Chapter 20
Twenty
Pen
Jan takes us to the first game I’ll attend for August. I haven’t seen Jan in years, and when he steps out of his rental to open the door for us, I move to hug him.
Unlike the Lucks, I’m not particularly prone to hugging, but seeing him alive and healthy has a lump rising in my throat.
The world had almost lost him. I feel that keenly as he gives a tiny start of surprise and then wraps me up in his big arms. A faint woody citrus scent clings to his clothes.
To me, January will always be the big brother I never had but would have created if I had a choice: solid, dependable, wise.
“Hey, there, Penny Lane.” His voice is gruff against the top of my head.
“Janus,” I return, using an old nickname. “I should have come to see you.”
He stiffens a little then relaxes. I know he understands I meant when he was in the hospital. “You were in Italy. And I was shit company at the time.”
I’d been doing an art semester in Italy and couldn’t leave. But the guilt lingers. Though we were never close as friends, he’s still important to me.
“Your card was perfect,” he adds lightly.
I hug him closer. “I’m just so . . . glad you—”
I can’t say more without being weepy, but I suspect he knows that too.
With a final squeeze, he leans back and looks me over.
I do the same, and take in his face. Like the other Lucks, he’s beautiful, same sculpted jaw and winged brows of his brothers.
His features are more blunt than August’s, eyes hold a tinge more frosty blue.
But they’re so close in appearance, it’s a bit unnerving.
Even so, I don’t get weak-kneed when I’m around him.
A smile lingers in the crinkled corners of his eyes as he gives my arm a gentle pat. “You look good, oh soon-to-be sister.”
I know August told him everything, so I purse my lips and snort. “Ha.”
He flashes a quick grin. “Little Penny . . . Imagine my surprise. It’s always the quiet ones.”
June and May skip out of the house and scramble to get in the back of the SUV, but they catch his comment.
May snickers. “He’d know.”
“Yeah,” June adds. “That Jan, a mile a minute with him. Can’t get a word in edgewise.”
“Brats,” he says fondly while holding the door for me. “We discerning conversationalists will just have to stick together, eh, Pen?”
Primly, I gather myself, putting on my seat belt as he jogs around the front and gets in. As soon as he does, May’s leaning forward.
“Maybe you should wait to see how she’s with August before you say that, Jan.”
I shoot her a repressive look, and ignore the speculation in Jan’s eyes, as he murmurs, “I guess I’ll do that.”
We arrive early, much more so than one usually would. But as it’s been planned by Jan and August, I don’t question. A deal’s a deal, and if he wants me here now, I’ll be here.
Maybe it’s because we’re with Jan, who is an established god of the sport, but we enter through an all but hidden door that leads us directly to the bowels of the stadium.
Staff bustles around doing God knows what but looking very focused.
I feel completely in the way, but Jan strides at my side with easy confidence.
Every few paces, he’s greeted and fawned over like royalty. A casual acquaintance might think he’s perfectly happy, but flickers of strain appear whenever a well-wisher walks off.
When we reach an elevator bay, June, May, and I cluster near a wall to stay out of the way, while Jan pulls out his phone. “I’m going to be taking the girls up to the suite,” he says to me, still looking down at his phone. “But August . . . ah, there.”
I glance over my shoulder and find August coming toward us. He’s not in uniform but wearing a thin gray T that clings to his chest and loose-fitting blue athletic shorts with the team logo emblazoned on one thigh. His gaze locks onto mine.
Damn, but he makes me flutter.
He doesn’t break that easy, graceful gait until he’s right before me. He stops and simply smiles. That smile goes right through my clothes and heats up my skin.
“Penelope.”
“August.”
His grin grows broad. “Penelope.”
“Back to this, are we?”
A warm chuckle escapes him. “Guess we are.”
“Shouldn’t you be in uniform?”
“It’s a while yet until game time, and once that kit goes on, it ain’t easily coming off. I’m in warm-up gear now.” A quick wink. “Were you wanting to see me in my uniform, Pen?”
“You could put your helmet on. Cover that smug smile.”
“Cutting me deep, Sweets.”
“You’ll live, Pickle.”
“Told you,” says May from the sidelines.
I’d forgotten about them. Damn it. Their presence somehow manages to thrust me right back to being a teenager, peering at August from the corners. I find myself wanting to squirm.
Jan watches with interest. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
August ignores everyone in favor of looking at me as if I’m some mirage that might soon dissipate.
Jan says something about coming back for me, but I’m too drawn in by August’s regard to fully answer. All too soon we’re alone—well, as alone as we can be standing off to the side of a busy pregame corridor.
August breaks the silence. “You came.”
“Of course. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Are you?” He sounds so quietly surprised, I snap out of my shyness.
“This is my first time attending an NFL game. And it’s you.”
That gets him. He draws in a quick breath.
“Pen.” He says it sweetly, like a sigh after a long climb. As if pulled by a string, his hand lifts, and he traces the curve of my jaw. “You’re good for me, you know that?”
“I don’t . . .” My train of thought derails. I don’t know how anyone is expected to keep their head when August Luck looks at them with that soft, happy smile.
I’m in serious danger of flinging myself right onto his body and taking a big bite. Empathy for Sarah’s earlier zombie state rises.
“It’s good to see January,” I blurt out.
He glances at the elevators where Jan and the girls had left from. “Part of me wishes he was playing instead of watching.”
“How is he taking it?”
“I don’t know, honestly.” August sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “He’s been cagey about discussing it.”
“That’s understandable.”
