Page 8 of Off Sides

“Uh . . . I’m Jonah. I just wanted to talk to him about practice today.”

Jonah. Coach’s little brother. Nepotism in the flesh.

I watch Curtis fold his big arms over his chest, but other than that, he doesn’t move a muscle. “Huh,” he laughs cruelly. “So you’re Coach’s little brother? Pretty shitty what Coach did. And here I thought he was a good guy.”

“He told you then,” Jonah says it with some surprise in his voice, like maybe I’d be ashamed about quitting like I did. But I’m not ashamed, damn it. I’m not.

But I didn’t tell Curtis that. I didn’t tell anyone. If I came home early from practice, my entire family would be on top of me from the get-go. My parents would demand answers. My grandfather, who lives with us now and has since my grandma passed two years ago, and my brother who I guess never saw the reason to move out yet.

He lives in the basement, though it has a separate entrance, so I guess he thinks that’s enough independence. What does it really matter anyway? He goes to work with my dad every day—at the company my grandfather started. And next year . . . that’ll be me too.

I knew they would all have questions, so I drove around after I left practice. Took my truck around the lake on the outskirts of town until it was an acceptable hour to be home. But I’m not surprised Curtis knows.

I’m sure the whole town knows by now.

Curtis doesn’t dispute it was me that told him though, nor does he offer up how he actually found out. He just sneers, “Giving his little brother the QB1 position when no one in the town even knew you existed.” I see him shake his head, towering over Jonah, expecting him to step back, I’m sure. Or to cower.

Most people would. My brother has a menacing presence. But Jonah doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move. He might even stand up a little taller. “Is he here?”

“What do you want from him?” my brother asks.

I don’t know why he’s here or what he wants, but I do know I don’t want him to answer my brother. For some unexplained reason, that forces me to walk down the hall and interrupt before Jonah can answer. “What are you doing here?”

Jonah’s golden eyes meet mine, his black hair still wet from a shower, probably in the locker room after practice. And then he smiles at me. This pretty, kind of lopsided grin, causing his pink, full lips to stretch, the motion creating a dimple in his right cheek. “I wanted to talk to you. I’m your QB, after all.”

Curtis makes a growling, angry sound that snaps me out of what I can only describe as a trance, looking into those mischievous gorgeous eyes with that smile reaching them—it left me frozen for a second. But the sound Curtis makes sends an intense, unpleasant shiver down my spine. “You’re not my QB,” I say, keeping my voice low because I don’t want to attract any other family member’s attention.

That damn smirk is still on his face, and the dimple has only grown deeper. Can people have only one dimple? I thought they came in pairs. And why am I thinking about this?

I walk closer to him, hoping to intimidate him, my shoulder bumping my brother’s as I stand next to him. “You should leave.”

But Jonah doesn’t move, and there’s no hint of intimidation. “Give me five minutes,”—his eyes roam over my brother—“alone.”

I don’t like the way my body responds to that one word. Alone. Being alone with Jonah is dangerous. Not like he would be a physical threat. He couldn’t hurt me, I know that. But dangerous all the same. “No.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, planting his feet and being a total pain in the ass. Telling me he isn’t going anywhere. “Okay. I’ll wait till you’re ready.”

But he doesn’t move, and my brother looks from him to me, his eyes assessing and cruel. Like he sees something that isn’t there. That can’t be there. But it’s making him suspicious and making my skin crawl.

I huff. “Fine.” I turn to my brother, trying my best not to let my voice quiver. “Just give us a minute.”

His cold eyes meet mine, calculating. Thinking too damn hard. I want to shrivel up. Climb into a hole. Hide away from him and the rest of the world. But Curtis, if he senses blood in the water, he won’t back away.

“I’ll get rid of him,” I say, trying to be convincing that I don’t want him here—and I don’t. I can’t have him here. There’s something about this guy—something I noticed this morning.

Something terrifying about the way he looks at me. How he acts. How he carries himself.

And I can’t be near him.

Curtis finally drops his hands to his side, his scowl a permanent fixture on his face as he does another once-over of Jonah, irritation flickering in his eyes before they meet mine. “Don’t be long. Mom made pot roast.”

I nod, relief coming over me but not fully taking over. I don’t think I’ve relaxed in almost a decade. Not fully anyway.

When Curtis walks down the hall toward the kitchen, I turn back to Jonah. “Why are you here? You’re not my QB. I made that clear today, didn’t I?”

I should have done my job and blocked for him. It went against every instinct in my body not to, to let him get laid out over and over again. But Shields and Adler made it pretty clear in the locker room—as soon as Jonah waltzed in there, ready to head out to practice—we were going to send a message.

And if I didn’t—well then, it would reaffirm their teasing from this morning about me being curious. And . . . I was pissed off. Pissed that Coach is a liar. About everything. About merit and hard work being all that matters to him out on the field. I guess that was true until his little brother came along and needed a position.