Page 24 of Trapped and Tackled

“The Burnt Clovers,” I reply.

He chuckles. “You know West has an in with them, right?”

“Stop!” I nearly gush, frowning as an old memory filters through my mind. “I know Derek Reiner was at the Super Bowl but…” I trail off, trying to recall the rest of the story Dad—or was it Lincoln?—shared.

“Yeah. Nova’s best friends with his girlfriend, Allegra.”

I snap my fingers and point toward Talon as it clicks. “That’s right. Lincoln told me that.”

“They play in Tennessee sometimes,” he continues.

I nod. “I’ll remember that. I’d love to see them live.”

“I haven’t been to many concerts,” Talon admits.

“Really?” I lean forward. “Lincoln and I went on a trip to Ireland a few summers ago. There was live music everywhere, spilling out of pubs and onto the streets. It was wonderful,” I sigh, recalling the ease of that summer. The simplicity and the freedom and the being. Enjoying with no strings attached or expectations woven through it.

I haven’t felt like that in a long, long time. The memory of that trip makes me miss my sister. When I put space between myself and my friends and family, I nearly cut Lincoln off.

Not because I wanted to but because deep down, I knew that she’d figure it out. She always was smarter than me.

“Ireland,” Talon murmurs, pulling me back to the conversation. He squints. “I think my mom was Irish. Or maybe Scottish.”

“You think?” I blurt out, before I realize how rude I sound.

Talon shrugs one arm, brushing it off. “I was brought up in the system.”

I frown, trying to understand his words. “Like, foster care?” I ask slowly.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Like foster care.”

My chest squeezes tightly as I realize I don’t know much about Talon. Where were his parents? What happened to his family? “For how long?” I ask instead.

“From when I was three until I aged out.”

“At eighteen?” I confirm, mentally doing the math. Fifteen years.

For fifteen years, Talon was in foster care. Was he with one family? Does he have foster brothers and sisters he keeps in touch with? He doesn’t offer any more information and I don’t know how to ask.

Talon nods. Whatever he reads in my expression has him reaching over the table and tugging my wrist. “Don’t feel bad for me, Sunny Leni. It wasn’t all bad.”

“I’m…I’m not.” I hate when someone gives me their pity or compassion. I hate when people try to relate to my breakup with Craig when they have no idea what it entails. The breakup was the tip of the iceberg—and the portion below the surface was massive and wildly perilous. The last thing I want is for Talon to think I’m pitying him. Or worse, judging.

“I found football,” he continues, and I know he doesn’t believe me. His thumb drags across the skin just above my wrist and it feels nice. Safe. Not a precursor to a pinch. “I found a family in my team.”

“My dad,” I mutter.

“Your dad’s done a lot for me,” he reminds me.

“Do you keep in touch with any of your foster family members?” I ask, trying to understand.

Talon shakes his head, his lips pinched into a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.

I clear my throat, wondering how Talon navigated life for so long, found success, without family to guide him. My family has comprised my entire foundation. And here I am, pushing them away.

“Don’t pity me,” Talon whispers.

I blink and smooth out my expression. “So you might be Irish,” I say, trying to get the conversation back on track. The last thing I want to do is make Talon feel uncomfortable.

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