“I don’t know, honestly.” August sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “He’s been cagey about discussing it.”
“That’s understandable.”
Absently, he nods, but his focus is still on the elevator doors. “When I thought about going pro, I always assumed we’d be battling it out in a way, the two Luck quarterbacks competing for the ring.”
August’s expression flickers. “Of course I had a lot of catching up to do. But I thought he’d be there. Now... it’s different. It’s like I’m chasing a ghost in some ways.”
He’s chasing a legacy instead of competing with a brother.
“August,” I say in the heavy silence. Instantly, I have his attention back. Complete focus. The sensation is heady. My fingers thread through his and I hold firm. “It occurs to me that the solution to your problem isn’t me—”
“I don’t know about that.” He gives me a lopsided smile.
“Be serious for a second. I mean it. I think what you really need to do is to win.”
“Pen...” he huffs, amused. “Of course I need to win. I’ve been trying my best to do precisely that.”
“No, I’m not explaining it right.” I push my hair back from my face and think. “What I’m saying is that it’s you, August. You can win because that’s what you do, it’s who you are.”
He’s staring at me like I’ve sprouted a second head, but I forge on.
“Pops used to bet on basketball games.”
It’s clear he thinks I’ve lost the plot but he’s kind enough to humor me. “I didn’t know that.”
“He almost always won too. I would tease him about being psychic. He’d say it wasn’t precognition but the ability to read body language. ‘Pen,’ he’d say, ‘at the pro level, the talent pool is elite, even when you include superstars, your playing field is basically even. What truly decides the game is a soul-deep belief in the player that they’re going to win.’
“He’d tell me it wasn’t enough tothinkyou’re going to win, you had toknowit. That unfailing belief would show in the body language of the players. Other players, whether they knew it or not, would pick up on it too.”
For a moment, I think I’ve lost him, but August looks off, his brows knitting. “I remember he loved Jordan.”
“Yes,” I exclaim. “Because Jordan didn’t care who he faced or what the supposed odds were, he was going to win because that’s what he did.” I give August’s hand a tug. “That’s what you do too.”
The words seem to settle over us, and August swallows thickly.
“You really see me that way?” There’s a tone in his voice, stronger now. But also curious.
“It’s one of the few things I know with absolute certainty.”
His eyes close for a second, then he stares down at me with such intensity that I nearly quaver.
My voice is unsteady as I ask, “The real question is, doyousee yourself that way?”
The long lines of his body practically vibrate with some withheld emotion. But he answers me clearly. “Yes, I fucking do.”
“Well, then, there you go. You don’t have to chase your brother’s legacy, or anyone else’s. You just be you, and your team will follow.”
A chin jerk is all the confirmation I get. He’s still focused on me with those hot eyes that have my insides fluttering.
“Pen?”
God, that voice of his. Dark and rich with just a touch of dry humor. Something about the look in his eye has a thread of anticipation unfurling within.
“Yes, August?”
“It’s game day.” Finely sculpted lips curl with impish glee.
I’d told him only on game day. Sweat blooms under my shirt, my heart beating overtime.
