Novel Assist (Wynchester Wolves #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Savannah

Different Orchard

“Happy birthday, dearest daddio…. Happy birthday to you!” my older brothers chant, adding falsettos I wouldn’t dare attempt, but they have that white-man confidence and know no shame.

“Best stick to your day jobs.” Dad shakes his head at them, but he hasn’t stopped smiling since Dallas and Clayton showed up this morning.

The conversation resumes as my dad cuts the cake, and it’s hard for me to get a word in.

Not that anyone intentionally cuts me off or leaves me out, but my loud, boisterous, and sometimes obnoxious brothers didn’t fall far from the proverbial tree.

I, however, am from an entirely different orchard; I’m quiet. I listen.

“Savannah, did I tell you about the time I fell off a platform at the factory?” My grandfather nudges me after my third attempt to contribute to a story is thwarted by someone else’s excitement. “Twenty feet down and landed flat on my back.”

“You definitely did not.”

My grandfather, who says he’s too old for shouting, likes to sit beside me and share life lessons instead of competing to be heard when everyone talks over each other.

“How are you still standing?”

“I’m tough,” he teases before admitting, “Judo.”

“Isn’t Judo fighting?” I saw my brothers compete in it when we were younger. My dad felt it was important we learn to defend ourselves, but I opted for Krav Maga and Kickboxing, where you don’t have to roll around on the floor with your opponent.

“It also teaches you how to fall properly. Saved me from—oh, that was a bad call if I ever saw one,” my grandfather abandons me mid-sentence to join the discussion on Dallas’ last game. As a quarterback. In the NFL.

“The ref was clearly blind, but that last pass you made was perfection,” Dad praises. They ultimately won the game, but it was close.

“It’s okay, they’re not gushing about me either,” Clayton says with a wink.

Did I forget to mention he was the MLB’s rookie of the year, and is currently a contender for the Cy Young Award?

I roll my eyes, but it really doesn’t bother me. While my athletic skills leave much to be desired, I grew up watching my brothers play. Football, basketball, baseball, soccer…I’m pretty sure they tried out every sport, and to this day, I absolutely love cheering them on.

Unfortunately for Clay, as supportive as our family is of him, they live and breathe football.

“Oh, shush, you know how proud we are of you. And it has nothing to do with winning the World Cup,” Mom tells him, but he just shakes his head.

“World Series,” everyone else reminds her.

“Are you still upset we had to switch to brunch?” I ask my dad, since he made quite the fuss when I invented a study group to pull this off.

“Best surprise birthday present ever,” he assures me. “You staying for supper too?”

I’m about to say I can’t, but Mom swoops in to convince me.

“I can get a second cake, since calories don’t count on birthdays.” She winks.

“She has to drive us back to the airport,” Clay points out.

“None of you are staying?” Mom asks, looking between us.

“We’re playing in Tampa tomorrow; all I could manage was a layover.

” Dallas gives her a tight smile, like it pains him to go.

He’s a terrible actor, so she knows he means it.

We grew up exceedingly close, with Dallas even choosing a college less than an hour away so he could still make it to Sunday dinners.

“I have postseason meetings back in Boston, but I’ll be back for Thanksgiving,” Clay reassures her.

Mom makes a face, like she doesn’t know how she’ll survive so long without them. Dallas getting drafted has been an adjustment, which makes sense, since she still hasn’t given up on finding Clay a team closer to home. Dad kisses her forehead and tells her to be happy she got to see them at all.

“I’ll be back next Sunday,” I promise, ever reliable, and Mom sighs in relief.

“I’ll make pasta,” she decides, pulling me in for a big hug while my father gives me a forehead kiss of my own.

“Don’t work too hard.” My grandfather winks before giving me a hug, with handshakes for my brothers.

We cover what’s new with their lives (nothing) and my academics (midterms were fine) while I drive to the airport. But the expectant looks my brothers give me as soon as I pull onto the highway almost make me wish I’d let our parents drive them instead.

“Are you seeing anyone new?” Clay asks casually, but I feel both their eyes on me.

“Nope.”

I should have said ‘that’s none of your business,’ but I’m pretty sure there would be an inquisition if they even remotely suspected a guy might be getting close to me. Especially after Ethan.

“How’s the roommate? Still getting along?” Dallas presses.

“Anna’s great,” I assure them.

I assume she is, only she’s never there.

And on the rare occasions we’re in the room at the same time, she’s either wearing headphones or earplugs.

Which is totally fine. After my roommate last year saw Dallas moving me in, she gave me her number to pass along to him and made our room so uncomfortable that I made excuses to sleep at home for the rest of the year.

I’m determined to not do that again. Hopefully, spending more time on campus will somehow turn me into someone less socially awkward.

Someone with friends who goes out and does stuff on a Friday night instead of staying in with a good book.

Not that I’m complaining, but even the option to turn things down would be nice.

“Do you guys hang out?” Clay asks, trying to get more out of me.

“Sometimes.” I shrug.

They can tell that means no, so Dallas takes over. “Parker says he invited you to their Halloween party, but you had other plans?” He looks so hopeful, like he might not have to worry about me so much anymore.

“Halloween fell on a weekend this year, so there was a lot going on. But I’m still me, so we just got dressed up, gave out candy until the kids stopped coming, and then polished off the rest.”

“Not at Mom and Dad’s, right?” Dallas asks.

“I’m not that pathetic.” I roll my eyes, but Clay is squinting at me like he can see the truth stamped on my forehead.

“Or with Grandad?” he presses, but he knows he has me.

“I’ll have you know that everyone loved our UP costumes.” When I left last night, he was going to look into renting a helium machine – or a dog – for next year.

