Ballsy Page 2

  The clock reads 11:50.

  Almost lunch time.

  I try to figure out how I’m going to make it through the rest of the day when the curiosity and anticipation are both gnawing at me so fervently.

  As if you have a choice, Joey.

  CHAPTER TWO

  KIERAN

  I peel off my gear slow and careful. If I put too much pressure on my hand the sting is enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. As soon as I finish pulling the jersey off, I notice Baylor is waiting for my attention.

  That’s unusual for him.

  “Yes?” I prompt.

  “What was going on between you and Joey?” Baylor demands. He spits a little as he says it, which is my cue to deflect.

  “Uh, nothing?” I open my locker and shove everything inside. Time for a change of subject. “What’s going on tonight?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” Baylor snaps, signaling no with his index finger. “I know what I saw.”

  I roll my eyes and slam my locker shut, a touch too hard for comfort. My hand smarts.

  “Stay away from my sister, Kieran,” Baylor warns. He’s backing off and walking in the direction of his own locker, which is located in a clear diagonal from my own. “You know I don’t like any of y’all sniffing around her. I told her working for this team was a goddamn disaster waiting to happen.”

  “Dude, who made you the boss of the world?” I shoot back, my temper starting to flare. “And for the last fucking time, there is nothing going on between me and Joey. You don’t need to go all attack dog on me. For fuck’s sake.”

  “Sure.” Baylor snorts and makes a jerking off motion. “Keep trying to play it off. I know what I saw and I didn’t like it one fucking bit, is all I’m saying.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  Baylor harrumphs. For a brief stint, that’s it.

  It’s only a matter of time before I completely give it away. The fact I’ve managed to retain some semblance of plausible deniability for years when it comes to Joey is a miracle in and of itself. But it’s also been years since I’ve been with anyone and seeing her every day, well… it’s taking everything I’ve got to keep it on the down low. Trying to keep my erection tucked away around her is hard enough as it is, pun very much intended.

  I can’t help myself when she sneaks up on us with what she thinks passes for snacks — which I pretend to enjoy anyway because there’s nothing that lights up a room like Joey’s smile. Or when she drops something on the floor and bends over to pick it up, her jeans leaving nothing to the imagination. Or when she lets her hair down and it falls in loose curls that bracket her face and accentuate her curves…

  My cock twitches.

  What can I say? I’m a sucker for that girl.

  And she’s my best friend’s sister.

  My very protective, nearly psychotic best friend who would kill me in a heartbeat if he knew.

  That’s no joke. He’d string me up.

  He already knows, though.

  That doesn’t mean we have to dwell on the subject.

  “So, about tonight?” I repeat, wrangling my shirt on. “Are you going to tell me anything? Should I bring popcorn?”

  It’s a reference to the last time Baylor invited all of us out with a girl he was seeing. Years ago, mind. The night turned into a disaster quicker than you can say ‘score.’ This time, it seems he’s learned his lesson given I don’t think he’s invited anyone else.

  “You’re not ever going to let me live that one down, are you?” He sounds annoyed, adding, “asshole.”

  “Hey now, no need to get pissy,” I tease, only because he deserves it. “But seriously, what’s the deal?”

  “You’ll find out tonight,” he says, and without a hand injury, he’s already out of his gear and into proper street clothes. “I’m only inviting you and Joey, though, so keep quiet. I don’t need any more of the team busting my ass with memories of crazy chicks past.”

  “Aren’t you going to shower then, Ebenezer?” I ask.

  “Nah.” Baylor saunters out the door like that isn’t the grossest thing.

  Then again, maybe I’m just a germaphobe.

  Anyway, that leaves me to my own devices as I try to find a solution to my problem: How to shower without getting the bandage Joey so painstakingly put on all wet and soggy.

  *

  As it turns out, it wasn’t just Joey and me that were invited out. I’m surprised (and somewhat taken aback) to find that everyone else is already there at the fancy restaurant Baylor directed us to—Baylor, Joey, their mom Amelia, and also, ding-ding, Rachel.

