Page 47 of Foolish Games

“And a raincoat,” Dad says, taking mine off the hanger in the coat closet and handing it to me while Mom slips into hers.

My parents look happy enough from the outside. They make time to go to the football games, my violin recitals, and all the founding family traditions. Mom goes to the dinners for Dad’s firm, and he attends her church functions and helps her pick out tile for the backsplash for the kitchen or curtains for the living room when she remodels. But anyone living under the same roof as them can tell that their marriage is nothing more than a ring and a piece of paper.

“You sure they won’t cancel the game?” I ask as a crack of thunder sounds outside.

“If the roads are fine, the field is fine,” Rob says. “Coach Carr’s motto.”

“I feel bad for y’all,” I say, pulling the hood up before zipping up. “I can’t imagine having to run around in this for two hours.”

Dad hands me an umbrella. “They’re used to it. Plus, all the running keeps you warm. You love football enough, you’ll play in anything.”

“If you say so,” I answer.

Dad would know, though I’m not sure which he loved more—playing football in high school or talking about his glory days of playing football in high school. To be fair, he’s a bit of a fanatic. Not only does he never miss one of Rob’s games on Friday, but he also watches every single Razorback football game on Saturday and a different NFL game every Sunday. Which explains why he’s crazy enough to voluntarily attend a game in the pouring rain with temperatures hovering in the mid-thirties.

We turn toward the door, but Robert stops, his hand on the latch. “Hey. I know you’re there for Sebastian, but don’t forget to cheer for your brother too.”

“Shut up,” I say, nudging his chest with my shoulder. “You know I’ll always be your biggest fan. And I don’t really have it in me to be the biggest fan of two egos the size of yours.”

Rob grins and throws an arm around me, steering us out the side door into the garage. The tall, ornately carved wooden front doors are entirely for show. I’d forget they existed if not for the occasional important guest who comes through them. Friends and family use the door to the garage.

“You going to an afterparty?” I ask, stopping once we’re on the polished concrete floor of the six-car garage.

“Always, little sis,” Rob says, swinging open the door of his Lambo with a haughty grin.

“Should I ride with you?” I ask. “Sebastian can drive me home, so people see us leaving together.”

“Sebastian doesn’t have a car,” he says. “And there’s no way in hell you’re leaving with him, so hop in. That way I’ll know exactly who you’re leaving with and what time you get home.”

“You’re worse than our parents,” I say, rolling my eyes.

At the far end of the garage, Dad opens Mom’s door and dutifully helps her into his Mercedes, neither of them making eye contact. I climb in with Rob, because having an overprotective brother isn’t the worst thing a girl can have.

He pulls out of the garage into the icy November drizzle. It’s only six, but it’s already pitch dark out. “Look, I’m okay with you pretending to be with Sebastian, but if he so much as lays a finger on you, I swear…”

“He hasn’t,” I assure him, but my heart does a little skip when I remember the way he kissed me at his locker that day I got the makeover. We flirt our way through tutoring every day, but nothing physical has happened since I told him he couldn’t kiss me, almost a month ago. I can’t quite remember why I told him that. Just thinking about all the close calls, when he touches my face and his green apple eyes latch onto mine, and my heart stops beating as I pray he’ll break our rules, has me seething with frustration.

“Good,” Robert says. “He’s not the kind of guy you need to get mixed up with. Trust me on that one.”

“He’s good enough to be your friend,” I point out.

“My friend,” Rob says. “Exactly. He’s a good friend. But I know how girls get when it comes to him, and I don’t want to see you go there. You said this was just pretend.”

“It is,” I insist.

“You don’t know him like I do, that’s all,” he says. “He’s not the kind of guy my sister needs to be messing around with.”

“You don’t have to worry,” I promise him. “I don’t think I’m his type anyway.”

Rob grunts in response, and I’m not sure whether I’m more annoyed at him for not contradicting me, or at myself for wanting him to so badly.

We get to the game a few minutes later, and Rob turns off the engine.

“Just be careful,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to have to kick Sebastian’s ass. He’s my friend. And more than that, I wouldn’t want my baby sis getting hurt.”

“I’m your big sister,” I point out, throwing open the door. “And I’m fine, Rob. Really. Believe it or not, I can handle myself, and I can probably handle Sebastian Swift better than you can.”

I climb out of the car, and we head for the field. Rob splits off with a wave, and I call good luck to him before making my way into the stands. The game is a cold, miserable affair, which means only family and die-hard fans are in attendance. Even with a raincoat and an umbrella, by the end of the game, my jeans are soaked through and I’m freezing my ass off. I feel bad for the players, who spend the second half engaged in what can only be described as mud wrestling. By the time the final seconds tick down, I can say with complete conviction that I don’t think I’ve been missing out on anything by not being a football fan.

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