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My eyes latch onto Ezra’s straight nose and dark brows, his hard jawline. He’s looking down, so I see his dark lashes against his skin. Then his gaze flicks up and hits mine like an arrow to a bull’s eye.
Fuck. I look away, realizing Dad is talking to Brennan and Marcel. I can’t track the convo. I’m too busy watching Dad’s eyes slide to Ezra. Just as Dad opens his mouth to ask who the hell this other guy is, Ezra sticks his hand out.
“Ezra Masters,” he says gruffly.
“Oh-ho-ho,” Dad chortles, shaking Ezra’s hand. “The new QB.”
Ugh.
I ask myself do we have to do this? But we do. Of course we do. I’m forced to listen to Dad regurgitate every single thing he’s heard about Ezra from Coach Nix—one of my dad’s childhood friends—and whoever else spends their time yapping about high school football.
Ezra’s face is near expressionless. I’m feeling jealous of his poker face when I notice his ears are red.
Jeez, my dad is really rambling like some kind of fanboy. Turns out, apparently, some of the Fairplay men in my dad’s circle stopped by to watch Ezra throw a few days back, at the request of showboat Coach Nix. And he can throw it oh so extra far. Seventy-something yards. I guess that actually is pretty far.
Ezra’s ears are getting redder by the second. He looks almost nervous, but he fakes a smile when my dad slaps him on the shoulder.
“Goin’ places,” Dad drawls, and I can’t help a quick eyeroll—which Ezra sees, and his gaze jerks to meet mine.
I give him an “ugh, whatever” look, and Brennan grins. “You two starting to be buddies yet?”
Ezra frowns—it’s just the slightest pinch of his brows—and I widen my eyes as Dad turns to me.
“You don’t know?” Marcel asks my dad. Marcel slaps Ezra’s back. “These two are brothers!”
My gaze is pulled two ways at once as Ezra’s right eye squints and his upper lip curls slightly. Meanwhile, dad is gaping.
“Not by you, old man.” Brennan laughs like it’s the funniest thing ever. “He’s the son of Carl.”
Dad’s whole face transforms as if it’s the most shocking thing he’s ever heard in his life. He looks from me to Ezra, his mouth agape.
“Brothers?” he says, grinning. He looks at me. “Well, who would have known?”
That all kicks off what feels like another hour of bullshit small talk about Ezra, and where he’s from, and how he’s liking Fairplay. Yes, yes. We know he’s from Richmond. He’s played football since he was five years old. Yes, sometimes it’s possible to play at age five. Miracle of miracles! Dad tells Ezra I played peewee, but now I “just” play soccer.
Ezra does a good job playing attentive listener. He’s got a grounded, quiet energy around my dad. As if they’re both adults—or maybe as if Dad’s a fawning adult and Ezra is a football idol being modest.
Finally, the conversation turns to fishing, and I notice Ezra's ears return to normal color. Brennan grabs some poles from his boat, and he and Marcel bait their hooks. I help Ritchie get a shiner on his. Pipsa makes a face at the little fish, and sticks with her original bait, and Dad excuses himself to go make another drink.
"Anybody want a Coke?" he asks as he pads across the long lawn toward the garage.
Marcel says he'll take one.
“No thanks,” I say over my shoulder.
I'm turning back toward the water when I see Ezra with hunched shoulders, squinting slightly as he baits his hook. At the exact second my gaze touches his hands, he loses his grip on the shiner. The hook slides through the tip of his finger, its prongs popping out—oh my God—on the other side. I blink in horror at the spike of metal, quickly covered by a crimson dollop of blood.
"Fuck."
Ritchie and Pipsa gape at my foul mouth as Ezra stares at his hand. The color drains from his face as he holds it away from his body.
"Oh, shit." Brennan notices in that moment, and so does Pipsa. She shrieks, and Ritchie turns her away. "Don't look, Pipsqueak," he says, at the same time Marcel says, "Oh hell! Brennan, Miller…"
Marcel's got a weak stomach. "I'm sorry, my good dude," he says to Ezra as he turns away and puts a hand over his face.
Ezra’s chest is pumping. His teeth are gritted and his eyes are half shut. I look closer at the hook and see that it's a bigger one, with two prongs. Dammit, Brennan must have handed him one of the poles we used to fish for king mackerel during spring break down at Orange Beach.
It's the middle finger of his left hand. The whole hand is shaking now. He grips his left wrist with his right hand, squeezing.
I hear myself say, "I can get it out. Brennan." I look at Bren. "Get those little scissor pliers, the red ones you’ve got under the console?”