Absently, he nods, but his focus is still on the elevator doors. “When I thought about going pro, I always assumed we’d be battling it out in a way, the two Luck quarterbacks competing for the ring.”
August’s expression flickers. “Of course I had a lot of catching up to do. But I thought he’d be there. Now . . . it’s different. It’s like I’m chasing a ghost in some ways.”
He’s chasing a legacy instead of competing with a brother.
“August,” I say in the heavy silence. Instantly, I have his attention back. Complete focus. The sensation is heady. My fingers thread through his and I hold firm. “It occurs to me that the solution to your problem isn’t me—”
“I don’t know about that.” He gives me a lopsided smile.
“Be serious for a second. I mean it. I think what you really need to do is to win.”
“Pen . . .” he huffs, amused. “Of course I need to win. I’ve been trying my best to do precisely that.”
“No, I’m not explaining it right.” I push my hair back from my face and think. “What I’m saying is that it’s you, August. You can win because that’s what you do, it’s who you are.”
He’s staring at me like I’ve sprouted a second head, but I forge on.
“Pops used to bet on basketball games.”
It’s clear he thinks I’ve lost the plot but he’s kind enough to humor me. “I didn’t know that.”
“He almost always won too. I would tease him about being psychic. He’d say it wasn’t precognition but the ability to read body language.
‘Pen,’ he’d say, ‘at the pro level, the talent pool is elite, even when you include superstars, your playing field is basically even. What truly decides the game is a soul-deep belief in the player that they’re going to win. ’
“He’d tell me it wasn’t enough to think you’re going to win, you had to know it. That unfailing belief would show in the body language of the players. Other players, whether they knew it or not, would pick up on it too.”
For a moment, I think I’ve lost him, but August looks off, his brows knitting. “I remember he loved Jordan.”
“Yes,” I exclaim. “Because Jordan didn’t care who he faced or what the supposed odds were, he was going to win because that’s what he did.” I give August’s hand a tug. “That’s what you do too.”
The words seem to settle over us, and August swallows thickly.
“You really see me that way?” There’s a tone in his voice, stronger now. But also curious.
“It’s one of the few things I know with absolute certainty.”
His eyes close for a second, then he stares down at me with such intensity that I nearly quaver.
My voice is unsteady as I ask, “The real question is, do you see yourself that way?”
The long lines of his body practically vibrate with some withheld emotion. But he answers me clearly. “Yes, I fucking do.”
“Well, then, there you go. You don’t have to chase your brother’s legacy, or anyone else’s. You just be you, and your team will follow.”
A chin jerk is all the confirmation I get. He’s still focused on me with those hot eyes that have my insides fluttering.
“Pen?”
God, that voice of his. Dark and rich with just a touch of dry humor. Something about the look in his eye has a thread of anticipation unfurling within.
“Yes, August?”
“It’s game day.” Finely sculpted lips curl with impish glee.
I’d told him only on game day. Sweat blooms under my shirt, my heart beating overtime.
I swallow hard. “Yes, it is.”
He steps closer. “We’re in public.”
“We are?” I’d forgotten everything but him.
His head dips, as his hands rise to cup my face. The second he touches me, I nearly fall into him. I clasp his wrists to keep steady.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
My inner voice squeaks in alarm. August is going to kiss me. I won’t be able to play this off. Objectivity has flown the coop.
I lick my dry lips. “I got that.”
Carefully, he lowers his lips to mine, watching me the whole time, as if to say It’s okay, I got you.
And I believe him, even if my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. Almost lazily, his lids lower, and I follow suit, lifting up on my toes to meet him.
The first touch has my breath hitching. Or maybe it’s his. They intermingle and catch.
And then he does it again, brushes my lips so gently like they’re made of spun sugar. I feel it everywhere, radiating outward in little pings of pleasure. I want more but all I can think of is him and how strange it all is that we’re here now. And where do I put my hands? How much do I give him?
Perhaps he knows how nervous I am, that I have no idea what to do, for he murmurs a sound of reassurance and goes slowly, softly, learning my lips with little touches and tastes while teaching me his. And it feels so very good, that my head goes light as my body grows heavy and languid.
Those long, talented fingers of his cradle my face while he nuzzles my mouth nipping and caressing. I feel the tension in those hands, in the quickening of his breath. But he holds himself still. For me.
The knowledge of his care has me making a little sound of need, moving closer.
August angles his head going deeper, lingering longer, one hand gliding down my neck, along my back to gather me up.
I rise higher on my toes, my arms wrapping around his neck to hold on, or keep him close.
I don’t know anymore. I simply want. He could kiss me like this forever, and I would love it. And I haven’t even tasted his tongue.
I should do that. I should open my mouth, invite him inside. Lick him up like ice cream. My breath comes in pants. And he grunts in response, his mouth firmer, greedy. Oh, but it’s perfect. I had no idea . . .
“You two about done?”
January’s question, though delivered with bland inference, snaps along my spine like a whip. I startle with a muffled squeak and rear back. Not too far; August doesn’t let me go but lifts his head to glare at his brother.
Jan gives August a once-over, then raises a brow. “Came to bring Pen upstairs.”
“Get your own girl,” August retorts but steps back. His glossy hair is mussed and his lips look a bit fuller.
Swollen. From kissing me. I die. Honestly. Just die. Never in my wildest imaginings . . . Okay, maybe I did imagine somewhat. But the reality is much, much better.
August gives me a soft smile and gently smooths my hair. “Thanks for the good-luck kiss, Sweets.”
Was that what it was?
Clearing my throat, I straighten and find my voice. “Go be you, Pickle.”
His smile is a flash of light and promise. “On it.”