Page 89 of Sack

“Reeeallly?” Since Bridget Clark was an older version of Ivy—minus Ivy’s current shade of lilac hair—Colt was very familiar with the look she was giving her husband. He felt for the man, things were not going to go well for him. “And here I was bringing this for you.” She gestured to the beer. “But I think I’m going to keep it now.” She took a large swallow then gave him a fake, sweet smile.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he gritted at his daughter. Then to his wife, he added, “I was grilling him for information.”

Bridget eyed Ivy and then Colt before slowly saying, “Well, in that case,” she handed him the beer. “Come on, Ivy. I’ve got about fifty potatoes I need help peeling.”

Colt hid his smile behind his bottle of water as Ivy stared up at her mom, mouth hanging open, for once, at a loss for words.

And then she looked at him and hiked a thumb toward his ankle. “I’d tell you to run, but sadly, that’s not an option for you.”

That’s when Colt lost it. He tipped his head back, laughing. “Go,” he said between chuckles. “I’ll be fine. Help your mom.”

She mouthed a silent, “Sorry,” as she followed her mom back to the kitchen.

“Now, where were we?” Robert leaned back into the couch, looking to be getting comfortable for a very long talk.

Around the dinner table, Jason made up for Robert’s lack of fangirling. Colt kept trying to steer the conversation from him and football but every time he succeeded, Jason found some way of circling it back. It was a holiday, family meal. He already felt as though he were intruding, and the last thing he wanted was for the table-talk to be all about him.

“These mashed potatoes are the best I’ve ever tasted.” Colt scooped another forkful, giving Ivy a wink—knowing she’d had a hand in making them—before sticking the bite into his mouth.

“Thank you,” Ivy’s mom said from across the table. “The trick is lots and lots of butter. The real kind, not that margarine crap.”

Colt looked at the mound on his plate with new trepidation. Not able to hit the gym as hard as he’d like since his injury, every calorie counted.

“Speaking of carbs, is it true you need to stay on a strict diet all year long to keep in shape?”

Colt looked down the table to Jason and hoped his exasperation didn’t show on his face or come through in his tone. “We have a team of nutritionists who help. All players have different diets. Some more strict than others.”

Under the table, Ivy’s hand landed on his thigh, right before she changed the subject for him. “How’s the new job working out, Jason?”

“I didn’t know you got a new job. What happened to the old one?” This from Ivy’s mom.

“New job? What’s this about a new job? Damn it, did you get fired again?” That from Ivy’s dad.

Jason was the topic of interest for the rest of the meal.

If Ivy’s parents hadn’t been at the table, he would’ve kissed her.

He did kiss her when, after a heated game of Monopoly, they finally made it home.

Ivy

Like weeping raindrops running down a windowpane in the dead of night, that’s how Ivy’s heart felt at the sight of Colt emerging from the medical building minus wearing his boot. She knew their time together was up. Not just her staying with him at his house, but over completely. The missing boot and the sure pace of his step as he walked to the car meant he’d be going back to work and that was the deadline she’d set for herself. She couldn’t go back to the way they’d been for another six weeks.

Her heart couldn’t take it.

And like those cold, falling raindrops, her heart wept as, all smiles, he got into the car. “Good news. The doc says I’m good to play this Sunday.”

With their bye week, he’d only ended up missing one game in the nearly three weeks he’d been home, but with the team losing that game, he was antsy to get back.

She was happy for him, just not for herself. “I’m sure that’s a relief.”

He slammed his door and clicked his seatbelt into place. “I can’t even tell you how much. It feels as if a giant weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Or, should I say, my foot.”

And that weight had transferred to her stomach, forming a large, lead ball of dread. She started the car, the lead ball turning into a ticking time bomb the closer they got to his house. Her bag was packed and in the trunk—she’d had the forethought to take care of that while he’d been in the shower that morning. All that was left was rule number two—the conversation to end things.

She didn’t waste time, following him into the kitchen as soon as they got home. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, she knew it would hurt less if she didn’t drag things out. “We need to talk.”

He went straight for the fridge and opened it. “Do you want a water?”

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