Frowning, I search the room one more time and then pull out my phone.
It’s rude, but I’m worried.
Did something happen on their drive up?
Blake had sounded better when I spoke to him yesterday before the game, confirming the details, had promised to be here with my parents, who were driving him up.
But he’s not.
And the message on my phone fucking burns.
Blake: Mom says my cough is worse and won’t drive me up. I’m trying to find another ride but on this short of notice…fuck, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have trusted her to follow through.
“You good?” I look up to see Storm has come over.
“Yeah,” I clip. “I’m great.” I shove my cell back in my pocket, stifle a sigh.
“You don’t look great.”
Because as much as this hurts, it isn’t a surprise.
It’s just another line in a long list of broken promises and crippling disappointments.
“Colt?” he presses.
“All good. Just family shit,” I mutter.
“What kind of family shit?”
“They can’t make it.”
His face clouds. “Seriously?”
I grit my teeth together, exhale sharply. “Don’t worry about it. My brother…he really wanted to be here but his ride didn’t work out.”
“Because your parents won’t drive him?”
The guys know enough to get that Blake can’t live alone without help, let alone drive himself.
I look away, shrug. “Anyway, we’re here. We’re doing a good thing. Thanks for supporting it.”
“Right,” he says.
But he doesn’t move on, doesn’t take the opportunity to escape like I expect, like he’s been doing more and more often of late.
Pulling back from us.
Isolating himself.
Instead, he shows me a glimpse of the Storm of old—kind, insightful, and persistent.
“You know I know all about family shit,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean you’re immune to it, even as an adult.”
Christ, why does he have to return to his old self right now?
Why can’t he just keep being the sulky bastard who’s distancing himself from the rest of us?
Which, yes, I know is an asshole thing to think…
