Page 48 of Tackle

“Well, believe it.” Emerson came to Oz’s side and wrapped an arm around his waist.

“Hey, man, you want to shoot a game of pool?”

He sounded so excited, Oz didn’t have the heart to say no. “Um, sure. I’m afraid I’m not very good, though.”

Will went over and grabbed another cue from the wall rack and Emerson whispered, “You don’t have to play if you don’t want to.”

Oz shook his head. “I don’t mind.”

“Hey, what are you two whispering about over there?”

Oz threw Emerson a warning look.

“Nothing. I was teasing Oz about not knowing how to play pool.”

Oz gave her a relieved smile while taking the cue stick Will handed him.

Will gathered up the balls, sticking them in the triangle thing. “You can break.” He rolled the white ball to the other end of the table.

Oz lined up his shot and managed through strength and not skill to land a ball in a pocket.

“You’re stripes,” Will announced.

Some humiliating time later—Oz was too busy losing to keep track—he was saved when the door opened, a man and woman walking through.

“Hey, guys,” Emerson said from the stool she was sitting on while watching her brother kick his ass.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” the woman, who Oz assumed was Mia, called.

While Emerson and Will favored their dad in looks, Mia was the only sibling to look like their mom—right down to the curly, brown hair.

Oz put down his pool cue as Emerson came up beside him. “Mia, Garrett, I’d like you to meet Oz. Oz, my sister and brother-in-law.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Oz said.

“Got to admit, I’m a little star-struck and a bit intimidated.” Garrett issued a nervous chuckle while staring up at Oz.

The guy was only a couple of inches taller than his wife, skinny, and a bit nerdy in a sweater vest and chinos.

“Mom said to come get you and tell you dinner was done.”

Will patted Oz on the shoulder. “We can finish our game after we eat.”

Oh, goody.

“So, Oz, do you have family in the area?” Emerson’s mom asked, passing the bowl of mashed potatoes to her husband.

Oz ate with one hand, his other occupied with squeezing the life out of Emerson’s which he held on his lap under the table. He’d been the sole focus of everyone’s attention since they’d sat down, which Oz found slightly bemusing as his main focus was on the two dogs, sharing a plate at the head of the table. Emerson had warned him—he’d thought she’d been kidding.

Dragging his eyes back to Emerson’s mom, he said, “No, ma’am, my mom still lives in Kansas where I grew up and my father’s been out of the picture for a while.”

“Oh, well that’s a shame,” she said, taking a bite of mashed potatoes.

“Mom,” Emerson warned.

Taking the hint, she changed the subject. “How long have you been playing football? I must admit, I don’t know much about the sport.”

Oz smiled politely. “I’ve been playing most of my life, but professionally for only eight years.”

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