The Crush (53)

“Yes. I’m fine.” I took the last bite of donut, sucking at the glaze left behind. His eyes tracked the movement hungrily. “But my family needs me, and I want to be there for them.”

“I get it,” he said.

And I knew he did. But that didn’t remove the edge of frustration from the whole exchange.

Emmett’s jaw ticked, that delicious muscle popping at the hard line of his jaw.

“I wish,” he started, then paused with eyes closed, seemingly reconsidering what he was going to say.

I moved my hand to cup his face. “I know.”

His brow furrowed as he opened his eyes. “No, you don’t,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “I can’t say any of the things in my head right now because it will only make things harder for you. For us.”

I wanted him to, though.

And I didn’t.

If he said the things in his head, it would be so much harder to leave. And I’d be put in a position where I had to choose where to shift my focus.

The fact that he understood that is what made him so damn irresistible.

“We just … we have shit timing, Emmett.” I shrugged. “We always have.”

He stood from the chair, hands on his hips, and paced away from where I sat. Frustration was stamped over his entire frame, in the way he held his shoulders and the set of his jaw.

Timing of my life.

My family’s.

Emmett’s.

I didn’t know how to reconcile any of it. He wouldn’t be a sort-of boyfriend. He was so much more.

And more was the thing I couldn’t handle.





Emmett



If I thought my family was bad about NFL games, I was wrong.

There was a whole new level of Ward family competitiveness that emerged from a very unlikely source—my niece’s soccer game.

Molly’s daughter Luna (currently at striker) and Isabel’s daughter Willa (playing defense) were on the same rec soccer team—seven-and eight-year-old girls—and I almost moved to the other team’s sidelines so that I wasn’t associated with the people I was related to.

It was tied four-four, and the minutes were winding down to the final whistle.

There was no goalie at the Under Eight level, the point was to teach the kids the basic position and ball handling, but that did not stop my family.

They were screaming and yelling like it was the World fucking Cup, and I slowly edged about four feet away from Isabel when she and Anya yelled for a foul to be called.

Isabel snagged my arm and dragged me back toward them. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I don’t think they call fouls at this age bracket,” I told her.

“They should.” Isabel put her fingers into her mouth and whistled. “Watch the forward, Willa. She’s coming up the edge. Don’t let her past you.”

Willa, all long dark hair and big blue eyes, sprinted forward and hip-checked the other player out of the way, snagging control of the ball. My mom hollered. My dad leaned forward with his hands braced on his knees and shouted encouragement.

“They are going to kick all of you out,” I muttered.

Molly and Noah clapped wildly when Willa passed to her cousin Luna, who barreled over a tiny girl with red braids. Luna screwed up her little face in concentration. Most professional players didn’t look that bloodthirsty when they eyed the net. She pulled her leg back like she was gearing up for a sixty-yard field goal, and when she swung it forward, it connected on the ball with a decisive snap. The ball went sailing, and the defender hit the ground to avoid a concussion.

It hit the back of the net, and our family erupted.

I’m talking Super Bowl-level cheering. Hugs and high fives and fist bumps.

The other team’s parents gave my mom a dirty look when she yelled, “Those are my babies!”

I swiped a hand over my face and tried not to laugh.

“Everyone hates you guys,” I said.

Isabel sighed, setting her hands on her hips. “They really do.”

Anya slung her arm over Isabel’s shoulders and grinned at her little sister. “Willa’s just lucky they don’t hand out red cards at this age because her ass would be benched just about every game.”

“These are the lessons we’re teaching the youngest generation, huh?” I asked.

Dad strode onto the soccer field and snatched both girls up in his arms. They hugged his neck, wearing wide happy grins on their dirty, sweaty faces. Luna had grass stuck in her hair, and Willa’s face was streaked with dirt from … somewhere. He kissed their cheeks, and they chattered excitedly in his presence. Luna snagged Dad’s favorite black Wolves cap and set it on her head. It was way too big, and my dad’s booming laughter was easy to hear over all the happy chatter around the field.

Molly and Noah joined them, and Mom wandered over by me, Isabel, and Anya.

“I heard you,” Mom said. “No one hates us.”

I gave her a look.

“Much,” she added. “I can’t help it. I never got to watch the girls in sports because they were over it by the time your dad and I got married, and watching you was so nerve-wracking because I could tell how badly you wanted to do well …” She shrugged helplessly. “But watching my grandbabies has brought about this savage side of me I never knew existed.”