Page 55

“You’re going to eat your words, Ambrose.” She sends a glare all around then corrects as she stomps toward the house, “Ambroses.”

Oh, this is so not going to end well.

TWENTY-ONE

Violet

“Okay,” Noble says, eyes twinkling in a way a really don’t like. “It’s Violet’s turn to throw.”

I changed—my shoes and my clothes, trading my heels for socks and sneakers, my skirt and blouse for bike shorts and one of Ace’s tees.

Which is huge on me, by the way.

So huge it had my annoyance disappeared like a puff of smoke.

And was replaced with instant regret.

Because then I was wondering what the fuck I was doing, being cajoled into a game of football with five hockey players and their dad.

I knew how things would go.

They were going to crush me like a gnat.

But before I could figure how to get out of it—could I fake another migraine so soon?—there was a knock on Ace’s door and Noble was shepherding me downstairs.

Ace, for his part, looks uneasy rather than the cocky, annoying man who instigated this.

Of course, I was the one who took the bait, and I can only chalk it up to me forgetting that I wasn’t fourteen years old again and living in the Conrad household, well beyond trying to fit in and instead finding my spine, not allowing them to push me around.

Taking whatever abuse they dished out.

No, going further than that.

Turning my nose up at it.

As though it didn’t bother me in the least, as though it didn’t escape in silent tears leaking from my eyes every night.

“We should play four-on-four,” Steve says.

And apparently those words—which make complete sense to me—are anathema to the Ambroses, if the looks his sons shoot him are any indication.

“Four-on-four?” Lex asks, eyes wide.

“Sure.” He shrugs. “With Vi here and your mom around we can make even teams.”

Joan’s eyes are just as wide and she’s already shaking her head. “Um, I don’t think…”

Steve ignores her, walking over and taking her wine glass out of her hand. “Come on, Joanie,” he says, and it may be the first time I’ve seen a glimpse of warmth between them, “it’s been ages since you’ve played.”

“Ages since you told me I sucked too much to play,” she mutters.

He shrugs. “Well, you’re sure as shit not going to be good today, that’s for damn sure. But we have even teams, so we’ll deal.”

Her mouth falls open, a flicker of hurt crossing her face.

Seriously. These Ambrose men are such assholes.

“Dad,” Ace begins.