Page 10

Chapter 10

Zack

“Andersen, why the hell are you waddling like that?” Coach asks as I move spots on the field for my next practice circuit. He’s already turned and walking away from me. Clearly a rhetorical question then.

It’s because I’m a fucking slacker and currently paying for every day I did something other than move my body or lift a weight. I was a dickhead during the off-season, and now my muscles are revolting.

Snickers and laughs from my teammates cut in before I can answer. “That new redhead teaching you a thing or two?” someone asks, and I know it’s going to be a thing the minute I see Tripp’s eyes flash and catch mine.

Yup. Here we go.

I follow Tripp as he approaches whoever made the redhead comment.

“No comments on the redhead,” he points at the group as they smirk back at him. Tripp has always had dad energy, like someone you didn’t want to disappoint, but it also makes him a perfect target. “She’s my friend, Willow’s assistant, and kind of works for the non-profit. Leave it alone,” he commands while turning back.

“Zack’s the one—” one of the wide receivers, Julio, starts to say.

“Don’t even say it,” Tripp interrupts. Julio presses his lips together, raises his eyebrows and awkwardly turns away, moving to his next practice set.

Trying to diffuse any tension, I joke, “Don’t worry, I’m just a little sore. ”

“You’re not making it better, Zack,” Tripp says while walking past me and toward his receiver core.

It’s hard to believe this is only the second season the Upstate Cosmos have been around. Some billionaire thought New York needed another football team — she was in the minority — so the expansion draft last year brought this team together. After winning the Super Bowl in our first season—thanks to me, or really, my special teams coach finally convincing our head coach to let us try a trick play we’d been dreaming about for an entire season—we’ve managed to keep most of the team intact.

I like it here. It’s much better than Florida, my first NFL team and where the expansion draft plucked me from. Honestly, good riddance. The fans were great, you could even say spectacular, but nothing would compensate for the nightmare that was humidity. Nothing like feeling like you’re breathing in the sweat of your teammates when you’re trying to play football.

Before Florida, I played college football at a small Division 2 school in Illinois. Full ride scholarship and all the playtime I’d need to make it to the NFL as a special teams player.

Now I'm one of those guys who talks about the seasons. Here’s the thing: I don’t fucking care. At least I can breathe here, most of the time. Right now it’s a bit challenging because Tripp shoots me a look which screams, “I’d pay someone to tackle you right now.”

Riley

you’re kidding right

thought she was just a friend?!

Screenshots of photos of Emilie and me follow Riley’s messages. Fuck me . I didn’t have a chance to bring her up to speed. We’re those annoying siblings, the ones that tell each other everything. I set my phone down, pulling my shirt on, my skin still hot from the shower.

I reach for my phone, about to text Riley back, when Emilie sends a message.

Emilie

forgot to mention, talked to willow and tripp this morning

wasn’t great but also wasn’t a disaster

also my sister is poking around about you so

no telling anyone else

I can’t help but roll my eyes. I hate keeping things from Riley but the least I can do is what Emilie asked. Her situation is higher stakes than telling my little sister. Riley will get over it, and if not, we can fight about it for the next few years.

Me

secret club

i like it

can confirm tripp is not happy

There’s no way I can leave my sister on read, so I open our conversation and my brain aches. This is why you shouldn’t tell lies because how the fuck do you keep them straight? I text Riley back, trying not to grin at the pictures of Emilie and me, which was the last thing she sent.

Me

was going to tell you

Riley

tell me what because you’re giving me whiplash

dating Emilie. It's casual.

Dating? Did your phone autocorrect “fucking” again?

haha, you’re so funny

I can date

you’re right, you can, but you don’t

As soon as I put my phone in my pocket, trying to get away from my sister, Tripp is walking toward me like someone put his tennis shoes in the showers or pissed in his cereal. The locker room is conveniently empty. Wonder why people didn’t want to hang around?

“You really know how to clear a room,” I laugh at Tripp.

“Just remember, whatever you’re doing with her, she’s not someone who will disappear when you get bored.” His voice is stern, but still full of care and caution.

Ouch. That stings. Doesn’t mean he isn’t onto something. I’ve not been known to ever really pursue someone for more than an evening. But this isn’t even that; it’s not real .

“It’s just for the wedding and then—”

If Tripp rolled his eyes any harder, they’d get stuck looking at his brain. “I heard the same thing from Emilie this morning. Don’t need the speech. Just be careful.” He lets out a breath, an emphatic pause. “She's important.”

His eyes latch onto mine, and I hear the message loud and clear: don’t hurt Emilie.

Tripp squeezes my shoulder and is out the door before I have a chance to say another word.

“I’m just saying, it’d be nice to hear things from you before the women at Pilates ask me about it.” My mom shrugs her shoulders as she sits back with a cup of tea.

“Mack, he’s a grown man. Give him some space,” my dad says before placing a kiss on her cheek. She leans into him as a grin starts to form, knowing it’s coming before his lips touch her skin.

They’ve been like this my whole life—in deep, deep love. I used to joke about how disgusting they were and had my fair share of get-a-room-paired-with-an-eye-roll tantrums. It only took a sleepover at a buddy’s house, and an uncomfortable after-dinner fight between his parents, before I started to realize how lucky I was. I'll never forget how they spoke to each other, how the pit in my stomach grew.

Mackenzie and Christopher Andersen set the standard high for what forever could look like. They loved and supported Riley and me in big ways. Even though they both worked demanding jobs—my dad as a pilot and my mom a marketing executive—they did their best to show up for us.

They still do, as they sit in my apartment, bringing over lunch from my favorite deli from our home neighborhood—about an hour away.

Mom continues her prodding. “I’m just saying, we finally get you back for a long period of time and you’ve got a mystery girlfriend? When do we get to meet her?”

“I'm sure you’ve met. She's always at Cosmos things.” I try to sidestep the pointed request.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what she means. She wants to ask her at least fifty questions, preferably over a meal. You know, really get into it,” my dad teases, sarcasm dripping from his words as my mom nudges him playfully.

I’m a jackass. I should’ve called my parents as soon as Riley texted me about Emilie.

Truth is? I love family dinner. When I was away for college or living in Florida, I'd come home every time I had the chance. The guys would give me such shit for not staying back to party or hang out, but it was worth it.

“Once Riley’s back in town, we can come over for dinner,” I reply, watching my mom’s face light up like she found something she’s been looking for.

My heart picks up, thinking about bringing Emilie to my family home, which means the world to me. I offered to buy my parents a new place when I signed my first big contract with guaranteed money, but they refused. My mom always used to say, “There’s too much love in these walls to give it up.” I would pretend gag but secretly sigh in relief, knowing our home meant as much to them as it did to me.

There’s something special about being able to go home to your bedroom. Not that I’d show Emilie my bedroom. I mean, yes, I would show it to her, but there wouldn’t be anything for us to do in there .

“Why are your cheeks so red?” Mom puts the back of her hand on my forehead, like she’s feeling for a fever.

And because I can’t say, “Well, I’m thinking about bringing my pretend girlfriend back to my room, and it’s kind of hot but it shouldn’t be,” I answer, “It’s kind of hot in here. I’m going to turn the AC down.”

I walk to the thermostat before they can look too closely and find a tell—point out they know I’m lying.

“Are we on for golf next week?” I ask my dad. We try to get out a few times a month, just the two of us.

My dad is looking at his phone, not paying attention.

“Chris, did you hear Zack? Are you golfing next week?” my mom repeats.

My dad’s cheeks tint pink before he puts his phone face down. “Ah, sorry. Next week won’t work. I'll check my work calendar.” He offers a smile.

He seems distracted, but who am I to talk?