The football field was dark and quiet when he and Matt arrived the next morning, but Brandon’s mind was still running a hundred miles an hour after his conversation with Trish last night. She was scared. Scared that Brandon wouldn’t let Matt talk to her. Scared that Matt wouldn’t have any interest in her. Brandon thought he wouldn’t care either. He shouldn’t, however shitty that was. But he did. He cared what Matt would think.
“What’s wrong with you this morning?” Matt questioned as they approached Blake.
He offered his son a half-smile to hide his turbulent thoughts. “Nothing.”
The harsh wind lent an extra crispness to the already brisk morning air. The sky was slowly changing from dark to lavender as he and Matt walked across the freshly mowed field toward an already waiting Blake.
Blake checked his watch, like he thought Brandon and Matt were late, even though they both knew the two of them were right on time.
“I have a meeting at seven-fifteen, so I can’t stay long,” Brandon told his cousin.
Blake took a sip of his coffee and turned his attention to Matt. “You ready to lay it out?” Which was Blake code for “Prepare to have your ass kicked.”
Matt dropped his gym bag on the ground. “I’m ready for anything you have to throw at me.”
Blake’s mouth quirked in what some would consider an almost grin. “Let’s do it, then.”
Brandon sat back and watched the two, his gaze tracking Matt and having flashbacks of his own football days.
Twenty minutes went by before the team started shuffling onto the field.
Cameron was close behind, a Bobcats sweatshirt warding him from the chill and a thermos of coffee in one hand. He stopped by Brandon and sipped his coffee.
“Lookin’ good,” Cameron commented. “Blake tell you he’s starting on Friday?”
Brandon glanced at Cam. “No. Is Matt aware of this?”
“I don’t think Blake’s told him yet.”
Of course he hadn’t, otherwise Matt would have said something. Or would he have? Matt could be so mysterious sometimes.
Cameron elbowed Brandon. “What’s eating you?”
Was he walking around with a “Piss Off” sign on his forehead? Brandon’s gaze tracked Matt on the field, turning thoughts over in his mind before answering Cameron. “Trish called last night,” he found himself saying.
Cameron’s brow flew up his forehead. “No shit? What’d she want?”
“She left the circus and wants back in Matt’s life.”
Cameron was silent a moment as he sipped his coffee. “Are you going to let her?”
“I don’t know,” he answered.
Cameron studied him. “You still don’t trust her.”
Bingo.
“You know,” Cam continued, “no one would blame you if you told her to piss off.”
His friend’s words cut deeper than they should. No, he didn’t completely trust Trish. But something in her voice had reached out to him. Tugged at him.
“She’s still Matt’s mother,” Brandon answered. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled to defend Trish. After all, without her he wouldn’t have Matt and he couldn’t bring himself to completely hate her.
“Yeah, but she put you guys through hell,” Cameron pointed out. “How many times has she waltzed in and out without any explanation?”
Yeah, Cam got it. He knew the hell Trish had put them through. And maybe Cam was just being a good friend, looking out for his and Matt’s best interest.
“I think she means it this time,” Brandon answered.
“How can you tell?”
Brandon watched Matt on the field, taking in Blake’s instruction with the sort of determination Brandon had instilled in him. Finally, he just shrugged, because he wasn’t sure how to answer Cameron.
Cameron took another sip from his thermos. “So what else has got your panties in a twist?”
Brandon slid his friend a look. “You have such an eloquent way of putting things.”
Cam shrugged. “Just saying. You seem…off.”
Because he was off. He’d been off since Stella had crashed his lunch.
How was he supposed to handle her? How was he supposed to wrap his mind around the contradicting vibes she was constantly throwing off?
The lady messed with his head something fierce.
“Just thinking about work,” he told his friend.
“Really?” Cam questioned as though he didn’t believe Brandon.
Hell, Brandon didn’t believe himself. He heaved a sigh. “No,” he admitted.
More of the football team lumbered onto the field. Blake glanced at them, then made a note of the time.
“Woman problems?” Cameron said while watching Matt. He glanced at Brandon. “You have that look about you.”
“And you’re so familiar with woman problems?” Cameron’s girlfriends rarely stuck. His friend’s idea of a relationship was a roll in the sack a few times before he moved on to something else.
“I’ve had my share.” Cameron turned from the field when Blake and Matt finished up. He laid a hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “You want my advice? No woman is worth the headache.”
How would Cam know? “I think you’ll eat those words one day.”
Cameron shook his head. “Never happening. Been there and bought the whole T-shirt factory. Trust me. If she’s getting under your skin, cut her loose.”
Good advice, if one didn’t know Stella Davenport.
Eight
The Bobcats band fired up, rolling into the traditional fight song, as Cody Richardson, the quarterback and practically a god around town, rushed for thirty yards and moved the game play closer to the end zone, giving the Bobcats a chance to put another six points on the board. They were down by three, having been knocked out of the lead when Cody had thrown an interception, sending the fans into a chorus of groans. The Beehive Mafia, who’d taken their seats behind Stella, kept shoving their polyester-covered legs into her back and arguing about which coach had the best ass.
Stella had wanted to slam her hands over her ears when the conversation turned from Cameron Shaw’s backside, which seemed to be their new favorite, to which of them could con the assistant coach into “helping a little old lady cross the street.”
“Maybe you could stumble and accidentally grab one of his pecs,” Lois had suggested to Beverly about ten minutes ago. “They look nice and tight too.”
Stella had almost regurgitated her drink when she heard that.
“I’m still trying to get my hands on Brandon West,” Beverly commented. “The kid got smart and started jogging with his shirt on.”
The fact that they referred to Brandon as a kid was as bad as listening to them talk about him as though he weren’t sitting right in front of them.
As in, next to her.
As in, pressed all over her side and rubbing up against her and throwing off heat like some…well, like someone who was hot all the damn time.
And she didn’t mean his body temp either. Though his skin seemed to be warm all the time, urging her to wrap her fingers around his thick forearm because her hands were cold and he was wearing short sleeves. At eight o’clock at night. In October in Colorado.