“Okay, fine. But I love you, Lucas. So much.”
“I know. I love you too.”
I end the call, and when I look up, I see Hunter in the end zone, right before the ball drops into his arms…and I smile, smile for the boy who always saw his worth in this game I hate, thankful he’s finding his way again, while still hoping he realizes he’s so much fucking more than that.
*
The Pulse wins28–21. Hunter had another incredible game, something every sportscaster mentions. He’s grinningear to ear, practically fucking glowing in this way only Hunter can do—or at least, it would be annoying as shit coming from someone else. It’s still a little annoying coming from him, but stupidly endearing too.
“I hate to jump the gun, but is King having a comeback?” one of the sports commentators asks.
“The Comeback King,” another adds, and I roll my eyes. That’s the dumbest fucking nickname I’ve ever heard, but I have a feeling it’ll stick.
I force myself to turn the TV off.
I go onto the balcony, smoke a cigarette, then sit at my computer to get some editing done. It’s what I should spend the rest of my day doing, what I should have done earlier, because I have thousands of photos to go through. It’s a much better way to spend my time than watching Hunter play football.
I don’t even let myself text him this time, Mom’s words about Hunter being like a brother to me playing on a loop in my head. But when my phone rings—not even a fucking text—and his name appears on the screen, there’s not a chance I can ignore it.
“Did you watch my game?” is the first thing he says.
I feign ignorance. “The Pulse played today?”
Hunter laughs. “Shot to the heart. Though I don’t believe you.”
“Ugh. Yes. I watched. I had nothing else to do today, so I figured, why not?”
“I’ll definitely never get a big head around you.”
“You already have one.”
“Thank you,” he counters.
We’re both silent for a moment, and I wish like hell I could read his mind. That I could know what he’s thinking right this second, know what he was thinking before he calledme, and why he did.
“I thought…” he begins hesitantly, “maybe I could bring dinner to your place? Just a way to celebrate the badass fucking game I played today and to thank you for breakfast the past two weeks.”
Alarm bells are going off in my head, but the truth is, I’ve been waving the white flag with Hunter my whole life. I’ve always wanted his attention, even when I pretended I didn’t. I would have always done anything he asked, even though that makes me the worst brother in the world.
“You do owe me,” I tease.
“I guess it’s settled, then. I always pay my debts.”
What are you doing, Hunt? Why are you calling me? Why do you want to come over?
“See you soon,” I tell him, then end the call before he can change his mind.
I haven’t done much with myself today. I stayed in bed late this morning because I couldn’t sleep last night, so I clean up real quick, then tug on a pair of low-slung jeans and a tight V-neck tee.
It takes Hunter a while to get here. The stadium is about forty minutes away, but it can take longer depending on traffic. I should have offered to have food here for him instead, but then that would have rendered his excuse for coming over moot.
I ignore any feeling other than anticipation, not allowing myself to feel them, and then he’s there, calling on the intercom, and I’m letting him upstairs. It doesn’t surprise me when he shows up in a pair of track pants, tennis shoes, a Pulse shirt, and, like before, wearing a hat as though it makes him unrecognizable. What would he do if people found out we were spending time together? Would it make Hunter stop?
“I smell vegetables. I thought you were bringing food,” I say.
He laughs. “Vegetables are food, asshole.” He walks over to my kitchen, like he’s completely comfortable here now, setting the bags on the counter and opening one. “Chicken, rice, and grilled veggies. It’s good for you.”
“This food sucks, man. I was looking forward to this too. I changed my mind. You’re not allowed to come over anymore. You must leave now.”
