Three years later.“Go Billy go.” I shouted as loud as I could. So loud that the parents around me gave me a sideways glance.“Shush,” Trista said. “I told you, don't be ‘that’ dad.”But Billy was on a breakaway. He ran across the field, his little legs pumping as he went. He had the ball. It was the youth finals in Billy's soccer club. His team was up one. Billy was on a breakaway and he was going to score.I just knew it.Sure enough, he got to the goal and gave the ball a good hard kick. It sailed past the goalie. He scored.“He did it!” I said, throwing my arms up in the air.Billy's eight year old face beamed back at me. His team swarmed him. It was the winning goal. His team was victorious.Billy had really taken to soccer. He lived, breathed and ate it. He trained hard. Even at just eight years old he was a natural athlete. He had long leaned muscles. Just like Liam. But he had the dedication of his mother.Belle, on the other hand, had taken to music. She played piano and the
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