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“I didn’t do anything,” he answers in his typical stoic way.

“You did a lot. You do a lot for me, Row. More than you’ve ever had to. I wish there was a way for me to tell you how much you mean to me without it fucking everything up.”Like that I need you. That I want to be with you, even if it means people find out I’m gay and can never see me the same again.I stare at his throat and watch the knot move as Rowan swallows. “What you told me last night…about how you tried to—”

“Don’t worry about that. I’m past it.”

“Still.” I force my eyes back on his, suffocating a little in the intensity. He doesn’t like talking about himself, especially when it’s serious, especially when it’ll make him seem fragile. “Promise me you won’t try anything like that again. Promise me you won’t give up.”

“Tommy—”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” he whispers, sweeping his hand around my back like he wants to warm me up. “And I know I said I don’t fuck with quitters, but if you ever need to quit the team, I’ll still fuck with you.”

So I won’t bawl all over him again, I preoccupy myself with nipping at his frown until he kisses me back.

When Rowan asks if I want to go for a run, I think he’s trying to preoccupy me too, but it just makes me laugh against his cheek.

“Actually, before you woke up, while I was coming out of the bathroom, I ran into…Xiamara—”

“What?” He blinks wide, fully awake now. “What do you mean? What happened?”

“Nothing. She shook my hand and told me to tell you we have to be at the table for breakfast in twenty minutes. Which was about fifteen minutes ago.”

Rowan is silent for a few seconds, his expression losing the morning-magic glow to adopt his more typical grimness. “Shit,” he mutters. “You can borrow my clothes.”

The clothes Rowan lends me fit, sort of. Enough that I won’t look like a dumbass in front of his mom again. I decide that if she asks, I’ll say I crashed on the floor, and I slept in boxers because my clothes were filthy. Innocent enough, right? At the very least, it might save Rowan from an inquisition he doesn’t want.

Then again, Xiamara knew my name already, which means Rowan must have told her about me. That’s a good sign, right?

Rowan is tense heading into this. He has his hands in his pockets from his room to the main house, and he only takes one out when he has to pull open the back door and let me inside.

The first thing I’m hit with is the scent of home cooking as I step into a galley kitchen and come face to face with Xiamara again, posted up at the stove flipping pancakes.

“Oh, good!” she exclaims over the sound of something jaunty and animated playing on a TV past the kitchen. She skittersaway from the stove long enough to pull me into a hug that startles me. Rowan shuts the door, and Xiamara rustles her hand across his bristly head and tells him good morning.

A young girl races into the kitchen and flings herself against Xiamara’s side just as an even younger girl races after her.

“Mom, she’s trying to glitter glue me!” the larger one whines.

“Lena!” Xiamara points at the littler girl. “What did I tell you about the glitter glue?”

Stopping in her tracks, the little one hugs a bottle of blue glitter to her chest and says, “Glitter glue is not makeup.”

“Go put it back, then wash up for breakfast.” Xiamara pets the bigger girl’s dark hair. “Olive, go help your sister wash her hands.”

“She’s not a baby!” Olive exclaims. “She can do it herself!”

“Help her anyway,” Xiamara says in a firmer tone, leaving Olive no choice but to unstick herself from her mother’s side and comply. As she goes, she casts a long look over her shoulder at me, eyes a little wide but unquestioning of my presence.

Rowan has sisters.Littlesisters. Somehow, I always pegged him for having youngest-child syndrome.

“Matt!” Xiamara hollers through the wall. “Breakfast is almost ready!” She quiets her voice to tell Rowan and I to head to the table.

Rowan leading the way, I’m shown a family room open to a dining area where a table is made with six place settings. Butter, syrup and jam already in the center of the table. Between the sectional and the TV in the living room, a man with greying blond hair changes the diaper of a toddler-age boy laid out on a towel on the rug. The boy’s brown curls and Cars t-shirt remind me of when Maverick was small enough to still wear diapers.

Rowan pulls a chair out for me, like I’m his date or something, but I think it’s just so he makes sure I sit in the correct seat. Families always have their own personal spots at the table. But before I can sit, Rowan’s dad pops up from behind the sofa with the tiny one on his hip and says, “You must be Tommy.”

To be polite, I leave Rowan’s side to shake his dad’s hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”