Page 117 of Not Just a Trick Play

This time, Helena butts in. “Are you sure that’s what she wanted? It’s not bad to look after the people you love, but you bulldoze them in the process. Which is one thing if a person’s had a lifetime of dodging heavy machinery. Amelia hasn’t had that.”

The room is silent, except for the nods all around. Not a single person disagrees.

I am grumpy. Fine. So I can make spur-of-the-moment decisions. But mostly, it serves me well, especially as the running back of the Titans. It’s almost instinct how I know Logan’s going to send the ball to me.

I sigh. Other times, diving in headfirst lands me in hot water.

Or, in this case, in the middle of a family intervention.

I glance around again at everyone waiting for me to catch up. Ever since Amelia arrived, she’s been struggling to find her footing. Maybe Iwasin bulldozer mode. I shouldn’t have walked out ahead. I should have given her a chance to speak.

“What a wanker,” Carla mutters under her tone.

I glare. “Whose side are you on, anyway?” This is a fucking conspiracy.

Mom’s soothing voice cuts through the tension. “Yours, honey. Always yours.” Her eyes are a little too knowing. “That’s why you need to find Amelia. Work things out.”

“Did you actually tell her you loved her?” Heidi’s question is a challenge that hangs in the air.

Nope. I acted like a child and walked out, leaving my heart behind. I rake my fingers through my hair in agitation. “She had to have known.”

Many judgy eyes train on me.

“How? You expected her to be a mind reader? Get real,” Yvonne scoffs at the same time Carla spits out, “You bollocks!”

“I think you’re using it wrong,” I say.

“Nope. Bollocks. Buttocks. Ass.” She glares.

“Bollocks means balls,” Beatrice corrects Carla before turning to me. “But she’s not wrong.”

“What did you do? Go to the Urban Dictionary, UK edition?” I ask testily. Inwardly, I’m also calling myself a wanker.

“No, we just wanted to learn how to conduct ourselves if we were going to a wedding in the United Kingdom,” Helena fires back. My mind flies to the wall of wedding where my empty spot waits.

“And I was googling milliners for a custom fascinator to wear!” Heidi harrumphs, peeved since I’ve supposedly stolen that opportunity from her.

The headache brewing at the base of my skull has officially turned into a full-on construction site, and I squeeze my lids shut. Finally, I let out a drawn-out sigh. “Bloody hell,” I mutter. “What do I do now?”

“Apologize,” the twins chime in, perfectly synchronized.

“I thought ‘love means never having to say you’re sorry’?” I growl.

Every woman in the room stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “It’s from that movieLove Story,” I adddefensively. “You made me watch it with you!” I throw an accusing look at Mom. My instruction manual on the female species has been pieced together over a lifetime of the movies they made me sit through. I’ve got the damned playbook down.

Realization dawns in Carla’s eyes. “It was that Romeo and Juliet–type movie from the seventies. Probably written by a man,” she says derisively.

“Of course it was,” Yvonne snarks under her breath. “If you’re buying that bullshit, then I have a block of cheese in the sky to sell you, too,” she tacks on.

Heidi snorts and turns to face me. “True love means you areconstantlyhaving to say you’re sorry—and not minding it.” She continues, “You keep trying and trying. You fail, you try, you fail, you try, you fail, you tryagain. You just lost a game. Don’t tell me you’re never going to play football again?”

Their words, grating as they are, begin to make sense. Painful, punch-in-the-gut sense. Maybe I am the pencil dick after all. “Fine. I need a plan. Something big,” I’m already plotting, ideas whirring in my mind.

Maybe I could spell out “I’m sorry I was a pencil dick” with a few thousand Twizzlers in the snow? No, that would be a lie. Not the “I’m sorry” part. But my dick’s at least the size of a giant Sharpie.

What then? A custom float parade, featuring a live band wearing T-shirts spelling out “sorry”? Or I could commission a giant cake with a built-in fog machine, and jump out in a sweet cloud? A mix of sweet and surprise from yours truly might do the trick.

“Nope,” Beatrice shuts me down immediately. “Going big is what always gets you into trouble. You don’t need Jumbotrons or skywriting orTen Things I Hate About Yousing-alongs. You need to figure out whatshewants.”

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