3. Blake
BLAKE
Music is pumping through the kitchen as I stand over the chopping board, grating carrots for the salad Satch wants to make.
She’s beside me, preparing chicken tenders and singing along.
I don’t know the song. It’s some old tune that my grandparents probably listened to growing up… or maybe even my great-grandparents.
Seriously? That’s taking old-school to the extreme.
As much as I want to tease her about it, I keep my mouth shut because she sounds ah-mazing!
The girl’s got a set of pipes on her, and I think it’s totally shit that she’s majoring in English when she should be doing performing arts, or at least studying music.
She’s thinking about becoming a teacher. Well, duh! Teach music, girl!
But Wily’s super protective of her, and I can’t go challenging her on that shit.
Besides, I can’t risk anyone turning around to challenge me on what I’m studying.
Or not studying.
Glancing over my shoulder, I check on my brother, grateful he can’t read my mind. Thankfully, he’s too busy staring at his girl, a small smile on his face. He loves watching her.
Kinda creepy if you ask me, but his dopey, loved-up grin is too cute.
The guy is gone.
I mean, I knew the romantic sap would end up falling hard one day, but I thought it’d be later on, once his football career was underway.
Satch took him by surprise, that’s for sure.
And the timing couldn’t be better, because the poor guy needs something to help him through his shitty situation.
My gaze creeps down to his bandaged leg propped up on a chair, and I can’t help that burn of disappointment on his behalf. He’d had it all mapped out. For years. And now he’s sitting there with crutches leaning on the wall behind him.
It’s so fucking unfair.
He doesn’t deserve this shit.
Not like you.
My insides writhe and I shake off the thought, focusing back on my carrot situation.
Cooking for a house full of athletes and their partners is a mission. Every meal has to be just so, with the correct amount of protein and carbohydrates and nutrients.
Why they don’t just eat at the athletes dining hall, where all that shit is provided, is beyond me.
Wily used to eat there all the time last year, but then Zander’s baby mama appeared back in his life, bringing with her an adorable two-year-old who just loves seeing her Daddy’s bess fens .
So now they do dinner on the regular like some happy, clappy family.
It’s the most un-college-y thing in the world, if you ask me.
And cooking? Why?
Has no one ever heard of takeout before? Uber Eats? DoorDash?
These aren’t new concepts, people. And it would save me having to grate carrots.
Satch doesn’t seem to mind slaving over a hot stove, but I’m not used to…
One: being in the kitchen.
And two: dealing with quantities like this.
I grew up in a family of four, and when I moved to college, I spent the first few weeks eating in the dining hall and then the last few months…
Dipping my head, I hide my grimace, not wanting to give anything away.
Thinking about how I spent my last few months is the last thing I should be doing right now.
If Wily knew who I’d been hanging out with, and what I’d been doing with them, he’d hit the roof.
But it’s not like I meant to get caught up with my roommate. She just made a different way of living look so exciting. And she was right! It was fucking epic.
We had so much fun together.
Until the trouble started, and then fun turned to shit, and shit turned to life-changing decisions that I couldn’t take back.
Decisions that forced me to?—
Snapping my eyes shut, I grate this carrot like my life depends on it. Stupid idea when you’re trying to dodge things you can’t fix and your eyes aren’t open… because the chances of grating the top of your knuckle off are a guarantee.
“Ow! Shit!” I drop the carrot stub in the sink and quickly suck my stinging knuckle.
“Are you okay?” Satch whips around to look at me while Wily starts struggling out of his chair.
“What have you done now, butt face?” His teasing grumble would usually appease me, but I’m too pissed off that my big brother, who I’ve literally been looking up to my entire life, is now wrestling to get his crutches so he can limp across the room to help me.
“No, I’m fine,” I quickly tell him. “Sit your ass back down, shithead.” After throwing him a pointed look, I examine my finger.
Gross. I’ve managed to grate a decent flap of skin off my knuckle, and it’s bleeding everywhere.
“Quick.” Satch pulls my hand over the sink so I don’t drip blood all over the floor. “Wash it off, and I’ll find the first-aid kit.”
Wily directs her and I wash off my finger, irritated by the burn and that it’s even happened in the first place. It freaking hurts! And it’s so not helping my mood.
“I can’t reach it.” Satch pops her head back into the kitchen with an apologetic frown.
“Let me help you.” Wily struggles to stand once more.
