Chapter 7 Will
War Stories
My thumb continues to tap anxiously against my steering wheel as I question what I’m doing right now.
Wondering why the fuck I’m sitting in my SUV with my engine idling at the curb outside Brooks Warren’s parents’ house.
Something is seriously wrong with me. Throwing my head back against my headrest, I look up at the sky through my sunroof and squint in search of something—for what, I’m not sure.
Maybe to see if the sky is falling? Surely, something apocalyptic has to be happening to make sense of why Brooks asked me after practice today if I wanted to join him for dinner at his parents’ house.
The no was on the tip of my tongue until he added I’d be an idiot to turn down one of his mom’s home-cooked meals and that he’d take it as a personal slight if I declined his invitation.
We’d been making progress toward tolerating one another on and off the field—well, until the other night that is, but I refuse to go there. Point is, prior to that, we’d had something akin to camaraderie.
I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t a good idea—not when it was only two nights ago that I came the hardest I’ve ever come in my life all while staring directly into Warren’s eyes.
“Goddamn it!” I shout, hitting the steering wheel in frustration.
My chest heaves as I smooth my hand through my hair, my best attempt at taming the piece that had strayed onto my forehead. A knock on my passenger window startles me out of my spiral. I scowl when I realize it’s Brooks who interrupted my moment of self-loathing.
Pressing the button to roll down the window, I hiss, “What do you want?”
Brooks rests his forearms on the door and leans in with a cocksure smirk that irritates me far more than it should. “Figures a pretty boy like you would drive a black Range Rover. This is my extremely shocked face,” he deadpans.
Narrowing my eyes on him, I grumble, “Ah, and here I was under the impression you had a modicum of decorum. But I guess I was wrong if this is how you treat your guests.”
“Pretty sure you weren’t complaining about my lack of manners the other night,” he mocks, and there it is. Leave it to him to bring that up within the first sixty seconds of me being here.
“For fuck’s sake,” I growl, facing forward and struggling to take a deep breath so I don’t reach over and strangle him. Although, maybe I should so I could wipe the smug look off his face.
“Ease up, William, I’m just giving you shit,” he says, and the way he calls me by my full name has my stomach tightening. “Come on, my mom’s famous moussaka is waiting for us.”
At the mention of food, my stomach clenches for an entirely different reason.
Fuck, I’m not even sure the last time I had a home-cooked meal.
Growing up, we always had a live-in chef.
My mother used to say cooking was beneath her.
That way of life stuck with me when I got my own place.
I hired a nutritionist to cook and prep my meals in St. Louis, but since moving to San Diego, I haven’t found a new one yet.
I get out and click the lock on my keys as I round the front end, causing Brooks to scoff. “Worried someone’s gonna steal your precious? Maybe you should double check you locked it.”
It’s only then I take in what Brooks is wearing and feel what I hope to God isn’t a blush heating my cheeks.
He’s got on a flannel-patterned shirt that’s unbuttoned with a white T-shirt underneath.
The sleeves of his white and green flannel are rolled up, displaying his corded and tatted forearms. The black watch I’ve noticed he never removes aside from games is adorned on his left wrist while his other hand is tucked into the pair of black, distressed jeans that, on anyone else, would fit relaxed, but instead cling to his muscular thighs.
And in place of the black Vans I’ve grown accustomed to seeing him in, he’s wearing a pair of dark brown boots.
He looks . . . My eyes snap up to his when I realize I was just detailing what he was wearing, and the smug expression I’m met with has me gritting my teeth.
Shit.
I veer my gaze down the street, doing my best to avoid eye contact.
His parents live about twenty minutes inland from my rental.
Their home is modest and nicely kept, clearly taken care of, which can’t be said for some of the other houses down the street.
My eyes catch on the squeaky clean, white SUV in his parents’ driveway.
Nodding toward his Audi, I quirk a brow. “I’m not too concerned considering your vehicle is just as likely to be stolen as mine.”
Brooks looks over his shoulder and then shakes his head.
“Not mine. My mom’s,” he corrects, and I must do a poor job of hiding my surprise.
He runs his hand down his jaw and shrugs.
“They did a lot for me and my little sis growing up. Made a lot of sacrifices and worked way too many hours of overtime so I could live out my dream. It was the least I could do.”
