guarded still lived under the excitement, like he had learned not to assume joy was safe just because it had arrived. “Yeah,” he said. “Apparently.”

Alois looked down at him. “You agreed.”

“You asked weird.”

“I asked normally.”

“You asked like someone was making you read hostage terms.”

Bento, still planted on Alois’s shoe, gave a long, offended blink.

Alois pointed one finger at Bobby without moving the rest of his body. “Eat the cupcake.”

Bobby shrugged and returned to his treat.

Lo touched my arm. “I’ll let you boys bond before the games begin.”

“Games?” Bobby asked, immediately alert.

“Baby shower games,” Lo responded.

Bobby looked at Alois. “Are you good at those?”

“No.”

“He lies,” Bea called from her chair without even turning around.

Alois’s mouth moved by a fraction.

Bobby saw it and brightened like he had been handed evidence for later.

The first gamewas a diaper-changing race. Six baby dolls lay in a row, each wearing a diaper and an expression of plastic indifference. Marco stepped forward like he had been born for pageantry. Harry rolled his shoulders. Zee cracked his knuckles until Freya told him to stop doing that near an infant simulation. Reed Bishop’s kids climbed onto chairs for a better view. Oliver’s twin toddlers immediately became more interested in the empty diaper boxes than the actual game.

Ezra stood beside Rafa at the edge of the patio, both of them holding drinks and wearing the wary expressions of men who had survived enough life to recognize a trap.

“Everyone,” Lo announced, “the task is simple. Remove the diaper. Wipe. Replace. Secure. Fastest clean diaper wins.”