Page 81 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
“Your sister doesn’t have the same aversion to food in the bedroom.”
Okay, that might have been a little mean, and Houston looks like I punched him in the gut as he meets my gaze.
“How in the world do you know that?”
I hold up my hands. “Wow, would you relax? She ate some snacks in her bed after she got that concussion last weekend.” It was one of her Sunday activities the day she was in charge.
I can practically see his thoughts churning in his head. He’s confused, then worried, and then the guilt sets in, which probably means he completely forgot about her getting hurt. It’s not his fault, when his week has been madness, but I know Houston. As much as he loves playing baseball, he loves his family more, but he doesn’t have a good way to balance them both.
I know that feeling well.
“I’m the worst,” he says, looking more exhausted than he should.
When he moves his hand to his shoulder—his pitching shoulder—I figure I should lighten the mood.
“You’re fine. I’ve been keeping an eye on her.”
“Still? It’s been a week since—” He stops himself, eyebrows pulling low as he searches my face for something. I can’t tell what he’s thinking with this one, and I don’t like that. I have a pretty good guess, though, and it has to do with the text he sent me from the dugout.
Keep your hands to yourself, Torres.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I tell him, which is too close to a lie for comfort. “But I’ve been trying to help her make a move on her teacher crush, so would you stop glaring at me?”
Ugh, that still feels like a lie, even if it’s true. Or itwastrue, up until Tuesday night. A man doesn’t sleep on a bad couch with a beautiful woman in his arms because he wants her to date someone else.
Under no circumstances can I let Houston find out about that couch.
“Thanks for looking out for her,” Houston says eventually, though he still looks halfway murderous. I’m going to hope it’s not just about me.
Taking a deep breath, he leads the way down to the kitchen and stuffs the chips into the garbage. That makes me chuckle. He hates the Salsa Verde flavor with a burning passion, and apparently he’s not in the greatest mood this morning.
That’s probably because I woke him up after he’d only been asleep for an hour or so, but I would hazard a guess that there’s a lot more going on in that head of his.
He confirms it when he says, “I don’t know why I’m so tense.” As he starts opening up mostly empty cupboards, he looks completely exhausted. He lookslost. He’s probably not ready to confront the reality of his situation, so I offer up an easy intro to the topic.
“Sure you do. You’ve been off since your interview with Tamlin Park.”
He frowns. “Roundy said the same thing.” Then his hand strays back to his shoulder. He used to do that a lot, massaging the muscle before and after games, but this is different. This looks like he’s trying to hold his arm together.
He needs to talk about this. “How bad is it?” I ask.
Though he doesn’t say a word, he meets my eye with the most heartbreaking expression. Since the day I met him, Houston has only ever wanted to play baseball. He’s one of the few who make it to the professional level, and he has exceeded all expectations. He’s the best player the Red-tails have seen in decades, and if his arm is gone, that means he’ll be losing the only thing he can really call his own.
We knew this day was coming—a man can only play hard for so long—but Houston has always wanted to go out on his terms.
“I’m sorry, man.” I know that’s not going to do him any good, but it’s the best I’ve got. “So, what now?”
That sparks something in him. He stands up straighter, releasing his shoulder and breathing in deeply. “Got any jobs today?”
“Ha!” I shake my head. “You know full well I don’t. And if I lose any business because you decided to cancel—”
“Okay, hey, give me some credit. I rescheduled. There’s a difference.”
“Why?”
“Because I need your help.”
It’s a good thing I love Houston like a brother, because he doesn’t need help. He needs an entire reno team. Apparently he has new renters moving in this weekend to the other half of the duplex but hasn’t had time to clean it up after the last renters, who were either slasher film fanatics or actual serial killers because the amount of red paint splashed across the walls is astounding.
