Chapter 13
Thirteen
Mac
Thanksgiving Day arrives with the kind of crisp autumn weather that makes New England look like a postcard.
Snow covers the streets and the trees pile red, orange, and yellow leaves on top of it in their final shed.
I show up at Delaney's childhood home carrying flowers for her mother and an expensive bottle of wine I'm not sure is appropriate.
I'm nervous in a way I haven't been since junior league tryouts.
The house is exactly what I expected. It's warm, chaotic, filled with the kind of family energy I grew up with before everything went wrong. Through the front windows, I can see at least a dozen people milling around what appears to be chaos masquerading as a family gathering.
The door swings open before I can knock, revealing a woman whom I remember as Delaney's mother—same honey-blonde hair, same bright smile, though hers carries the sharp edge of someone who's been managing family drama for decades.
"Mac," she greets, stepping aside to let me in. "So nice to see you again. Delaney hasn’t stopped talking about you."
"Is that right?" I ask, tucking that away to bring up with her later.
"Oh yes," Carol says, her smile getting wider and more dangerous. "All about your lovely relationship and how you two are ‘taking things slow’."
Before I can reply, Delaney appears at my side like she's been shot from a cannon. She's wearing a brown sweater that makes her eyes look like emeralds, and her cheeks are flushed either from the heat of the kitchen or whatever crisis brought her here.
Her mother smiles knowingly.
"Mac!" she says, a little too brightly. "You made it."
She rises up on her toes to kiss my cheek, and I catch the scent of vanilla and something that's purely her. When she pulls back, she mouths "I'm sorry," and I realize I'm in deeper shit than I thought.
"Wouldn't miss it," I say, wrapping an arm around her waist in what I hope looks like a casual boyfriend gesture. The feel of her pressed against my side sends heat shooting through me that has nothing to do with the crowded house.
"Come meet everyone," Delaney says as we follow her mother through the door. Then, she's tugging me toward the living room where voices are getting increasingly loud over what sounds like a football game.
That's when I see him.
Brad Whitmore is holding court near the fireplace, gesturing expansively with a beer in his hand as he tells what I'm sure is a fascinating story about his life in New York to three other people.
He's wearing a cable-knit sweater that matches Delaney's and probably costs more than the mortgage on this house, and has the kind of perfectly styled hair that screams 'I spend more on grooming than most people spend on rent. '
I haven’t been able to stop running through scenarios in my head of how I should have handled his disrespect toward Delaney. Most of them ended with my fist in his face.
Now he's here, in her family's house, looking entirely too comfortable and familiar with everyone.
"Mac, you remember Brad," Delaney says, her voice tight with forced cheer. "Brad, Mac."
Brad's smile is all teeth and no warmth as he extends his hand. "Mac. Good to see you again."
I shake his hand, probably harder than necessary, and have the satisfaction of watching him wince slightly. "Brad."
"The Whitmores and Caldwells used to always do Thanksgiving together," he explains unnecessarily, like I should have known this fundamental truth about Millbrook Falls society. “When I brought the idea up to Mom, she was all about it. Family tradition and all that."
The word 'family' grates against my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. Brad's claiming territory, marking his place in Delaney's world, and everything in me wants to remind him that I'm the one she’s clinging to for dear life.
"How nice?" I say, my voice flat enough to ice a hockey rink.
Delaney's fingers tighten on my arm, and I can feel the tension radiating off her. Whatever her mother ambushed her with this morning, Brad being here wasn't part of the plan.
"Mac plays for the Howlers," Delaney says to the room at large, probably trying to redirect the conversation now that we've claimed their attention.
“Oh, we know. We watched every game last season,” an older man says from the living room. Judging by the resemblance, I'd wager he's Brad's father. “Forty-three goals, thirty-eight assists, plus-twenty-six rating. Best season of your career, and that's saying something.”
"Played," Brad corrects with false sympathy. "Didn't you get suspended? Something about a car accident?"
The room goes quiet except for the football game droning in the background. I feel every eye turn toward me, waiting to see how I'll handle having my biggest failure thrown in my face at a family dinner.
“He'll be back in no time,” a woman pipes up from my left. I offer her a grateful wink.