  The hostess leads me to the table even though I told her I could take myself.

  “What did you do to your hand?” she coos as we draw closer.

  The hostess touches my arm to guide me the rest of the way. Joey spots us. Her expression as she takes in the sight of me and the hostess is unreadable.

  I hate being the cloud darkening her usually smiling face.

  “Uh, sports accident,” I reply to the hostess. I quicken my step and take a seat.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” she says, touching my arm again. “Anything,” she purrs.

  The exchange isn’t lost on the others. The faint murmur of conversation grinds to a halt as Amelia, Rachel, and Baylor turn to stare at me. Baylor dons the mother of all shit-eating grins while Rachel looks somewhat nonplussed, like an heiress who thinks she might have, perhaps, smelled something unpleasant. Amelia’s expressive eyes and naturally curious disposition save the day.

  I don’t dare look at Joey.

  “Well, what a pretty girl,” Amelia comments.

  “Sure seemed like she liked what she saw,” Baylor adds. “You should get her number.”

  “Let’s order, shall we?” Joey cuts in. “The specials look good.”

  And that puts an end to the short-lived conversation about the possibility of me and some random woman hooking up, thank fuck.

  Unfortunately, it doesn’t put an end to Joey’s sour mood throughout the rest of the evening.

  We order appetizers and then entrées. The entire time Joey doesn’t look at me once. I notice Baylor watching us a couple of times, which works out well because in the absence of any flirtation, he seems to lose interest.

  So at least there’s that.

  I eat my food without really tasting it, lost in my own head with my endless thoughts about Joey.

  Then comes the moment we’ve all gathered for: the big announcement, whatever it is.

  “Well, I won’t keep you in suspense much longer,” Baylor starts. “Garçon?” He snaps his fingers theatrically. Sure enough, a waiter does respond to Baylor’s beckon. “Get me a bottle of your finest champagne and five glasses. We’re celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?” I ask. My patience is already wearing thin.

  “Wait for the booze to arrive, bro,” Baylor says.

  So much for not keeping us in suspense.

  After an eternity and a half, once Baylor has seen to it that everyone is armed with their own glass filled to the brim with bubbly, he finally drops the big news.

  “Rachel and I are getting married!” he declares, all the while looking into Rachel’s eyes. Then, eyeing the rest of us, he adds, “We wanted you all to be the first to know. It’s important for us you’re here to share our special moment with us.”

  Amelia is the first to break the silence. “Wow, dear.”

  I steal a glance at Joey, hoping she’ll take a time-out from being annoyed at me to share in acknowledging how bizarre it is to have heard those words come out of Baylor’s mouth. Especially because we speculated this might be the case earlier today.

  She does. It’s comforting, in a way, to know I’m not the only one who’s dismayed at the news.

  We quickly avert our eyes, in unison. I don’t have to ask her to know what she’s thinking: we don’t need Baylor catching us sharing a look, and a look of horror at t
hat.

  Shake it off. Look alive, Kieran.

  I’m not so good an actor I can simply slide into a celebratory mood. Beyond the fact I think Rachel and Baylor are a terrible match, there’s also The Incident. The thing that happened only a few weeks ago.

  See, Joey wasn’t kidding when she said Rachel is too much of a flirt. Calling her a flirt would be a disservice to how much of a man-eater she actually is. I should know, seeing as I fell prey to her after practice one day just a couple of months ago. That time, Baylor had opted for (what should be mandatory) a shower after practice, and by some miracle his took longer than mine. I came out of the locker room a few minutes ahead of him and saw Rachel waiting. They were my ride, so I waited, playing with my cell to curb the awkwardness of having absolutely nothing to say to my best friend’s girl.

  That’s when I felt her hand on my bicep. Lingering. Squeezing. “You know… You and I should get to know each other better.”

  It went downhill from there.