“I see,” I hum in response, unsure of what else to say.
Brooks nods once before taking me in and shaking his head at me. “Thought I told you to dress casual?”
I look down at my navy button down and light gray chinos with my crisp, white sneakers. Focusing back on him, I say, “This is casual.”
“You’re wearing a collared dress shirt,” he points out, as if that means anything.
“But it’s untucked and I didn’t wear a dress belt or tie.” I pause to give him a look that says Fuck off, thank you very much. “This is about as casual as it gets in my wardrobe.”
Brooks lifts his hands in surrender. “My bad. Should’ve figured a stiff like you would dress like you’re going to the yacht club when I told you casual.”
With his completely insincere apology hanging between us, he turns toward the front door of his parents’ house.
“What did you say your mom made for dinner?” I ask as we walk up the front steps.
“Moussaka. It’s the Greek version of lasagna only a fuck ton better because i mamá mou made it,” he explains.
Wait a minute. “Did you just speak Greek?” I question incredulously.
“Naí,” he replies, which I’m pretty certain means yes.
Hold on. How did I not know he was Greek, or at least part Greek? And why the hell am I staring at him with a dumbfounded expression on my face?
Before I can think any further on that, the front door swings open to reveal who I can only assume is Brooks’ mother. She’s a strikingly beautiful woman, petite in height and stature, with vibrant emerald eyes that mirror her son’s, and short, raven hair with salt and pepper mixed in.
“Welcome!” his mother greets us, pulling me into a hug before I can even get a grasp on what’s happening.
“Mamá,” Brooks scolds lightheartedly, chuckling at his mother’s antics. “Boundaries.” He chortles out the word, which his mother completely disregards.
“Let me get a look at you,” she says, stepping back and eyeing me from head to toe. “When my son told us William Sinclair was joining us for dinner, I thought my husband was going to pass out.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brooks roll his, and I decide it’s time to turn on my irresistible Sinclair charm, if for nothing other than to mess with him.
“Thank you for having me for dinner, Mrs. Warren. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Oh, gosh, none of that ‘Mrs. Warren’ nonsense. Elena. Call me Elena.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” I tell her as she brings me in for another hug and thanks me while I peer at her son over her shoulder, shooting him a wink. Brooks narrows his eyes at me and flips me the bird just as his mom turns around, though she unfortunately misses his obscene gesture.
“Please, come in, come in,” Elena says, waving us inside their ranch-style home.
The interior looks like it’s been recently renovated with dark hardwood floors throughout the open-concept living area the entryway leads into.
The mixture of the wood and stone materials in combination with the white-washed walls give it a coastal feel, and the decor further emphasizes the aesthetic.
Elena gestures for us to follow her into the kitchen, where she pulls out a barstool for me to sit in.
I murmur my thanks then tell her, “I like your vehicle out front. My mother drives the same model Audi, even the same color.”
“Oh, that old thing?” she questions jokingly, gesturing toward the driveway and shaking her head.
“Thank you, my sweet boy purchased it for me. I swear, I’ve never been more upset to receive a gift than I was the day he gave it to me—big red bow and all.
I begged him to take it back and told him it’s far too extravagant, especially considering he’d already paid off our mortgage for us.
” She turns to Brooks and cups his cheeks.
“But that’s just the way my Brooksy is. A mama’s boy through and through, no matter how old he gets. ”
“Brooksy?” I echo, fighting back a snort.
Brooks’ cheeks heat ever so slightly, but he smiles down lovingly at his mom instead of feeding into my badgering. A pang of jealousy hits me as I watch the two of them interact, knowing my relationship with my own mother couldn’t be farther from what appears to be their tight-knit bond.
“Don’t coddle the boy, Lena,” a deep voice booms from the other side of the house before a tall, barrel-chested man walks out of what appears to be a bedroom off of the dining room.
His head is down, focused on something in his hands—a shirt maybe?
When he lifts his head and his gaze lands on me, he murmurs “Holy shit” at the same time as I think it because in his hands is my rookie jersey from the Philly.
I don’t even need to see the front of it to know their old logo is on it because it’s the original burgundy the franchise retired during my second season.