Delaney steps closer to me, her hand sliding down to lace our fingers together. The gesture is small but fierce, a line drawn in the sand. She's choosing me in this standoff.
"Mac's taking time to heal," she says, her voice carrying a warning that even Brad can't miss. "Which is what anyone with half a brain would do after a traumatic accident."
"Of course," Brad says, but his eyes keep drifting toward our hands. "I just meant that professional sports careers are so uncertain. It's good that Delaney has realistic expectations."
That's it. That's the line he shouldn't have crossed.
I drop Delaney's hand and take a step toward Brad, close enough that he has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. "And what exactly should her expectations be, Brad?"
"Mac," Delaney warns quietly, but I'm already committed to this path.
"No, I'm curious," I continue, keeping my voice conversational even though every muscle in my body is coiled for a fight.
I slip my hands into my front pockets to stop them from pummeling him.
"What kind of realistic expectations should she have?
About her career? Her dreams? The kind of man she deserves? "
Brad's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, but he holds his ground. "I'm just saying that stability matters. Security. Someone who can provide for her properly. Someone who doesn’t play games."
“Brad, don't be an ass,” the woman from before wisely warns.
"Someone like you?" I ask, raising a brow.
"Like me," he confirms, lifting his chin.
I smile, wide and venomous. The same one I reserve for rival players when I’m promising to put my fist through their jaws before the clock runs out. "Funny."
"Is it?" Brad smirks.
He knows he’s got me by the balls here. I could ruin Thanksgiving and whip my dick out to make measurements. I’d most definitely win. But no one here wants to see a pissing contest—especially Delaney.
“I guess we’ll see about that.”
The room is dead silent now, even the football game seeming to fade into background noise. Delaney is staring at me with wide eyes, and I can't tell if she's impressed or terrified.
"Gentlemen," Carol says smoothly, materializing between us with the practiced grace of someone who's broken up more than her share of family arguments. "Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Perhaps you could all help with the final preparations?"
The crowd disperses with obvious relief, people scattering toward the kitchen or back to the football game. Brad shoots me a look that promises this conversation isn't over, but he follows the exodus.
Delaney catches my arm before I can move. "Outside. Now."
She pulls me through a swinging door into a kitchen that's pure chaos—multiple dishes in various stages of completion, timers going off, and what appears to be a small army of women coordinating the final push toward dinner.
Delaney's eyes dart around, her hand still firmly clasped around my sleeve as she considers our next move.
"This way," she says, grabbing two beers from the fridge and leading me through a side door, around the corner, and onto a small deck overlooking a backyard full of fallen leaves.
The November air is sharp and clean after the warmth of the house, and I take a deep breath, trying to get my head back on straight.
"That was..." Delaney starts, then stops, shaking her head.
"Stupid?" I suggest. "Territorial? Completely out of line?"
"Hot," she says quietly, and my head snaps toward her. My cock twitches when she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. I watch her hands twist off the caps of both the bottles before she hands me one. "That was really, really hot."
She's leaning against the deck railing, her cheeks pink from the cold, looking at me like she wants to jump my bones instead of being pissed that I nearly started a fist fight at her family's Thanksgiving dinner.
"Hot?" I repeat, because my brain seems to have short-circuited.
"Hell yeah." She takes a step closer, her eyes bright and focused entirely on me. "The way you made it clear that you see me differently than he does."
"That’s just common court–"
"And the way you looked like you wanted to murder him when he implied you weren't good enough for me." Another step closer. "That was definitely hot."
I reach for her without thinking, my hand settling on her waist, pulling her against me. The other sets the beer bottle onto the railing beside us, then wraps around her other hip. "He's not wrong. About me not being good enough for you."
"He's completely wrong," she says fiercely, her hands fisting the front of my sweater. "About everything. About what I want, about what matters to me, about who you are."
"And who am I?" I ask, because I genuinely want to know what she sees when she looks at me.
"You're…" Her voice gets softer, more intimate as she lifts her gaze to the darkening sky for answers. "You're a whole lot more than anyone else sees."
"Delaney..."
"And you're the man who's about to kiss me on my mother's back deck because you can't help yourself anymore."