His grin grows the slightest. “That either.”
It’s impossible not to continue smirking.
OhmyGarak,what is wrong with me?!
Why is my face stuck like this?
I can’t remember the last time I did this much smiling without beingpaidfor it.
Leaning my frame against the nearby wall precedes me asking, “You have any siblings?”
“Biological? No. But Wes – the man married to the woman that’s now threatening to throw her club – might as well be.” He lets his shoulder brace itself against the structure so we’re matching positions. “We’ve been best friends since we were kids. His family was there for me while my mom was dying and basically adopted me after she did. My dad’s never been in the picture.” An unconscious adjustment to the designer watch on his wrist is executed. “Then whenhis parentsdied that brotherly bond just got stronger.” He slides his free hand into his navy, nautical, embroidered shorts pocket. “I knowfirsthandthat blood isn’t what makes you family. I also know thatchangeisn’t always a bad thing even when it can feel like it’s the worst thing.”
His decision to be so open and honest and vulnerable is what prompts me to do the same, “I’ve never,” the word choice continuation receives a small smirk, “had a biological parent present in my life.”
Sympathy swiftly slides into his sweet stare. “Seriously?”
“Nope. Sperm donor was a minor league baseball player – whose real family was back in Dalvegan, so he wantednothingto do with us – and Mom – who was absolutely a cleat chaser – died during childbirth, leaving us to be raised by Gammie.” Sadness unfortunately seeps into my tone. “We um…we lost her last year to a heart surgery complication…during the NBA finals.”
“No shit…”
“One weird benefit to us being part of the same franchise was knowing the owner – in good conscious and good press – couldn’t let one of us go but not the other.”
“True.” The corner of his lip twitches upward during his nodding. “So, you’re a cheerleader?”
“Retiredcheerleader or dancer – depending on how you wanna define it,” I correct, hearing Jericho summon us to the putting area. “This was not only my last season as a Highland Hellcat but last season as one period.”
“Why?” We begin making our way in that direction side by side. “You look like you’re still in good shape.”
“I’m ingreatfucking shape,Imzadi.” Waggling my eyebrows further reiterates the lack of animosity in my retort. “Still super fucking flexible.”
J.T doesn’t bother swallowing his groan.
Or needily biting his lip.
Or gravitating closer as if anxious to put that to the test.
“I’m just… ‘old’.” Our arrival at the starting line is attached to a defeated sigh. “Does it suck?” Placing the ball on the ground occurs next. “Yeah.” My body straightens back out to make a swing. “Will I let it stop me from continuing my life-long career of dance in some capacity?” I grip my putter a little harder. “Fuck no.”
The first swipe I make at the tiny green object sends it soaring.
Unfortunately, the bumpy ridges Bryn was bitching about earlier prove to be a problem for me too.
My bright piece returns to almost the exact same spot I placed it sparking me to squeak. “Fuck!”
“See,” Bryn teasingly waves her instrument around. “It’s not just me. It’s fuckingVoyager.”
“FuckingVoyager,” I instantly echo.
“I know you’re a cheerleader-”
“Retired.”
“-but don’t encourage her,” my fake boyfriend loudly scolds between snickers.
“It’s what I do,” cheekily escapes on a comical wink.
“How about I showyouthe right stance for this type of terrain?” he sweetly offers.
