by Tracy Wolff
“Yeah!” Brent says with typical brotherly enthusiasm.
I bury my face in Lucy’s neck and blow bubbles against her skin. She shrieks with laughter, so I do it again and again, holding her squirming body tight in my arms so she doesn’t fall and hurt herself. She smells like baby shampoo and bubble gum, and the scent soothes me even as it makes the ache inside of me grow bigger. She’s so little, only six years old, and she’s already had to face so much.
Will have so much more to face far too soon.
The thought only makes me tickle her more as I revel in the sound of her little girl laughter. At least until her brother sticks his arms out in front of him and does his best zombie impression as he growls, “Braaaaaaains. Must. Have. Braaaaaaaains.”
“No!” Lucy squeals. “Stop him, Uncle Hunter. Stop him, pleeeeeeease!”
“Must. Have. Braaaaaaaains.” Brent reaches for her ponytail and tugs, his mouth wide open as he leans toward Lucy’s face. And that’s when she screams loud enough to wake the dead.
“What’s going on out there?” My sister’s voice drifts into the kitchen from the back of the house.
We all freeze, and I know the guilt is as evident on my face as it is on my niece’s and nephew’s. “Why’d you have to go and scream like that, stupid?” Brent demands, pulling his sister’s ponytail.
“Ouch!” she cries out, her little hand flying to her ponytail. “What was that for?”
“That’s for upsetting Mom!” he says, reaching out as if to pull her hair again.
I stop him with a warning look, then put Lucy back on her little feet. Her lower lip is quivering, her big green eyes filled with tears she’s trying so hard to blink back that it breaks my heart. A quick glance at Brent shows me he looks just as miserable, despite his sudden burst of nastiness.
“It’s okay, guys. Your mom’s not upset.” I drop a hand on Brent’s shoulder, squeeze tightly. “She’s been my sister a lot longer than she’s been your mom, so trust me. She knows if there’s a disturbance in here it’s her bratty little brother’s fault.”
“That’s for sure,” Heather says from behind me. “Did I ever tell you about the summer he spent doing nothing but hiding in the dark just so he could scare me? It got so bad that I could barely walk down the hall without freaking out.”
She’s laughing as she says it, and when I turn to her she grins at me. But she’s pale and trembling and more than a little out of breath from the exertion of walking from her bedroom to the kitchen. The fact that she doesn’t have much time left—that the cancer that has been ravaging her blood for the last eight months is winning despite the best treatment my money could buy her—is written in her gaunt cheeks, her slumped shoulders, the shadows under her eyes. Though she’s looked like this for weeks, it still hits me right in the gut. Still makes me want to hit something, anything, back.
I want to scold her, want to tell her that she should be in bed, resting. But she already knows. Just like she knows the time she has with her children is running out. And if she wants to hang out in the kitchen with them for a little while, who am I to tell her no?
Besides, as my older sister by seven minutes—a fact she’s spent her life lording over me—she’d somehow find the strength to kick my ass for even trying.
I settle for trying to keep things as normal as possible. “Apparently, Brent made brain meatballs with Marta today. Did you try them?”
“Brain meatballs?” she asks as she starts toward the nearest chair. “I don’t think I did try them.” She’s unsteady on her feet and every instinct I have tells me to go to her, to help her. But she won’t thank me for it, especially with the kids looking on, so I settle for watching until she’s safely seated. Then I cross to the fridge and pour her a glass of the specially blended superjuice I have delivered for her twice a week. It’s loaded with vitamins and antioxidants that are known immunity boosters and cancer fighters.
Lately Heather’s been refusing to drink it—claiming it hasn’t helped so why should she suffer with the gross taste—but I know she won’t say anything with the kids looking on. And maybe it’s shitty of me to take advantage of my niece’s and nephew’s presence like this, but to be honest, I don’t care. Any extra bit of nutrition I can get into my sister I’m going to consider a win.
“Mom had soup for dinner,” Brent says quietly, and I can see in his eyes that he knows what’s coming. That he is as aware of how fragile she’s become as I am. I hate that—hate that I can’t shield him from it, hate even more that he has to go through this at all. I know the pain of losing a mother early. I can’t stand the idea of him going through what Heather and I did. Especially since his father fucked off several years ago and hasn’t been heard from since.
When Heather dies—if she dies, I remind myself fiercely—Lucy and Brent are going to be alone in the world. They’ve got me, and I’ll do my best by them, but shit. Heather’s a great mom and I’m just their uncle. There’s a world of difference between the two.
“Well, I’ve got a whole bunch of them here,” I say, pulling out the plate Marta put in the fridge for me when she left at seven. “Want to try them?”
It’s another low blow, using maternal guilt to try and get her to eat a little more. But since she’s wasting away in front of my eyes, I don’t feel bad about it. Like the juice, I’ll use whatever means necessary to keep her eating.
To keep her with us, just a little bit longer.
“I would love to try a brain meatball,” she says, smiling warmly at Brent. “How about you, Lucy? You want to share one with me?”
“No way. I like meatballs, not brainballs.”
“Brainballs are meatballs, dork,” Brent says. “Brains are considered meat.”