  For the record, I shut that shit down. Hard. No room for doubt.

  But I didn’t tell Baylor about it because I can’t predict how he’ll take it. I know him better than a twin knows their sibling, but where Rachel is concerned, he’s a black box. For the life of me I can’t figure out what it is that drew him to her in the first place.

  Well, I can, actually. She’s hot, there’s no denying it, in that obvious, vaguely cheap way. Nothing like Joey.

  But to go from someone who’s at best one-night-stand material to a full-fledged relationship (and now with a ring attached) makes no sense to me. Especially since Baylor was single for a long-ass time before he met Rachel. Even longer than my own recent celibacy.

  You’d think the person to break that dry spell would be nothing short of spectacular. Alas…

  “You’re quiet,” Baylor points out. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

  I decide I can’t say anything. Between how unpredictable his potential reaction is and the whole Joey thing that’s brewing, I don’t want to rock the boat if I can help it.

  And then there’s the other thing.

  For all of his flaws and his maniacal overprotection when it comes to Joey, I can’t deny that seeing his grin, his almost-innocent joy at sharing his news with us, is too much. It’s disarming. There’s nothing I can do except raise my glass and deliver a vague but well-meaning congratulations to my best friend.

  Everyone follows suit in raising their glass and toasting. Amelia and Rachel quietly sip theirs while Baylor wolfs his down in one gulp before pouring more. Curiously, Joey doesn’t take one measly drop of hers. She circles the edge of champagne flute with her finger, staring off into space as if in a trance of some sort.

  I guess she’s feeling as cheerful as I am by all of this.

  “I want to throw you an engagement party, dear,” Amelia says to Baylor. “To properly welcome Rachel to the family.”

  Rachel smiles politely. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Torrence.”

  I wince subtly. You’d think the soon-to-be bride would know her fiancé’s mother hates being referred to as missus. To her credit, Amelia doesn’t flinch or allow her smile to waver.

  “We’re having a party this Saturday,” Baylor adds quickly. “But maybe on Sunday?”

  “Saturday?” I echo.

  “Yeah.” Baylor zeroes in on me. Despite the alcohol, he’s looking particularly sharp and lucid. “Game on Friday, party on Saturday. You’re invited and it’s not optional.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  JOEY

  It’s windy out in the bleachers. I snuggle against the soft scarf that’s tied around my neck. It smells of my favorite soap and, faintly, of Kieran. I smile as I play through the scenes of the several weeks I saw him knitting this scarf and acting all fidgety whenever I asked who it was for because I loved the colors. When he finally gave it to me during the holiday season, I’d been so surprised, my heart filling and warming at the sight of it.

  Next to me is Rachel, whose icy demeanor is a sharp match for the weather. She looks out at the field, now empty as each team is huddled at their respective sides discussing strategy. Every couple of minutes she pulls her cell out of her pocket and checks it for the millionth time only to put it away again when she verifies there are no new notifications. It’s incredibly irritating.

  I swear, her boredom is like the stench of someone who hasn’t showered in days. Unmistakable. Does she know that marrying Baylor means a lifetime of coming to games just like these?

  An idea strikes me. There’s really no time like the present to ask my future in-law (shudder) about her apparent lack of interest in anything related to my brother’s career.

  “So… not a big fan of football, huh?” I say casually, hoping it’s not obvious I’m only half genuine. The other half is kinda curious about what happens if I fuck with her. You know, just a little bit.

  Don’t judge me.

  “Nah.” Rachel yawns, checks her phone again, and then proceeds with standing there like a statue. At no time does she give me so much as a cursory glance.

  “So… how will you endure years and years of dozens of games during the season?” I look straight ahead too, following her lead of not facing the person you’re having a conversation with. It satisfies me more than it should when she whips her head and stares daggers at me, burning holes through my skull, or so I assume since I’m only catching a glimpse of it through my peripheral vision.

  “What’s your point?” she says finally.

