Rookie Move (Playing for Keeps #1)(2)
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be good. Swear.”
Deciding I sounded sincere enough, Houston checked my shoulder and brushed past me. “Onward, then.”
The music and cacophony of voices grew louder as we passed through one archway and then another that led to a sunken living room packed with people. French doors were open to a patio and offered a glimpse of a sparkling pool beyond, lit with LED lights that gradually shifted in color from blue to purple. I almost tripped over my own feet as we descended the steps because I was so preoccupied staring at everything and everyone. “This is crazy.”
“Huh?” Houston cast a glance over his shoulder at me, then hooked his elbow through mine. “Oh, crazy, yeah. It’s weird how fast I’ve gotten used to it, but it’s a lot, right?”
It was a whole hell of a lot. A lot of people, a lot of music, a lot of booze, a lot of stuff on the walls that even I could recognize as nice art.
I spotted Houston’s teammates easily—I’d been watching their games like a hawk since the season started. Beautiful women surrounded them, even the less attractive guys on the team, and I watched as Houston’s gaze landed briefly on a few of them before moving on.
As far as I knew, I was the only person Houston had come out to. He’d told me at the beginning of last summer and made me swear not to tell anyone, not even Mom and Dad. He had his reasons, I guessed, though I wasn’t clued in on those, but he was my brother, and I loved the hell out of him, so I kept it locked down. As for me, I was still trying to figure my own shit out, but a brunette, cheerleader-looking type standing near one of the doors had just caught my attention.
“Think any of the women here are into younger guys?”
Houston cracked up. “Sure thing. Go tell them you’ll be graduating from high school in the spring. Bet they’ll be all over that.”
“Some women like younger guys. We’re full of energy.” I waggled my brows.
“You, in particular, are full of shit.”
I flipped him off just as one of the wide receivers, Jace, called out Houston’s name and elbowed his way through the crowd toward us. “Dude, I still can’t believe that catch. Killer.”
“Got lucky.” Houston grinned back, doing his typical modesty thing that annoyed me to no end. He thumbed toward me. “Brought my brother with me to celebrate. Garrett, Jace. Jace, Garrett.”
“Right on.” Jace up-nodded me, then proceeded to ignore me in favor of doing a play-by-play of the last quarter of yesterday’s game. It’d been a huge win for the Rush, putting them one step closer to the playoffs, and Houston had scored the touchdown that had turned the game around after an iffy start. Not bad for a rookie.
My attention wandered, circulating over the crowd and eventually back to the hot brunette, who was now shimmying against either her girlfriend or a friend. I was hoping for the latter. But if I was gonna approach her, I needed some liquid courage, so I signaled to Houston that I was heading out the door.
He fired back with an eyes-on-you gesture I waved off as I passed through the doors and into the biting November chill. This was just like any of the high school parties I’d been to, I told myself at the sudden self-consciousness that twinged in my gut as I moved through throngs of strangers. Just twenty times fancier and with people who collectively earned the GDP of a small country. No big deal.
Steam rose from the pool, where, despite the temperature outside, a few brave or incredibly drunk folks took advantage of it being heated. A line of kegs stood sentinel near the deep end, and I managed to locate a stack of Solo cups. As I finished filling one, I glanced up and found myself staring into the rugged features of Ty Roberts.
I fought not to get flustered all over again, trying for cool as I dropped the tap. “Awesome party. I dig the compass.” That counted as polite conversation, didn’t it? Fuck if I knew. The party I’d been at last weekend with all my football teammates had involved a game of Never Have I Ever that ended up with Darrell Arrowood hurling into a bonfire and swearing the amount of liquor in his vomit had made the flames go higher.
Ty’s gaze flicked over me impassively. “Thanks. And you are?”
“Garrett McRae.” When Ty’s gaze narrowed, I tacked on, “Houston’s little brother.”
Fuck me, I’d done that to myself. But the change in Ty’s demeanor was instantaneous. His lips split in a wide, perfectly aligned white grin. “Aw, hell yeah, man. Welcome. So do you play ball too?”
It was almost always the second question I got asked anytime I introduced myself as Houston’s brother. It had trailed me through the last decade, and in a roundabout way was what had gotten me into the game in the first place. Houston had shown promise the second Dad had signed him up for peewee football, while I’d initially preferred track and field. Then I hit puberty, and it became clear that my build was changing. I went out for football freshman year of high school on a total lark, just to see what happened, since people were always asking me anyway. I’d never expected to end up loving the sport as much as I did, or be as good at it.
“I play, yeah. I’ll be starting at Silver Ridge U next fall.”
“Runs in the family, huh?” Ty blew some foam from his cup. “Make yourself at home. Did Houston explain everything?”
“Everything like…?” Damn, was there something I was supposed to know about partying with pro footballers that Houston hadn’t filled me in on?