I start to correct him, to tell him not to call his sister a dork, but Heather’s already reaching for him, pulling him down into her lap. And though I want to protest—he weighs almost as much as she does at this point—I don’t. Because they both need this moment of normalcy more than I need to protect her.
Not that I can protect her from this. All my money, all my connections, I’ve used everything I could and none of it has mattered. None of it means anything when it comes to keeping my twin sister alive.
I watch her hold Brent, watch the way Lucy comes from the side to join in the cuddle, and it makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Makes me want to burn down the world. But that won’t help her, won’t help them. And that’s what I’m in this for. What I promised her—and myself—when she first got sick. I will help Brent and Lucy get through this. I just wish I had a clue how the fuck I’m supposed to do that when I can barely wrap my head around it myself.
The house is the first step, I tell myself as I heat up the plate of spaghetti. A place that’s different from this. A place where they can be comfortable, where memories of their mother dying don’t lurk around every corner. A place that can one day feel like a home.
I divvy up the food, putting a few meatballs and some spaghetti on a plate for my sister. I carry both plates to the table, along with a couple extra forks as I know my niece and nephew, then bring over the superjuice for her and some water for the rest of us.
We spend the next hour talking and laughing around the table and it almost feels like old times. Almost feels normal. Except Heather only eats a bite of one meatball—so she can praise Brent’s skills—and at the end of the hour is so tired that I have to carry her through the condo to her room.
I help her get into bed, then start to turn the light off so that she can try to sleep, something she’s not doing much of lately because of the pain. But she reaches out, grabs on to my wrist with a surprisingly strong grip considering how weak she is. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I play dumb. “For making you eat a brainball?”
She smiles. “Yes.”
“Anytime, big sis.” I bend down and press a kiss to her forehead. “Anytime at all.”
Chapter 10
I roll up to the stadium at six A.M
. Wednesdays are usually our early days—Coach wants two hours of game tape and three hours on the practice field before spending the afternoon with whatever part of the team he deems necessary. This week it’s defense, thankfully, which means I’ve got the afternoon free to house hunt with Emerson.
Just the thought of her has me smiling as I make my way to the tape room. Something my best—and favorite—wide receiver notices right away.
“I know that smile,” Shawn says, nodding to the chair next to his.
“Oh, yeah?” I ask as I take a seat.
“Hell, yeah. That’s your ‘thinking about a sexy woman’ smile.” He raises his brows at Tanner, my left tackle and best friend, who’s currently sitting across from me. “Isn’t it, man?”
“Damn straight,” Tanner agrees, popping the top on his container of freshly squeezed orange juice. “Spill.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell them loftily. “The smile you’re bagging on is my ‘I’m so thrilled to spend the morning watching tape’ smile. I can’t believe you don’t recognize it.”
Tanner snickers. “Yeah, cuz watching tape totally makes me smile like I just got laid.”
“Me, too,” Shawn agrees.
“You don’t get a vote,” Tanner quickly tells him. “Watching tape really does make you smile like that.”
“It’d make you smile, too, if you caught as many balls as I do in a game. Oh, right, you don’t get to catch, do you? You just get to stand there and be a meat shield.”
“It’s a pretty fucking important job. Because if I wasn’t there, I guarantee there’d be no balls for you to catch. So you should probably just say thank you—”
“I’ll say thank you,” I interject, because I know just how long this one-upmanship game can go on if unchecked. “Considering it’s my ass you’re saving every week.”
“See, now that’s gratitude for you,” Tanner says with a sneer at Shawn.
“All right, all right,” Coach says as he walks in the room, arms filled with binders. “I want to look at what happened last week, when we let them sack our quarterback. Twice.”
Shawn cackles. “Great job, Tanner.”
Tanner flips him off, but there’s no heat behind it. The two of them have been fucking with each other for years—it’s some messed-up kind of bonding ritual, and we all know enough to just let it roll off our backs.
Especially since, when they’re on the field, they work together like clockwork—a big part of what makes our offense the current best in the NFL—despite the fact that I had my ass handed to me twice last game.
Two hours later, we’re changing in the locker room—getting ready to take the field—and Tanner starts up on me again. “So, what’s she like?”
Deciding to throw him a bone since I have better things to do than get hounded about a woman by my best friend all day, I say, “She’s all smart mouth and gorgeous curves.”
He whistles. “Nice. What’s her name?”
“Her name’s none-of-your-business.” I bend down to lace up my shoes.
“Nice name. To the point.”
“Fuck off, man.”
“Is that any way to treat the guy who’s gonna keep your ass from getting flattened out there?”
“That’s why they pay you the big bucks, isn’t it? Whether I’m nice to you or not?”
He laughs, as I knew he would.
Then goes out on the field and—despite his ridiculous threat—does his best to destroy anyone who even looks like they’re coming for me while the defense runs patterns the opposing team is known for. I throw three passes straight into the end zone, one from nearly sixty-five yards back. In between, Shawn and Mateo—the other first-string wide receiver—run more than a few balls straight up the backfield to the end zone.