“No, I’ll get it.” I head for the pantry.
“Not sure you can reach it either.”
“Let me fucking help!” Wily shouts at our backs, his crutch clattering to the floor. “Shit!”
I spin around, blood dripping from my finger when I point at him. “Don’t bend down to get that. You’ll topple over.”
“Stop telling me what to fucking do and let me help you!”
“You helping me is gonna get you hurt, and then we’ll have two injuries on our hands, so just sit your ass on that chair and?—”
“Shut up, butt face!”
“You guys, I can just grab a chair.” Satch tries to squeeze past me out into the kitchen, her cheeks flooding red, as she obviously hates the rising voices in the room.
“I’ll get the chair,” I bark at her.
“Stop shouting at my girlfriend. You’re such a little shit,” Wily snaps.
“Oh, I’m the shit?” I point at myself, managing to wipe blood on my shirt. I growl. “You stubborn asshole. Don’t you get that trying to help us is just making everything worse?”
He glares at me, plonking back down in his chair, then wincing in instant regret.
Satch hisses. “Baby, be careful.”
His dark expression folds when he hears her voice, and shit, is he about to start crying?
He’s been way more emotional since the injury and?—
Satch shoves me aside so she can get to him, and I pop my finger back into my mouth before I bleed on anything else.
The front door pops open, and a bustling sound indicates that the guys are home from practice.
I can hear Tyrell’s low voice and then Zander’s reply. He laughs at something, and Carson replies about everybody being assholes. This causes all of them to start laughing, and I wonder what they were teasing him about.
Then Grady’s voice chimes in, and I feel that familiar tingle race through my body.
Shit, even his voice gets me going.
I glance at my brother, grateful he’s not looking at me.
Satch has her hands on his cheeks, and she’s murmuring something to soothe him. He reaches forward, lightly grabbing her hips as she leans down to kiss him.
Rolling my eyes, I look away from their lovefest, fighting a sizzling irritation that I don’t even understand.
I should be apologizing for yelling at Wily when all he was trying to do was help. That’s his thing. I know that’s his thing, and not being able to do it is probably killing him.
I need to be more fucking understanding.
My heart crumples into a ball of trash when the guys lumber into the kitchen with their gear and I watch a sad, devastated expression flitter across my brother’s face before he manages to put on a bright smile.
Shit.
I’m the worst!
Catching his eye, I wince an apology at him. He shakes his head, giving me the finger and winking at me, before asking the guys how practice went.
Damn, I have the best brother in the world.
No wonder I love him so much.
No wonder I’m so guilt-ridden every time I look at him.
His dreams are shattered because of nothing he did.
Mine are torn to shreds because I acted like an idiot .
Fuck, I don’t even know what my dreams are!
I’ve never felt so lost, and as I hover in the pantry doorway, listening to the guys talk football and trying to make Wily feel part of it, all I can do is quietly slip out of the room.
I don’t want to hear this. See this.
Sucking my aching finger, I head up to the bathroom and rustle around in the cabinet for some form of bandage but come up empty-handed.
“Seriously?” I mutter, rising with a string of soft curses.
Walking out the bathroom door, I examine my knuckle, wondering how long it’ll take to stop bleeding, when I jolt to a stop just before crashing into a sweaty shirt and a wall of rock-hard muscle.
Stepping back, I glance up with a soft gasp and then forget how to breathe.
Grady is standing there, gazing down at me, his handsome face puckered into a small frown.
“What happened?” Taking my hand, he studies the torn flap of skin.
“I was grating carrots.” It’s hard to talk normally when he’s standing this close. My words tumble out in a husky whisper.
Sweaty men should not smell this good. I should be repulsed, but this manly scent of his is doing weird things to my brain.
“I’ve got a first-aid kit in my room,” he mumbles, spinning away from me and silently expecting me to follow.
At least I think that’s what he’s expecting, so I trail after him, my socked feet padding across the wooden floor. Pausing outside his bedroom door, I steal a quick glance into the room and notice how tidy it is.
Wow. A man who can clean.
My eyebrows rise and I creep a little closer, standing in the frame while he pulls out a plastic storage box from under his bed and flips the lid.
It’s so freaking organized in here.
Everything has a place. His desk is set up for optimal study conditions. His bed is made, the navy blue duvet pulled tight, the surface of his nightstand uncluttered with just a few charging portals for his different devices.