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I step away from Fox and brush my lips with my fingers.
“How about a little three-on-three?” he asks Barrett. “Mike, Terry, and me against Joel, Billy, and you.”
“So, you want to lose.” Barrett’s tone is cocky and happy at the same time.
“So not happening.”
“Where are you going to play football?” I look around the postage-stamp yard. The grassy area that isn’t taken up by the cornhole board and bonfire is clogged with human beings.
“The street,” both men answer in tandem.
“Rich girl.” Barrett tips his head in my direction.
“Ah.” Jackson nods his understanding. “Well, I like her.”
“We’re exclusive.” A note of possessiveness outlines Barrett’s playful tone. “Kitty Cat, will you be okay here by yourself?”
“And miss watching the bad boy of the NFL in action? Forget it, Fox, I’m coming with you.”
“I really like her,” Jackson amends with a shit-eating grin. “Sure you like him better than me?”
“No,” I answer on a small laugh. “I’m not.”
Jackson laughs and wanders off to gather the rest of the guys. Barrett slips his hand into mine.
“You’re sure,” he tells me, then ducks his head for a kiss.
I am, but I’m not admitting it.
We walk around to the front of the house. I lower my butt onto one of the steps off the concrete slab front porch. Everyone else is either sitting on the porch or standing in the lawn, watching the game that has already begun.
So far one car has been bonked by the football, sending the shrill car alarm into fits. It was Barrett’s doing, and he’s fast to apologize. Luckily, it’s Billy’s car. A few seconds later he beeps off the alarm and returns to the game.
I settle in and watch Barrett in motion, noticing whenever he rolls his shoulder. The injury that stole his career is bothering him. Bum shoulder or no, he moves like he was meant to cradle a football. The pigskin in the crook of his elbow is at home there. Whenever someone comes after him, he twists, spins, and runs out of harm’s way and right into the end zone.
I can’t watch an actual football game for long—the announcers and crowd fade into white noise after a few minutes—but I could watch Barrett do this all day. It’s like watching a talented dancer move. He’s truly gifted.
I feel a ping of sadness that he’s no longer able to play professionally. I couldn’t imagine if something happened and I could no longer write. It’d be a cruel joke, like the way Beethoven lost his hearing.
“Shot?” A hand with bubblegum-pink fingernails holding a shot glass hovers in front of my face. I turn to find Stacie smiling down at me. She sits next to me onto the step.
“Sure, why not?” I take the tiny plastic cup filled with dark liquid. “What is it?”
It smells awful.
“Best not to ask. Jackson mixed them up.” She taps her shot glass against mine and we down the liquid. I manage to swallow it but can’t help wheezing and coughing after.
“That’s terrible,” I croak.
“It really is.” To Stacie’s credit, she didn’t wheeze or cough. “We’ll have to do another one.” She bumps my shoulder with hers and I give her a synthetic smile. “I wasn’t hitting on your man.”
“I didn’t think...” I trail off rather than lie.
“It’s okay. It’s hard to be the new girl. We’ve all known each other since junior high.” She points at one of the guys in the street. “Except for Mike. Jackson works with him.”
“What does Jackson do?”
“Construction. He’s good with his hands.” Stacie reaches behind her for her beer and takes a drink. “You and Barrett. Has it been long?”
