His dark hair is cut in a precise fade, and somehow, even while doing housework, he's dressed like he's about to host a dinner party.
"Señor Beck, if you keep feeding him treats from the table, he will learn to beg, not lie down."
Beck waves a dismissive hand. "It's fine, Diego. We're building afoundationhere."
Diego shakes his head as he sets the pitcher down on the outdoor table. He's been with the mansion since before we moved in, inherited along with the property like a piece of furniture.
"Your brother," Diego says, nodding toward me, "has been very quiet this morning."
"Your brother," Beck mimics, "has beenbrooding. It's his brand."
"I'm right here."
"I know." Beck grins, finally turning to face me. "That's what makes it so fun."
I take another pull of my beer, letting the silence stretch. The ocean crashes against the shore below the bluff, a steady pulse that usually soothes me.
Today, it just reminds me of everything I'm trying not to think about.
The last two days have been almost normal. Practice, drills, film sessions. Coach Pearson ran us through defensive formations until my legs burned, and I threw myself into every rep like I could sweat out the memory of that conference room.
Theinterruption, as I've started calling her in my head, hasn't shown her pretty face inside the locker room.
Good.
That's exactly what I wanted.
Mason stands, brushing sand off his knees. Biscuit immediately trots over to him, tail still wagging, and sits at his feet like a loyal soldier awaiting orders.
"Okay, that's actually impressive," I admit.
Mason shrugs, but there's a hint of pride in his voice. "He's smart. Picks up commands fast."
"Too bad his owner's a dumbass."
"Allegedowner," Beck corrects, plopping down on the lounge chair next to mine. "We're still waiting on the vet to confirm. But between us?" He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "I've already picked out his Halloween costume."
"Of course you have."
"A tiny hockey jersey. With a 'C' on it."
I groan, pressing the beer bottle to my forehead. "I hate you."
The afternoon sun warms my skin, and for a moment, I let myself relax.
This is what I wanted. This is what Ineed. The easy rhythm of my brothers banter, the salt-spray air, the knowledge that the only thing on my schedule for the rest of the day is a nice meal at Breakers before bed tonight.
But then Diego clears his throat.
"Señor Declan. You have a message."
I open one eye and see Diego tapping at the hugeweekly plannerscreen that came with the mansion. It's a sleek, state-of-the-art tablet looking device that dominates the wall by the door leading out to the deck.
The damn thing is synced to our phones, the security system, and probably Coach Pearson's blood pressure monitor. I'm half-convinced it has a direct line to his disappointment, like somewhere in the settings there's a button that just says 'Summon Morrison.'
"Ignore it," I grunt, pulling my sunglasses back over my eyes.
"It's from the arena. Something about mandatory media training this afternoon."
