So why am I?
Despite Jenna’s many successful distractions, I’m still a mess when Sunday come around, but I promised Nathan I’d support him. Just like I always do.
Faking a smile, in the hope that I can convince myself I’m okay, I reach for my new Los Angeles jersey, running my fingers over the letters printed on the back, the feeling making my skin prickle.
Coincidently or not, Nathan gave it to me last week. Before then, I was unnamed, and now, the weight of the jersey feels heavier in my palms.
“I’m leaving, babe,” he calls from downstairs before the front door creaks open. “I got your black heels out of the closest; they’re in the hall. I’ll see you in the stands.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there,” I call back, hearing his distant “love you” as the door slams shut.
My eyes drop to my outfit, taking in my designer black jeans and finest silk bra. The perfect attire to pair with my patent leather black heels.
Counting down from five, I pull myself out of the resistance toward his name and slip the jersey over my head, letting it mold to my body before I check myself out in the mirror.
There she is. Nathan Morgan’s other half.
Putting on a smile, I pull my thick, curly hair high into a tight ponytail and touch up my makeup. Ensuring I’m picture-perfect with Nathan’s name on full display.
And my insides squirm.What the hell is that about?
I know the drill. This has been my life since Nathan turned pro and yet today it feels wrong.
But why?
Ignoring my thoughts, I spin on my toes and head downstairs, making sure I’m ready for the weekly call with my brother and dad. We’ve had this standing catch-up since I moved away for college, and if I miss it, I’m likely to have one of them banging down my front door come morning.
My family lives and breathes football. Always have. My dad was an incredible college football player, destined for the pros until he snapped his Achilles his senior year. If he wasn’t such a positive man, it would have destroyed him.
My grandfather, on the other hand,wasan NFL great. He played through to his retirement and went on to coach at a D1 college, and he was still coaching when my dad played.
While I wasn’t expected to play like Cade was in high school, Iwasexpected to learn everything about the game, and I was expected to watch.
Because of that, I’m what you’d call a die-hard fan. Of the Florida Sting Rays. Nathan’s previous team. The team I grew up supporting. The same team my family supports.
The only saving grace about Nathan moving to California is that at least the two teams are in different conferences, so I can tell myself I have a favorite for each.
I’ve just poured myself a glass of water when my phone rings, blaring the video tone I set for my brother. Staring at the screen, I watch it ring until it stops—because that always pisses Cade off—then I call him right back, a smile dancing on my lips.
“You’re a little shit, you know that?” he says as soon as I answer, his lips cocked in a grin.
“And you need to watch your language,” Dad calls out in the background, making me laugh.
“Hi, Dad.” I wave even though Cade’s not facing the phone his way. “And hi, Bro.”
“How’s Cali life treating you, Little B?” He uses my old nickname and I cringe. It’s been years since he’s used that name and I’ll bet all my money—which is sweet fuck-all at the moment—that he’s using it now because he’s got Zane on the brain.
Ooh, that rhymes. I smile to myself and Cade raises a brow.
“I’m guessing life is good. I haven’t seen you smile like that in a while.”
“Actually, if you must know, I rhymed in my head and was a little pleased with myself.”
“God, you’re a nerd sometimes.” He shakes his head, until the phone’s ripped from his hand.
“I love it when that happens,” Dad cuts in. “What did you rhyme?”
Dammit. “It doesn’t matter. How are you, Dad? You’re looking good. But that’s about to change after a day with Cade. Please tell me you’re not watching the game together?”
