“Hard pass,” I say immediately. “On both.”
“Come on, our teams are exactly what you’re looking for.” Clay leans over the console. “Games are like battles, we have enemies and rivals, away games, and—” He’s lifting a finger for each, like a list of pros.
“When I think of baseball players, I see you.” I start counting on my own fingers. “I would cringe every time I mentioned tight football pants, and I don’t want to picture either of you getting it on.” I shudder at the thought.
“Getting it on?” Dallas arches an eyebrow.
“Don’t want to think about it,” I remind him. “And I’ve tried giving them descriptions that are nothing like you, but then I picture Parker or Manning and?—”
“Hell no,” they both say so fiercely that I can’t help but smile.
“Hence my dilemma.”
“This was easier when your stories revolved around dragons and ninjas,” Dallas teases.
I’ve been writing stories since the day I learned how to spell my name, genre-hopping like nobody’s business, but there was always a love story. And romance sells. Last year, I dabbled in romantasy, which I’m sure is not what Dallas means when he suggests dragons, but a backstabbing best friend destroyed any shred of confidence I had. I’m slowly getting back into it, but the story isn’t flowing like it used to. Every time I have an idea, all I can see is why it won’t work, or how I’m not good enough to be the one to write it.
“I will support you and buy anything you write,” Clay assures me, “but I don’t want to read about tight pants either.”
“I’ll send you the blacked-out version I’m sending Mom,” I tease. “But you also really don’t have to?—”
“We want to, Banana.” Dallas uses my childhood nickname. “If it wasn’t distracting, we would sit on your bed and cheer as you type.”
“Please don’t.”
“Just wait for Thanksgiving.” Clay winks.
“You guys are ridiculous.”
“We just love you, Banana.”
I pull into Departures and park in the drop-off zone. They don’t have much luggage, but they slip on shades and hats, reminding me they’re household names. It feels so surreal, especially when Clay opts for a beanie instead of the baseball caps he usually favors, since they would now make him more recognizable.
Clay pulls me in first, then ruffles my hair before we do the stupid handshake we made up in middle school. When I turn to Dallas, he wraps his big bear arms around me and lifts me off my feet like he’s trying to squeeze my bones together.
“I know, you don’t like parties, but can you please let Parker check on you?” He puts me down, but keeps his eyes on me, waiting for me to agree. “I totally get wanting to keep us to yourself, we’re a lot, but the guys already know you, so if you need something to do or people to hang out with, found families extend to baby sisters,” Dallas pleads of Wynchester’s football team, who will forever see him as a God.
“I’m nineteen,” I remind him. My age changes, but their overprotectiveness – that I both love and hate – does not.
“He said what he said,” Clay backs Dallas. “I can reach out to my old gang?—”
“Nope.”
Clay was drafted right out of high school, which he says is because he knew what he wanted to do and didn’t see the point in waiting, but I’m pretty sure had more to do with the fact that Dallas has always been the golden boy, and the only way to not spend the rest of his life under our big brother’s shadow was to start his pro career first. Which means his old teammates are scattered across the country rather than in a house a few blocks from my dorm. Yet I don’t doubt they’d show up.
“Oh, could you also return this?” Dallas hands me a key fob with the Wynchester University logo on it. “I found it in my jacket and don’t want the school to hunt me down.”
I’m about to ask what it’s for, though I assume it’s the athletic complex, but a shrill scream pierces my ears, and I cringe.
“Oh my God, you’re that baseball player, the one who just won the world series.”
She’s wearing harem pants and a sports bra as a shirt, while another girl follows her with the sweatshirt she must have discarded when she spotted my brother. She must be freezing.
“It was a team effort,” Clay argues.
“Are you headed back to Boston? Because I can personally ensure you hit a home run…”
I slowly back away, not that the girls notice me or care that I’m there, which makes me feel sorry for anyone Clay might eventually date. Dallas tries to do the same, but the friend, who was rolling her eyes like she was used to her friend’s antics, spots him, and her mouth drops.
