Chapter 3
Three
August
You have nice teeth. Holy shit. What the hell was that? Nice teeth?? Why the great fuck did I say that? Grimacing, I run my hands through my hair and plop down on the old leather couch in the study. My head hurts as though I’ve had my bell rung.
Might as well have, what with that absolutely nonsensical exchange out there. I still don’t exactly know what happened. I’d opened the front door and there she was, Penelope Morrow.
I’d recognize her anywhere—we’ve known each other our entire lives, of course I would. Except, she’s also completely different. She’s grown up. Grown up well.
How is it that a mere five years can change a sweet little elfin face into . . . art?
I’d majored in art history, much to the amusement of both the press and some of my teammates. Not that I care—art and beauty soothe me in a way that is necessary given the stresses of playing at the top of my chosen sport.
Regardless, when I looked at grown-up Penelope Morrow, with her creamy oval of a face, framed by flowing chocolate-brown hair, and wide brown eyes that seemed both innocent and wise, all I could think was that she resembled the John William Waterhouse painting, Destiny.
All the little hairs on my arms had lifted at the thought. Destiny. It had felt . . . portentous. Which is plain ridiculous. I’m clearly on edge with this whole Funky Chicken Gate.
I blow out a breath to dispel that horrible memory. But it doesn’t dismiss the image of Pen’s face floating around in my head. Her lips are rose pink and pouty. The kind of mouth that needs kissing. And often.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I let out an expansive sigh.
I don’t need to be thinking about Pen. I’ve got enough problems as it is.
One huge fucking problem in particular. My insides roil when I think about today’s meeting with public relations, my coaches, manager, and my agent—specifically, about how to handle the mess I’ve made of my image.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I mutter under my breath.
I don’t have to toe the line like a criminal let out early on parole.
It is, of course, up to me. Laughable, because we all know I either show up as a team player willing to do what it takes to make amends, or I dig in and look uncooperative.
Doesn’t matter that I am their number one pick, shiny new toy; image is everything, and I’ve done too much to tarnish it already.
Sinking into the couch, I press the heels of my hands over my eyes.
The door bursts open with enough force to make me flinch. I give a silent groan when March saunters in grinning like a little shit.
“Nice teeth?” He snorts out a laugh. “Seriously?”
“Apparently so.” I rub my hands over my face. “Fuck.”
March closes the door behind him, then wanders over to Dad’s collection of the Luck family footballs lining one of the wall-to-wall bookcases. “That was—”
“Horrific. Yes, I know.”
Plucking one of the footballs from the display, he drawls, “I was going to say—”
“Hilarious?” I glare. “You’re wrong. It was definitely not hilarious.”
March tosses the football between his hands, his grin growing by leaps and bounds. “Oh, I don’t know. Seemed pretty fucking funny to me.”
“Who the hell comments on a person’s teeth?”
“Our orthodontist loves to. Maybe you went into the wrong career.”
I grimace. “She’s probably wondering if I took one too many blows to the head.”
“In fact, she did ask—” He puts a hand up when I give him a death look. “Merely reporting the facts.”
“Go away.”
March takes a seat on the big wing chair by the fireplace, crossing one leg over the other like he’s a professor. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t. You need me here.” He tosses the football again. “For moral support.”
I stare him down.
His grin breaks out again. “One doesn’t bounce back from ‘you have nice teeth’ without some sort of game plan.”
“Here’s my game plan—I kick you out on your ass.”
“Like you could.” He blows a raspberry through his lips. “Tight end takes quarterback any day.”
Cheeky bastard spins the ball on the tip of his finger.
“Dad sees you playing with that, it won’t matter. You’ll be dead anyway.”
“Hey, this is my high school championship ball.”
“If it’s on The Shelf, it’s Dad’s.”
Those are the rules. We don’t make them, we merely obey them. He’s the best dad I know, but he’s also obsessively covetous about his kids’ memorabilia. And his own. A Hall of Fame wide receiver, Dad was the start of a football dynasty with his sons following in his wake. He’s hella proud.
With a sigh, March returns the ball to its stand. “Stop deflecting. What was that?”
“Man, I don’t know. Rough week, I guess.”
“Bullshit.”
I wince and look away.
“I’ve seen you limp off the field like a lump of pounded meat and give better game than that.”
Apparently not anymore.
“Penny’s grown up very nice, hasn’t she?” He’s way too smug.
I deliberately do not think of the luminous quality of her skin, as though she held some inner light that the rest of us didn’t. She looked soft as a petal. I’d wanted to touch her, to see if the sweetheart shape of her face fit within the rough palm of my hand.
