Page 5 of Playing Dirty

I’m already halfway up the stairs when I glance at her over the banister and arch a brow. “I know where the towels are.”

Unlike you, I’ve lived in this house for over a decade.

“Right,” she says, an awkward laugh slipping out. “Well, I’ll call up when the food’s ready.”

I just nod and continue up to my bedroom, part of me hoping she accidentally burns the food before then. Hell, she could burn this whole fucking house to the ground and I’d probably be okay with it.

True to her word, Carla calls for me to come down and eat twenty minutes later, and I force myself to leave the sanctuary of my bedroom.

Dad is already seated in his usual spot at the head of the table when I enter the dining room, his attention locked on his phone, and I quietly pull out the chair to his left. My movement has him glancing up from whatever he was doing, his eyes meeting mine as I drop into my seat.

“How was the drive down?”

I shrug. “Fine, I guess.”

The skin around his blue eyes crinkles more now, and his dark hair is now peppered with grays, but besides the obvious signs of aging, he looks like the same man I’ve known my entire life. Yet, despite the familiarity of his external appearance, I hardly recognize him as the man who raised me. Who bought me my first glove and drove me to t-ball practices, or toured college campuses with me before moving me into the townhouse with all the guys freshman year.

He’s not the same man who taught me right from wrong.

If he were, we wouldn’t be where we are now; sitting around a table with two strangers for Thanksgiving dinner, yet calling themfamily.

“How does everything look?” Carla asks as she sets a bottle of wine on the table amidst all the food.

“Fantastic, and it smells even better,” a smooth baritone voice says from behind me, only for the source to come into my view a few seconds later.

Madden.

He notices me only half a second after I notice him, two pools of molten bronze colliding with my gaze.

Unlike his mom, he’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve Blackmore shirt. His dark hair—damn near black—is cropped short at the sides from a recent cut, but still long enough on top to ripples with waves. I catch the swirls of ink creeping from the collar of his shirt and up the side of his neck; ones that weren’t there the last time I saw him. Designs peek out of his sleeves and cover his hands too, and while I can’t see them, I know there are even more hidden beneath his shirt.

But while Madden Hastings may look like a straight-up delinquent, he’s currently the best catcher in all of college baseball. He was awarded an All-American designation last year, and there’s talk of him being drafted into the Majors once he becomes eligible at the end of the school year.

For his athletic skills, and that alone, he has my respect—though I’d never be caught admitting any praise for a Blackmore Falcon aloud.

Almost as if he could read my thoughts, a perfect, wicked smile spreads over his face.

“Theo,” he murmurs while pulling out the empty seat beside his mother’s. “Nice to see you.”

Wish I could say the same, pal.

I nod in greeting, barely paying him any mind.

Apart from the City Rivals game at the end of last season, I’ve only seen him a handful of times since our parents came back from Tulum to tell us they’d gotten married. Not that I’m at all mad about it; the less time I spend in the presence of a Falcon, the better.

Which is why I’d really love to get this show on the road.

Carla is the only one talking while the four of us load up our plates with food, rambling on about family recipes from Dad’s family that she was eager to mix with some of her own. I’m barely listening, and to be honest, I may need a beer or something if she’s planning to keep filling the silence with awkward chattering all through dinner.

Sometimes it’s nice to just exist in the quiet.

“Can someone pass the green bean casserole, please?” I ask absently as I set the mashed potatoes back in the center of the table.

Carla’s face is slightly ashen when I glance up, and she shoots a quick look from me to my father and back again. “Your father didn’t mention green bean casserole when I went over the sides.”

“Because if it isn’t something he loves, he won’t notice it’s missing,” I reply immediately.

Apparently that applies to both foodandpeople.