“We’re sorry. We just want to make sure you’re giving other people the chance to see how awesome you are.” Clay winks at me in the rearview mirror.

“Because you’re not biased at all.” I roll my eyes.

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” Dallas, who got shotgun because he’s the biggest and the oldest, puts his hand on mine. I twist my mouth around so I won’t cry while driving, but I wouldn’t trade these stupid brothers of mine for anything.

“How’s the writing?” Clay asks me.

“Good.” I shrug dismissively.

“Good like you don’t want to talk about it?” Dallas tries. “Or you’re so mad at us for moving away that we don’t get the behind-the-scenes anymore?”

I sigh, convinced they’re just being nice. My mom is the only one who genuinely gets excited anymore.

“There’s this thing called Kobo Originals,” I admit, but even saying the words makes me nervous.

“They’re looking for new authors with Romance series ideas.

I already have a group of characters, the tropes I could use for each couple, and some of their backgrounds, but I’m still figuring out what ties them together. ”

I don’t necessarily expect their eyes to glaze over, but I’m surprised by how contemplative they get, like they really want to help.

“You need a group of guys with different upbringings who become close and have to go against their nature, like get all soft and cuddly, to fall in love?” Clay asks.

“Basically.”

“Football,” Dallas says like it’s the obvious choice.

“Baseball,” Clay suggests at the same time.

“Hard pass,” I say immediately. “On both.”

“Come on, our teams are exactly what you’re looking for.” Clay leans over the console. “Games are like battles, we have enemies and rivals, away games, and—” He’s lifting a finger for each, like a list of pros.

“When I think of baseball players, I see you.” I start counting on my own fingers. “I would cringe every time I mentioned tight football pants, and I don’t want to picture either of you getting it on.” I shudder at the thought.

“Getting it on?” Dallas arches an eyebrow.

“Don’t want to think about it,” I remind him. “And I’ve tried giving them descriptions that are nothing like you, but then I picture Parker or Manning and—”

“Hell no,” they both say so fiercely that I can’t help but smile.

“Hence my dilemma.”

“This was easier when your stories revolved around dragons and ninjas,” Dallas teases.

I’ve been writing stories since the day I learned how to spell my name, genre-hopping like nobody’s business, but there was always a love story.

And romance sells. Last year, I dabbled in romantasy, which I’m sure is not what Dallas means when he suggests dragons, but a backstabbing best friend destroyed any shred of confidence I had.

I’m slowly getting back into it, but the story isn’t flowing like it used to.

Every time I have an idea, all I can see is why it won’t work, or how I’m not good enough to be the one to write it.

“I will support you and buy anything you write,” Clay assures me, “but I don’t want to read about tight pants either.”

“I’ll send you the blacked-out version I’m sending Mom,” I tease. “But you also really don’t have to—”

“We want to, Banana.” Dallas uses my childhood nickname. “If it wasn’t distracting, we would sit on your bed and cheer as you type.”

“Please don’t.”

“Just wait for Thanksgiving.” Clay winks.

“You guys are ridiculous.”

“We just love you, Banana.”

I pull into Departures and park in the drop-off zone.

They don’t have much luggage, but they slip on shades and hats, reminding me they’re household names.

It feels so surreal, especially when Clay opts for a beanie instead of the baseball caps he usually favors, since they would now make him more recognizable.

Clay pulls me in first, then ruffles my hair before we do the stupid handshake we made up in middle school. When I turn to Dallas, he wraps his big bear arms around me and lifts me off my feet like he’s trying to squeeze my bones together.

“I know, you don’t like parties, but can you please let Parker check on you?

” He puts me down, but keeps his eyes on me, waiting for me to agree.

“I totally get wanting to keep us to yourself, we’re a lot, but the guys already know you, so if you need something to do or people to hang out with, found families extend to baby sisters,” Dallas pleads of Wynchester’s football team, who will forever see him as a God.

“I’m nineteen,” I remind him. My age changes, but their overprotectiveness – that I both love and hate – does not.

“He said what he said,” Clay backs Dallas. “I can reach out to my old gang—”

“Nope.”

Clay was drafted right out of high school, which he says is because he knew what he wanted to do and didn’t see the point in waiting, but I’m pretty sure had more to do with the fact that Dallas has always been the golden boy, and the only way to not spend the rest of his life under our big brother’s shadow was to start his pro career first. Which means his old teammates are scattered across the country rather than in a house a few blocks from my dorm. Yet I don’t doubt they’d show up.

“Oh, could you also return this?” Dallas hands me a key fob with the Wynchester University logo on it. “I found it in my jacket and don’t want the school to hunt me down.”

I’m about to ask what it’s for, though I assume it’s the athletic complex, but a shrill scream pierces my ears, and I cringe.

“Oh my God, you’re that baseball player, the one who just won the world series.”

She’s wearing harem pants and a sports bra as a shirt, while another girl follows her with the sweatshirt she must have discarded when she spotted my brother. She must be freezing.

“It was a team effort,” Clay argues.

“Are you headed back to Boston? Because I can personally ensure you hit a home run…”

I slowly back away, not that the girls notice me or care that I’m there, which makes me feel sorry for anyone Clay might eventually date. Dallas tries to do the same, but the friend, who was rolling her eyes like she was used to her friend’s antics, spots him, and her mouth drops.

“Dallas James?!?” She’s looking at him like he’s Tom Brady, not a rookie in his first season, but they’re right, the James boys are awesome.

My brothers give me apologetic glances, but a crowd has gathered, so they smile and take pictures, signing whatever is put in front of them as I get back into my car and drive to campus.