Fourth time it happens, even Coach whoops it up on the sidelines and I’ve got to admit, it’s a nice job if you can get it. Even when it’s hot as fuck out and my helmet and pads only make it hotter.
We’re all sweating like hell when we get back to the locker room and I can’t get into the shower fast enough. It’s October, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t it be cooling down out there soon?
“Hey, man, want to get some lunch after this?” Tanner asks a few minutes later, when I’m back at my locker, changing into street clothes. “There’s this new bistro I want to check out down in Mission Valley.”
The guy’s a total foodie, probably would have been a chef if he wasn’t a football player. He’s currently scouting ideas for his first restaurant and normally I’m more than willing to check places out with him. But, “I can’t. I’m looking at houses today.”
He sobers immediately as thoughts of Heather press down on both of us. “Oh, yeah. How’s that going?”
“So far it’s been absolute shit.” I can’t help thinking about Emerson as I say it. “But it’s looking up.”
“Yeah, well, if you need any help, want a second opinion or something, let me know. I’m happy to go with you.”
Again I think of Emerson. “It’s still early days yet. But thanks.”
He nods, then shrugs into his XXXL T-shirt. I shake my head as I watch—the man really is a giant. Not that I’m complaining, considering size is the most important part of being a left tackle. Well, that and really quick feet.
The Lightning—and I—are really lucky Tanner’s got both and then some.
I forget about him, and the team, as I head out to the car. I should be thinking about houses, about my niece and nephew, about finding them the best home I can. And I am. I really am. But I’m also thinking about Emerson, with her crazy hair and crazier curves.
For the first time in a long while, I can’t help looking forward to what comes next.
Chapter 11
Emerson
“Do you need some help with that?”
I look up from the computer where I’m struggling to figure out how to work the damn database to find Alice watching me with sympathetic eyes. I want to tell her no, that I’ve got this, but I’m pretty sure she’d see through the lie. Plus, I’m getting desperate. Kerry will be back from showing houses any minute and I want to have this done before she gets here.
Yesterday, on her way out the door—after keeping me busy with a bunch of obviously made-up work—she dropped a file on my desk filled with more eight-figure homes. Most of them were beautiful, all of them were extravagant and none of them looked anything like the kind of house Hunter described to me.
I took the file home, then spent the evening combing through San Diego’s MLS listings, trying to find a house for him that he would actually like. I found twenty possible ones, ten of which I think he might actually like. From the pictures listed, I fell in love with three of them—one in La Jolla, one in Coronado and one farther up the 5 freeway in Del Mar. All are right on the water, all are well within Hunter’s price limit and all are within thirty-five minutes, in good traffic, from the stadium.
The only problem is, I have to set appointments up to see the houses. And while I managed to set three appointments up last night, all of the other listings require that we go through an online database to make an appointment. And, for whatever reason, the online database hates me. I’ve tried following directions, googled suggestions and still can’t get the system to take any of my requests.
I’m about ready to tear my hair out, especially since I know Kerry will be here soon. So, pride be damned. “Yes,” I tell her, sounding pretty much as desperate as I feel. “Please. I can’t seem to figure out what I’m doing wrong here.”
“Here, let me see.” Alice grabs the roller chair from the closest empty desk, and scoots it up to me.
I roll my chair back, grateful letting her get as close to the ancient desktop PC on the receptionist’s desk as she can get. It only takes a minute before she says, “Oh, I see what’s going on.”
“What? What’s going on?”
“The system isn’t recognizing your license number. Let me enter mine and see
if it works.”
“I don’t understand,” I say as the screen opens up for her like magic. “I know Kerry added my license into the system when she hired me. So I could practice, and so I could make appointments for her when she’s running short on time.”
“Yeah, well, looks like she changed her mind,” Alice says ruefully.
“God.” I close my eyes, lay my head down on the desk. “She really hates me.”
“She really does.”
I lift my head just high enough to glare at Alice. “Thanks for trying to make me feel better.”
“Do you want me to waste time making you feel better?” she asks as she picks up my notes and enters the first address into the database. “Or do you want me to help you make these appointments so you can sell the best-looking quarterback in the NFL a house and make enough money for yourself and Kerry that she’ll forgive you?”
“Umm, the latter. Very definitely the latter.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Her fingers fly over the keys and fifteen minutes later, I’ve got a total of eight appointments set up to show houses this afternoon. A little thrill surges through me at the knowledge that I might be about to sell Hunter his dream house. And in doing so, make my dreams a little closer to coming true, too.
We barely finish in time, because Kerry strolls in just as Alice is logging out. She eyes both of us suspiciously, even as she wishes us good morning. Alice starts to ask her something, but she waves a dismissive hand and heads down the hall without another word.
I freeze as Kerry gets close to the printer—we might be logged out of the database, but we printed all the housing information and appointment confirmations out as we made them and they’re still sitting on the printer. Judging from the look on her face when she saw Alice and me sitting together, I’m pretty sure that she’ll know who they’re for. The last thing I want is to get her in trouble, especially since she went out on a limb to help me. Her license number is all over the appointment registration, even though my name is listed as agent.