Page 17 of A Quarterback for Christmas

Holding a pan, he shakes the bacon to stop it sticking and smiles. “Nah, you forgot that I heard you sleeping in the hospital yesterday. That’s not how you sound. Not quite snores, but definitely not the dainty breathing I’m sure you think you do. You looked happy, though. Serene, even. A facial expression I’ve never seen on you.” He raises an eyebrow, watching me fidget. “What made you so bitter this morning?”

“You.” I’m snarling. I can’t help it. Drew brings out the rabid animal in me and makes it so easy to be angry around him. He places the pan back on the stove and places the food on a large plate.

My stomach rumbles, my mouth waters, but I refuse to give Drew the satisfaction of knowing that I might be looking forward to tasting his food.

He places two plates on the table. Bacon, eggs, toast, and hash browns. Man, do I want it.

“Why’s that?”

“Why’s what?”

“Why are you so bitter around me? You’ve always hated me, and I never fully understood what I did to make you so angry.” Strangely, he doesn’t seem bothered by that fact, more intrigued, and as he gets my crutches from across the room, I don’t know how to answer.

His first sin was that he could throw a ball. The rest just naturally followed, leaving me with no optionbutto hate him.

He offers me a hand to help me stand, and I clamp my lips shut, hoping I smell somewhat pleasant. Begrudgingly, I take it because I know I won’t be able to get off such a comfortable sofa on my own.

“Why are you so nice to me?” I retort once I’m seated at the kitchen bar, and he’s far enough away that he can’t smell my breath.

“I’m nice to everyone.” Drew takes a bite of his eggs and points his fork at me. “You…could probably use some work in that department.”

“There’s being a nice person, and then there’s saving the person you hate the most from a frostbitten death and willingly living with them for at least a week.”

“Do I hate you the most?” He muses while I make myself comfortable. I wasn’t about to tell him I’d also need his help to get off this thing. “I don’t think I hate anyone. Besides, we both know your dad would kill me if I let anything happen to that perfect little ass of yours. So no matter how much disdain I have for you, I’d still have to help you.”

Of course. It’s all about my father. It always is because every wannabe football player is mildly obsessed with him.

I push the eggs around my plate like a petulant child and Drew taps my china with his fork. “You need to eat if you want to maintain your muscles while you can’t run.”

Running. Of course. It’s what I’m known for in this school, and that’s only because everyone talks about the special privileges I got from being Coach Summers’ daughter. Compared to my teammates, I’m a terrible cross-country runner and an even worse sprinter, but I made the team here because my dad is best friends with my coach. I didn’t want to be on the team. I didn’t even want to be in this country, but my dad dragged me out of my London dream to take me along for the ride.

Sighing, I look down at the eggs and bacon. “What’s the point? My year of running is pretty much dead in the water. I doubt my rehab will be done for next either, so I might as well wallow in my own misery for a while.”

Drew blows out a breath. “Wow. I didn’t realize Coach Summers raised a quitter. I’ve known you forever at this point, and I always thought of you as strong and determined as your dad. Guess I was wrong.”

He’s trying to rile me up; I know that, but motivation is hard to muster when you have a snot-green cast literally holding you down. “I can be as determined as I want, but when you’ve got a boot, the size of California stuck on your foot, you sometimes have to face reality. There’s no way my rehab will be done in time to compete. Not that I ever win, anyway.”

Silence fills the room, and when I look at Drew, he’s staring at me in surprise. “So, that’s all it took to break you? A giant neon green boot? It’s not like you’ll have it on forever. Six weeks tops, and you’re acting like your life has ended.”

He’s right. My father didn’t raise me to be someone who quits or wallows in victimhood. He taught me to be strong and independent, which is why I’m having so much trouble admitting that Drew has been pretty much right on everything.

I stuff some scrambled eggs in my mouth, stopping myself from complimenting him, and he watches me eat with a raised brow.

Drew’s chair screeches as he pushes out the barstool and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “So, uh, there’s something we need to discuss, and I’m not sure how to bring this up.”

My eyes widen. He’s going to mention my breath, isn’t he? He’s going to humiliate me, like he always does.

My face burns and I sweat because I have no comeback. What are you supposed to say when someone tells you that your teeth need brushing?

Am I developing hives? It sure feels like it.

Clearing his throat, he drops the napkin and looks at me seriously. “I’m, uh, guessing that you’ll need some help in the shower today?”

My head shoots up so quickly that I wouldn’t be surprised if egg is dripping from my mouth. That was unexpected.

“I won’t need help from you.” I bristle with an automatic response.

His lips curve like they always do when I bite back.

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