  “Well, I mean, you’re marrying a football player.” I pause for effect. “And you hate football. It’s a spectator sport. If you don’t enjoy it at all, and if it’s such a big part of your fiancé’s life—and being that he’s my brother, I can safely say that yes, it is a huge part of his life—how will you… you know, deal with all of the football-related stuff you’ll have to be a part of?”

  It’s a clunky-ass sentence, but it does the trick.

  I still don’t look at her.

  Rachel huffs and turns to face the field again. She sighs. “Baylor knows I’m not big on football. It’s not a big deal. I don’t have to go to every game, you know.”

  This last part is said with an air of sarcasm, as if my question is completely, brain-popping bonkers.

  At some point I’m going to need to accept that if I want to screw with her, it’s very likely I’ll walk away the more infuriated party. Rachel oozes layers upon layers of nonchalance. At the end of the day, she’s getting what she wants—a huge ol’ diamond adorning her ring finger and the perks of being Mrs. Baylor Torrence, football career be damned. I can point out all of the inconsistencies of this reality she’s created for herself and hope to get under her skin just for the malice of it—all the while ignoring what it says about me that I feel the need to do that—but in the end she’s the one who doesn’t give a fuck.

  And I fundamentally do. Which means I’m always at a disadvantage when it comes to interacting with her.

  Rachel seems to sense my internal turmoil. She turns to me again, this time locking eyes with me. She offers me a little smirk by way of acknowledging her upper hand in our exchange.

  “Baylor loves me. He will understand if I don’t want to go to every single game of his. In fact, I think he’ll prefer to keep me all to himself as much as possible.”

  “Ah,” is all I can manage in response.

  Rachel pulls her phone out yet again for what feels like the millionth time. Someone has sent her something, or at least that’s what her enthralled expression tells me. She taps away at her screen, allowing the world around her to fall away. I’m left to my own devices.

  It really is just as well, because it wasn’t like the conversation we were having was going anywhere.

  Still, I can’t help but throw just one teensy tiny bit of shade her way as the huddles on both sides of the field break up and the players take their positions again. “I’m sure Baylor will understand, but I don’t know if any bride who has n
o interest in one of the most important things in his life will be able to keep his interest, you know, ’til ‘death do you part.’”

  Okay, okay, it’s bitchy even for me, and I’m not proud of it, but damn it’s fun. Rachel only takes a deep breath in self-righteous fury but doesn’t offer a response. If nothing, I’m pleased I got the last word in.

  Yes, it’s petty, and no, I’m not that person, but damn if it doesn’t feel good to take her down a peg.

  Anyone who has to deal with her as much as I have had to over the past few years would understand.

  The frosty silence that lingers between us couldn’t have come at a better time. The ref blows his whistle and the clock starts counting down again, second by second ticking away at the final quarter. Kieran is on the field. He’s the highlight of many of the plays the quarterback is calling. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was in perfect health. There’s no hesitation as he catches the ball with his injured left hand or collides against the defensive linemen of the rival team.

  I feel like drool is about to trickle down the corners of my mouth at any time as I watch his quick footwork and seemingly effortless passes that result in a flurry of touchdowns. The crowd roars and a festive mood swells around all of us by the time the buzzer goes off, announcing the end of the game.

  Kieran winces as he spits his mouth guard out and takes his helmet off.

  So much for his injury not being a factor in tonight’s game…

  Rachel gets up. “I’m gonna go find Baylor. Congratulate him and stuff.”

  As if I’m just going to hang back and wait for them to come fetch me for us to leave.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes and quickly jump to my feet and trail after her. We aren’t the only family members (ugh, she’s in that category now) who are trying to push past the throng of people headed in the opposite direction, so it’s a struggle to gain any ground toward the field.

  A jab strikes me square in the ribs out of nowhere. I nearly crumple to the ground the pain is so intense. My breath comes out labored and heavy. My knees wobble the slightest bit and I have to lean on the resistance of the crowd of strangers to keep on my feet.