Said hand curls into a fist. There will be no touching of Penelope.
While Penelope Morrow has always gotten along well with the rest of my family, I am the outlier.
Anytime I’d walk into a room her buoyant mood would deflate like a lead balloon.
For whatever reason, Pen does not like me.
I’d say I rate at tolerable, but only because she has to.
“Hey, dickhead.” March’s voice penetrates the fog.
I manage a glare. “What?”
“I said Penny looks pretty good, doesn’t she?”
“She looks all right.”
“All right? That why you were gaping at her like someone dangled a Super Bowl ring in front of your face?”
“Those rings are ugly. Penelope is—”
“Ha!”
Bastard.
“We both saw her,” I say blandly. “I don’t need to state the obvious.”
March stares at me for a long moment. I stare back as if I’ve got all the time in the world.
Then he smiles. I know that fucking smile . . .
“That’s not the only way she’s grown up. Her ti—”
“Do not disrespect Penelope.”
“So you did notice!”
How could I not? Pen is stacked. Those curves, the way they dipped and swelled like a lazy river .
. . Honestly, I’d tried not to stare—Mom had taught us better—but it had been touch and go.
She’d gone from barely noticeable to more than a handful for me; and I can palm a football with ease.
Matched with a tiny waist and those breasts? I’d nearly swallowed my tongue.
“It’s Penelope.” I force a shrug. “We don’t discuss things like that about her.”
“I don’t know . . .” He taps a beat on the armrest. “She had a huge crush on me in high school. Maybe it’s time to reassess.”
There’s a paperback resting on the coffee table in front of me. I mentally calculate how fast I can ping it at March’s forehead; accuracy won’t be a problem. It’s doing it before he ducks that’s the issue.
March glances at the book and then raises a brow at me. “I dare you.”
“Think I won’t?”
“I think you’ll miss.”
“I think my sixty-four-million-dollar arm says differently.”
March will be eligible for the draft next spring, and I know he’ll make as much, if not more. And I’ll be proud as shit of him. But until then, I’ll dig in the blade.
Predictably, his eyes narrow. “Sixty-three-point-three million.”
“Look who’s paying attention.”
“I have my moments. Still say you miss, Rocket Man.”
Okay, that was low. I’d been singing “Rocket Man,” a cappella, before I’d moved on to the Funky Chicken. That’s it. He’s going down.
Before I can make my move, the door opens again. I experience a moment of frozen fear that it might be Pen, but Mom pokes her head in instead. Her gaze darts between March and me with well-deserved suspicion.
But she doesn’t address the guilty tension in the room. “Dinner is ready in ten. Come help set the table.”
“Okay, Mom,” March and I say as one.
Her smile is faint but pleased. Then her laser gaze focuses on me. “And mind your p’s and q’s, Dr. Teeth.”
March bursts out laughing, while I groan. This is going to be worse than meeting the press after a bad game.
Pen
I still have a bit of the “stuck in an alternate reality” feeling clinging to me as Margo leads me into the Luck family living room, patting my hand as though I need sympathy.
I suppose I do. It’s not every day a girl smiles at a boy and gets told she has nice teeth.
She leaves me in the capable hands of her daughter June before bustling off to finish dinner. June takes one look at me and squeals a happy hello.
“Sorry, I didn’t answer the door,” June says when we’re alone. “I had to dress the chickens. Mom says it makes her sick when she does it. Personally, I think she found a great way to get out of doing the messy work.”
“Probably,” I say with a laugh. “Not that I blame her.”
Despite her claim of “messy work,” not a strand of June’s sleek black hair is out of place. Tall and willowy, June somehow manages to maintain an image of cool elegance whatever the occasion.
Although June went to college in Boston and I went to California, we text and call each other frequently. Only a little over a year apart in age, we’ve always been close. Along with her twin sister, May, we were an unstoppable trio of mayhem as kids.
Yes, the Luck kids are all named after a month—usually the one in which they were born.
January, the eldest son, was born on New Year’s Day.
March was born on the twelfth of. Twins, June and May fit that rule, since May came out at 11:55 on May 31 and June arrived ten minutes later; there’s big-time family speculation that Margo somehow engineered this spectacular feat.
August, however, is actually a July baby, but Margo thought “July” sounded silly. Ironic, given the fact that her kids were all pretty much aggrieved by her naming practices. She didn’t care, maintaining that it was adorable, especially when they were younger.