Sinking into the couch, I press the heels of my hands over my eyes.
The door bursts open with enough force to make me flinch. I give a silent groan when March saunters in grinning like a little shit.
“Nice teeth?” He snorts out a laugh. “Seriously?”
“Apparently so.” I rub my hands over my face. “Fuck.”
March closes the door behind him, then wanders over to Dad’s collection of the Luck family footballs lining one of the wall-to-wall bookcases. “That was—”
“Horrific. Yes, I know.”
Plucking one of the footballs from the display, he drawls, “I was going to say—”
“Hilarious?” I glare. “You’re wrong. It was definitely not hilarious.”
March tosses the football between his hands, his grin growingby leaps and bounds. “Oh, I don’t know. Seemed pretty fucking funny to me.”
“Who the hell comments on a person’s teeth?”
“Our orthodontist loves to. Maybe you went into the wrong career.”
I grimace. “She’s probably wondering if I took one too many blows to the head.”
“In fact, she did ask—” He puts a hand up when I give him a death look. “Merely reporting the facts.”
“Go away.”
March takes a seat on the big wing chair by the fireplace, crossing one leg over the other like he’s a professor. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t. You need me here.” He tosses the football again. “For moral support.”
I stare him down.
His grin breaks out again. “One doesn’t bounce back from ‘you have nice teeth’ without some sort of game plan.”
“Here’s my game plan—I kick you out on your ass.”
“Like you could.” He blows a raspberry through his lips. “Tight end takes quarterback any day.”
Cheeky bastard spins the ball on the tip of his finger.
“Dad sees you playing with that, it won’t matter. You’ll be dead anyway.”
“Hey, this ismyhigh school championship ball.”
“If it’s on The Shelf, it’s Dad’s.”
Those are the rules. We don’t make them, we merely obey them. He’s the best dad I know, but he’s also obsessively covetous about his kids’ memorabilia. And his own. A Hall of Fame wide receiver, Dad was the start of a football dynasty with his sons following in his wake. He’s hella proud.
With a sigh, March returns the ball to its stand. “Stop deflecting. Whatwasthat?”
“Man, I don’t know. Rough week, I guess.”
“Bullshit.”
I wince and look away.
