Page 40 of Home Game

“What in the fresh hell?” I muttered under my breath, laying off the gas pedal in the Bronco and driving slower past Emmett’s house. “What are youdoing, Fancy Pants?”

As my car slowed, I got a better look at what was going on. Emmett was out in his front yard in a white T-shirt and beat-up old pants, standing on a short ladder to hang up some sort of artsy bronze lantern in one of the tall oak trees out front. It was only one of a bunch of different little glowing lights he’d apparently decided to set up tonight. The sun was just setting, and his front yard looked like some sort of magical wonderland, dotted with multiple glowing lights hanging from different trees and strung along the shrubs on the far side of the lawn.

Emmett looked to his side as my Bronco passed.

I rolled down the window, calling out to him. “Need help hanging that up?”

When he saw me he teetered a little on the ladder.

“Oh, fuck,” I said as I realized what was about to occur.

Emmett frowned, losing balance on the ladder and falling backward onto the lawn. The bronze lantern fell next to him, missing his head by a few inches.

“Whoa,whoa,” I muttered, immediately throwing the Bronco into park and cutting the engine. I ran over to Emmett, who was on the lawn, cradling his ankle. “That was a nasty fall. You okay?”

“All good,” he said, even though he was wincing and clearly still in pain.

“How’s that ankle?” I said, ignoring his nonchalant attitude.

He groaned, sitting up in the grass and feeling around his lower leg.

“It’ll be fine,” he finally said. “I’ve sprained it before, and this isn’t even that bad. Side of my foot hurts like hell, though.”

“Could be a tarsal injury,” I offered. “Teammate of mine got one last year. He was normal again within a couple of weeks, though.”

Emmett cut a glare at me. He was breathing heavy, and clearly had been doing lots of physical work out front. I’d never seen him in such plain clothes before, and it was a departure from his usual suits.

He looked really good. He was fitter than I’d realized, and his biceps peeking out of the sleeves caught my eye.

“Go home,” he said.

“What are you even doing out here?” I asked. “This place looks like something out of a fairy tale—”

“I’m putting up my fall decor. Sorry if you hate the whole fall theme, but I want to do it.”

“Don’t hate it at all,” I clarified. “I think it looks pretty fucking awesome out here now, actually, and—wait, shit, Emmett, you’re bleeding.”

There was a trail of blood along the side of his arm that had smeared onto his white shirt.

“Jesus,” he said as he saw the blood, wincing again. “Thought I felt my arm hit the side of the ladder.”

He pulled off his T-shirt, wrapping it around the shallow cuts on his arm.

“Let’s get you inside. You need to clean that arm off.”

“I’m fine on my own,” he told me, his tone a little sharper. He looked up at me and his anger was apparent.

I furrowed my brow. “I just want to help you.”

“I don’t need help right now,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

“Then sorry for offering,” I shot back at him. “Didn’t need help hanging the lantern, don’t need any help with your ankle, don’t need help with the damn cuts even though I’ve probablydressed more wounds in a single football season than you have in your whole life.”

His eyes were cold. “Yes. I’m glad you understand. I don’t need your help, though I appreciate the offer.”

“Liar.”

He stood up on the grass and I stood up right next to him, suddenly aware of my height advantage on him. Suddenly it didn’t matter that it felt like we were in some sort of autumn fantasy-land full of little lights, because all I could see was the raw bitterness in his eyes. We may as well have been in a fighting ring.

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