Chapter Thirteen
OWEN
Lisa's hiding something. I know it in my bones. I know it the way I knew that we were going to beat Harvard in the National Championships spring of my junior year, before my life went to hell in a handbasket. I get that I don't have the right to her personal life - I gave that up the night I sent her away. Since then, she's made it clear that she's my bar room confessor and nothing more. Still, I would have thought that after five years of near-nightly confessions and a box full of cocktail napkin cartoons, she'd know she could confide in me, too.
I'm surprised by the ache in my chest.
A small hand turns my cheek. "Unca Owen," my niece Ellis asks, lips red from the extra cherries Lisa put in their Shirley Temples. "Potty?"
"Cal?" I call, looking around wildly for
