“What are you talking about?” I say, my brow furrowing as I watch him bounce on the balls of his feet. “It’s almost midnight.”
“The NFL Honors committee just dropped the early ballot notifications to the franchise offices,” he says, a massive,unadulterated grin breaking across his face. He stops pacing, pointing a finger directly into his camera lens. “Offensive Player of the Year, Aston. I’m on the list.”
The words hit me like a blindside block.
My brain goes numb. The image of Eva’s green eyes, her smiling face telling me she wants me there as her boyfriend, clashes violently with the image of my twin brother standing on the exact same stage.
“Aston? Did you hear me?” Ace asks, his grin faltering just a fraction at my silence.
“Yeah,” I force the word out, my throat dry, my voice flat and hollow even to my own ears. “Congrats, brother. That’s … that’s huge.”
Ace’s eyebrows pull together as he stares at his screen. He sets the protein shaker down on his counter with a loud thud. “Congrats? That’s it? Dude, be excited for me. I just got nominated for the biggest individual hardware in sports, and you sound like you’re reading a weather report.”
“I’m excited,” I say, but the numbness is already spreading down my arms, my fingers curling tightly into the fabric of my sheets.
“Bullshit,” Ace counters, his tone dropping into that stubborn register we’ve used against each other since we were young. “Listen, Aston. I can’t do this without you. If I’m walking into that auditorium in San Francisco to take that trophy, you need to be there with me.”
Fuck.
The word echoes in the silence of my skull, loud. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My mind races through the logistics, and every single scenario ends in a total, catastrophic pile-up. Yeah, I planned on telling my family before the awards because I didn’t want them to be shocked when they saw us on television together, but Ace being there too, didn’t cross my mind. And I don’t know what the hell to do here.
If I show up with Ace, I’m the supportive twin, the good brother. But this thing with Eva and me … It’s big. And it would make a big statement not only to the network and audience, but also to my brother and my family, that we’re together.
I can’t do both. I can’t walk down the carpet with my twin brother and walk down the carpet with Eva without turning the entire event into a media circus that could possibly tear us both apart.
“Aston. What the fuck?” Ace snaps, his voice sharp, his confusion turning into genuine irritation. “You gotta be there. Your season is done, so it’s not like you even need to get clearance.”
He’s not wrong. We lost in the playoffs, and my season is over. “Yeah,” I mumble, the words tasting like copper on my tongue. I force my jaw to relax, trying to mimic the easy cadence he expects from me. “Yeah, brother. I’m really happy for you. It’s awesome. Just let me check to see what I can do.”
Ace stares at me for three more seconds, his eyes searching my face, and I know he knows something isn’t right. “Okay, yeah, whatever. Check your schedule,” he mutters, though the excitement has lost some of its edge. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The line goes dead.
I let the phone slip from my fingers onto the mattress. My head drops back to the headboard, and I stare up at the cedar beams of my ceiling.
I should have told him as soon as I started seeing her. Hell, I should have told him after the first night we slept together at Liam’s wedding. But I didn’t, and I’ve put myself in an impossible spot.
What the fuck am I going to do?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ASTON
The next morning,I’m still lying in bed alone. The weight on my shoulders feels too heavy, and I need some advice. I pick up my phone off the nightstand and pull up Archie’s contact and hit Call. I don’t let myself think about it; otherwise, I’ll talk myself out of calling him.
Archie’s only in his late twenties, but he already has a house full of chaotic kids and that easy, unshakeable confidence. He’s usually the first one to crack a joke when the pressure gets heavy, but when you need a straight answer, you call Arch.
The background noise on the other end is immediate when he answers. I can hear my niece and nephews laughing and screaming and some kind of kid show blaring in the background.
“Aston!” Archie’s voice booms through the receiver. “Hold on, man. Duke, put the spatula down. No, you can’t paint the dog. Sorry. Real-time crisis management over here. What’s up, brother?”
“Hey, Arch,” I say, the knot in my chest loosening just afraction by hearing his voice. He has that effect on people. “Sounds like chaos over there.”
“It’s a beautiful disaster, man. Three under seven is no joke. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” He laughs. “You’re back in Jersey, yeah?”
“Yep, cleaned out the locker room the other day and ready to relax for a while before we start all over again,” I tell him.
