Chapter 33 #2
But to her surprise, as the game got going, it was pretty clean. A lot of posturing, knocking shoulders, catcalls, but nothing different to what it might have been without Brodie there.
The sun was shining, beating down on the players, tops came off, sweat glistened on brows and dripped down their backs. Brodie had pulled his T-shirt half off so it was around his head like a bandana, the material flopping down his back.
Willow found herself hooking her arms around the metal finials of the fence, feet balanced on the struts, transfixed, feeling like she was back on the bleachers. She figured she’d misread the signs, that it was simply football. High-school bantering.
Score-wise, they stayed neck and neck.
She heard a car pull up on the curb behind her and turned to see her dad’s truck, the window wound down. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Willow nodded toward the park. “Brodie’s playing.” She didn’t mention Dylan, but he was hard to miss: tall and broad, he stood out from the crowd.
One of the guys threw the ball, Dylan jumped to intercept and, as if Brodie had been waiting for that moment, he slammed into him, hard enough to dislocate his shoulder if he wasn’t careful, like they were playing on the pitch, not touch in the park with no pads.
They were two big guys and the crack of the impact made some of the other players wince.
Caught by surprise, Dylan was too late to brace, and he fell back hitting the ground hard.
Brodie snatched up the ball and ran, celebrating a touch like nothing had happened.
One of his team held out a hand to help Dylan up, but he waved it away.
He took a moment on the ground to orient himself, then stood up slowly, blowing out a breath. He didn’t look Willow’s way.
Willow watched it all with her heart in her throat.
She knew she had shouted when Dylan fell, heard it in her ears.
She wasn’t sure if her dad was still behind her in his truck, but then she heard the engine start up again and the sound of him cruising away.
She glanced and caught a glimpse of his rearview mirror, his eyes set on the road ahead.
In the park, Brodie crowed while Dylan brushed himself down then walked to grab his shirt and yank it on. He held up a hand to the guys on his team and said, “That’s me done.”
Brodie stood, bemused. “You running away, Hawkins?”
Dylan paused, head hung for a moment then he turned, looked up and he said, “You haven’t changed.”
Brodie swaggered forward, yanking the T-shirt off his head and running his hands through his hair. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You still gotta play dirty to win.”
Brodie scoffed. “I never played dirty, Hawkins. I deserved what I got. Maybe if you weren’t such a deadbeat, you’d have had a chance.”
Dylan huffed a laugh. “I think fame’s addled your memory, Brodie.”
Brodie visibly bristled at the mention of his fame. “Nothing wrong with my memory.”
But Dylan picked up on Brodie’s reaction and drawled, “I’d stick to singing, if I were you.”
“Yeah, well if I were you, I’d keep my filthy hands off other people’s sisters,” Brodie shot back with a sneer.
It was Dylan’s turn to flinch. Willow’s, too. She took a step back from the fence.
A couple of the guys glanced over in her direction.
Dylan stood for a second, seemingly deciding whether to retaliate or not, and clearly deciding against, he turned and started to walk away across the park, away from Willow, away from them all.
Before he’d gone even a few paces, Brodie, pumped from the altercation, shouted, “You’re trash, Hawkins, always have been.”
But Dylan didn’t stop and the words hung in the air, seeming more awkward and inappropriate the further away he got.
Willow wasn’t sure what to do, whether to run after Dylan or go and punch Brodie in the chest.
Brodie was doing his best to laugh it off with the guys, quipping, “It’s like being back at school,” as they all pulled their shirts back on, game over.
Willow watched her brother incredulously as he smoothed his hair, slipped his shades back on and sidled over as if nothing had happened.
“What the heck was that?” she shouted as he got near.
“What?” Brodie made a face like he didn’t know what she was talking about. “It was just football.”
“You’re pathetic.”
“For someone who claims there’s nothing going on, you’re pretty quick to defend Hawkins,” Brodie replied with a condescending raise of his brow.
“I don’t have to have something going on with someone to know when you’re out of order.”
But Brodie just shrugged as he swaggered through the gate. Willow’s fists clenched in frustration. “You can’t judge someone you haven’t spoken to since you were sixteen, Brodie.”
“Oh, no?” he replied with an amused curl of his lip. “Just watch me.”
“You really are pathetic!” she said again, but he just laughed. So she started to walk away, throwing back over her shoulder, “The only reason you don’t like him is because he was better at football than you and you can’t admit it.”
Brodie feigned being punched in the stomach at her words.
She kept walking, couldn’t look at him anymore, was too annoyed. But she heard him jog to catch up with her. “You better watch yourself, Willow, getting all het up over Dylan Hawkins.”
“Leave me alone.” She turned and pushed him on the arm.
Brodie raised a brow, clearly very much enjoying himself. “You wanna hit me, Willow?” He spread his arms wide to give her an open target.
“Yeah, I do as a matter of fact,” she said and pushed him again harder.
He barely stumbled, then he grabbed her and got her in a headlock. Curls flying, she bashed him to release her. “Let me go!”
“Say you forgive me,” he said.
“No!” She pushed him again fruitlessly.
He laughed and let her go.
She immediately backed away, smoothing down her hair, straightening her top. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He held his hands wide, smiling like she was overreacting. “Come on, Willow, lighten up.”
“No.” She shook her head, annoyingly her voice catching as she said, “It’s not funny anymore, Brodie.”