Page 20 of Yours to Catch
I slap a sympathetic palm to my chest. “That’s exactly what I said. It’s a shock that she didn’t ask you first. I even tried to volunteer, but she shot me down.”
Joy glares at me. “Real nice. I appreciate your support.”
A mulish snort escapes me. “Suddenly you want to be on the same team?”
She presses her lips into a firm line before forcing a smile purely for our mom’s sake. “I didn’t want to be a constant burden. You already watch Belle most mornings. Grace is available during the evenings as needed. It’s a random schedule and very inconsistent. Just when I’m at the studio and Cole is held up in meetings.”
After several tense seconds, Mom nods her acceptance. “All right, I understand your choice. We do keep ourselves busy most nights.”
Dad winks at her. “Can’t keep this social butterfly home for too long without her getting antsy.”
My sister makes a mushy noise better suited for a cheesy movie. “Don’t you want to grow old with a special someone, bro? Look at their love. It’s unconditional.”
Cole hauls her against him, whispering what I can only imagine to be pure filth into her ear. Joy’s rising blush confirms my assumptions. Unfiltered devotion wafts off them to turn my stomach. A sideways glance at my parents finds them in a similar embrace. I’m surrounded by proof that fairytales exist. The outpouring of adoration in this room would have most reconsidering their stance on commitment. I prefer to consider myself immune, but this is a bit much. Not to mention the temptation from a certain raven-haired beauty.
My appetite vanishes and I push my plate away. “Who needs dessert when you’re serving sweet nothings and sappy sentiments? I’m going to be sick from the excessive sugar content.”
Mom clucks her tongue. “There’s a simple solution.”
“Drink the syrupy potion. It’s better than Kool-Aid.” Joy nods at my glass.
“I’m not thirsty.” The curt response reflects my frustration about the sudden influx of meddling I’m receiving from everyone. I figured that a family meal would be safe, but the opposite is proving to be true.
My mom’s expression softens. “We’re not trying to pry, sweetie. It’s just that you used to be much more carefree and passionate. You let possibility stand a chance.”
“I still do.”
“Not like before,” she argues.
“Like when I was five? Pretty sure everything is sunshine and rainbows at that age.”
“Don’t be a smart ass,” Mom quips. “I’m talking about what’s happened since you graduated college.”
The reminder of my so-called glory days delivers a bitter taste to further sour my mood. Football was my first true love. I lived and breathed for the game. Sweat, blood, and tears poured down on a daily basis as I pushed myself harder. Too bad that dedication wasn’t good enough to earn me a spot in the draft. It wouldn’t be as devastating if I hadn’t been so close. They teased me with the opportunity, gave me hope, just to rip it away.
That loss cut deep, but it was expected in a sense. The odds of playing pro ball are slim. Only a very select few get chosen. My football career hit its peak and I accepted that. What I didn’t see coming was my girlfriend betraying me in the dark hours when I needed her most.
The league didn’t want me. She didn’t either. And people wonder why I have commitment issues. A hollow scoff escapes me. Those two consecutive blows altered my path. Permanently.
I rub at the ache lodged in my chest and shake off the memories. “A lot has changed since then.”
Cole scrubs over his mouth, muffling several expletives. “Don’t let that jersey jumper ruin you for the rest. She wins if you do.”
“Yeah, what he said.” My sister hitches a thumb at her fiancé.
My only response to their attempts at encouragement is a dry chuckle. “That tactic is the oldest trick in the book.”
Joy shrugs. “Worth a shot.”
My mother hums in a tune that raises my guard. “It would put me at peace to see you settle down and get serious about someone again.”
I frown at her. “Really, Mom?”
She blanches as if her manipulation tactic stems from pure innocence. “I’m your mother. It’s my job to badger you about marriage.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
Her sigh has the power to spear me with guilt. “That mess with Hillary was years ago, dear. Aren’t you ready to move on?”