Page 11 of Games We Play (Thistle Cove 2)

We’re tucked in a dark corner of the garage behind Mr. Baxter’s Range Rover. The other side, where the BMW is usually parked, is empty. Finn takes a quick look around, and when no one is looking gives me a quick kiss. It hasn’t been long since I was just with Ozzy under the bleachers, and kissing Finn is like stoking an already l

it fire.

“Although I’d rather kiss you all night, Ozzy and I are going to finish up with the frame tonight.”

I roll my eyes. God, they love power tools—just a little less than they like kisses. “I’m going to go check on Ezra, be out in a few minutes.”

He squeezes my hand, and I enter the house through the garage door. Part of the float rules are that we aren’t supposed to go in the personal sections of the house, but Ezra’s has always been the party house, so people feel comfortable going in and out.

I walk into the spotless kitchen, through the living room, and up the main staircase. The house is quiet, any noise coming from outside, and I feel a bit like an intruder.

It’s not until I’m on the top landing that I hear raised voices.

“Are you fucking with me, Ez? Are you really telling me you gave it your best tonight? You look like a pussy out there, taking hit after hit.”

“Dad, we won the game, and Coach gave me a lot of playing time.”

I press my back against a large chest in the hallway and hold my breath. Mr. Baxter’s tone is vicious. And Ezra? He just sounds tired.

“Well after that display, I doubt he will next week. You know that the recruiters from the university were there tonight? Finn gave them a hell of a game. They’re probably writing blank checks with his name on it right now. They’ll invite him up for the weekend, wine and dine him, give him two cheerleaders to fuck, and a bag of expensive athletic gear to take home. And you? You’ll be lucky to get into a fucking community college with what you showed them out there.”

“You know what?” Ezra responds, voice lifting. “Maybe I don’t want to play this fucking game anymore. It was a hell of a lot easier when you were busy chasing money and women out of town. If having you around means I have to listen to your non-stop bullshit about football, then go. I don’t want you here anyway.”

My heart pounds, wondering if I should go get someone. Ezra and his dad are both big, strong men. A physical altercation could get ugly and dangerous.

“If you think I’m walking away from my house, my community and my kid, you’re dumber than I thought. The worst thing I did was take my eye off of you,” Mr. Baxter says. “Without supervision you turned into a lazy delinquent, tarnishing my name and legacy in this town. It won’t happen again.”

I’m about to dart down the stairs to get Finn, one of the adults, someone, but before I take a step, a door down the hall wrenches open, then slams so hard the walls rattle. I do my best to hide behind the chest, but Mr. Baxter doesn’t even glance over when he storms past. I wait until I hear him on the hardwoods downstairs before I creep out of my hiding spot and walk over to Ezra’s door. I tap twice, softly, and open the door.

He’s standing by the large window that overlooks the bay, chest heaving. He’s shirtless, just wearing athletic shorts, hair damp from the shower. A large bruise mottles his side—most likely from the hit he took on the field tonight. He glances back, face filled with anger, jaw tensed so hard I think it may snap in two.

“Hey,” I say, not exactly sure how to handle this. I feel way in over my head. “Are you okay?”

He jerks his head in a way that I don’t know if it’s yes or no. I’m going to just assume it’s a big fat no.

I walk over to him, reaching out and touching his arm. “Nothing he said is true. You played great tonight. Coach Chandler looked really pleased, and the team did awesome. A year ago, you weren’t even playing, and now you’re getting a lot of field time. I don’t know a lot about football, but Coach Chandler wouldn’t put you in if you weren’t a reliable asset.”

“I hate him, Kenley. So goddammed much.”

I move until he’s facing me, and I rest my hands on his hips.

“I know. What he said…it was awful.”

“He doesn’t give a shit about me. You heard him,” his dark eyes flash, “it’s all about his legacy, whatever the hell that means.”

“It means he’s an idiot because he’s worried about the wrong stuff.” I move my hand, and he winces; I got too close to the bruise. “I’m sorry. Do you need some ice?”

He looks down at me, cupping a hand behind my neck.

“No, but I feel like shit. Will you just sit with me for a while?”

We’d done this after the first game, when I took care of his split lip. Ezra doesn’t want for much; money, housing, food…but what he lacks is the stability of a family—a true home and someone to take care of him.

I know I can’t do everything, but I can do what I can. Right now, he needs me, and I’ll be there for him.

I’m surprised when he leads me to the couch pushed up against the wall in his room and not the bed. Any other guy would take a shot. It’s evidence of how bad he feels. He sits, wincing from the pain in his ribs. I move to the opposite side, lifting his arm over my shoulders and snuggling against his warm chest.

“What do you want to watch?” I ask, reaching for the remote.

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