Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
The crowd—at least the Wellbridge side—went wild, screaming and chanting my name. And for one way-too-brief second, Flynn’s eyes met mine. I grinned at him wildly, and his lips quirked with wry humor. He lifted his chin just the tiniest fraction in acknowledgment, and that was when I felt like I had won.
I took a single step toward him… but then a scream from third base made both of us turn our heads.
My cousin Redmond, who’d flown in from DC for the weekend, looked like he was still trying to cross home plate, but somehow, Alden Honeycutt had gotten the ball and was refusing to let him pass.
“Game’s over, kids,” Pop called through the PA system.
But Alden didn’t seem to hear him, or else he didn’t care. His eyes were practically glowing as he and Redmond faced off. Redmond looked left, then darted right, trying to make a run around him, at which point Alden let out an unholy screech and tackled Redmond to the dirt.
Flynn and I shared a single concerned glance before running in that direction.
Alden jumped to his feet. “You. Are. Out!” He pointed an accusing finger down at Redmond, who was twice as tall and broad as Alden but fortunately way calmer. Alden threw both hands in the air victoriously. “Out, out, out!”
Flynn jogged over and wrapped a restraining arm around his brother just as I hurried over to help Redmond up.
“Not sure what you’re celebrating. We lost, Alden,” Flynn said.
“Don’t care,” Alden said cheerfully, eyes still on Redmond. “I won.”
Alden Honeycutt reminded me of my mother sometimes, though I was pretty sure neither of them would appreciate that comparison.
Redmond snorted and began dusting himself off.
“So, Firecracker…” I rolled up and down on the balls of my feet. “I got your message this morning. Thanks so much for the mead, by the way. I hadn’t been planning to play today, but you inspired me.”
Flynn tightened his arm around Alden. “Not now, JT.”
“What message?” Alden demanded, eyes stormy. He looked from me to Flynn and back. “What mead?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Flynn soothed.
“I’m thinking you might have been wrong about which of us needed to get used to losing, though,” I mused, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. “Because as far as I can tell…”
“Not. Now. JT,” Flynn insisted, this time meeting my eyes. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that no one likes a gloater?”
I wasn’t sure anyone had ever told Patricia that, so she for sure had not taught me.
“If not now, when?” I persisted. “No bullshit, Flynn, I want to talk to you about this. Find terms that will work for you. Please.”
Flynn opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“Flynn said no.” Alden was shorter and thinner than Flynn but didn’t hesitate to step in front of him defensively. “Leave him alone.” He shot a scathing up-down glance at Redmond. “All of you Wellbridges, just leave us alone.”
Flynn draped an arm over Alden’s shoulder again. “Come on, Runway. Let’s go.”
Flynn shot me a look that was ninety percent annoyance and ten percent apology before dragging Alden off, saying something about walking to the Tavern to cool down.
I may have stood and watched them walk away.
Belatedly, I turned toward Redmond. He was staring after the Honeycutt brothers also. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Redmond ruffled his hair, shaking off the dust. “Fine.”
“Did you do something to piss Alden off?”
“Other than being a Wellbridge?” He shrugged.
But before I could question him further, Redmond spotted his girlfriend and his mother waving from the sidelines and lifted his hand in a wave.
He clapped me on the shoulder. “Awesome game, JT. We have to catch up soon, okay?” He began walking away backward and shot me the warm, charming heartbreaker smile that my aunt Louise used to claim made Redmond a natural politician. “Take the train down from New York to DC or something. I’ll show you around.”
“Yeah, okay. Call me—”
“Jonathan! Jonnnnnathannnn!” my mother cried from the stands behind me.
Every instinct cried out for me to ignore her and follow Flynn back to the Tavern, to push the tiny bit of headway I felt like I’d made. Instead, I sighed and turned around.
My mother was on her feet, waving like I might not see her in her lime-green designer short set, while my father was head down in his phone, and Reagan sat forlornly beside a chattering, Gucci-clad Brantleigh Pennington. Poor Reagan looked like he wished he were anywhere else on Earth.
“Darling!” Mother rushed over to kiss my cheek and take both my hands in hers. “Thank you, Jonathan, for restoring our family honor when I couldn’t,” she said solemnly.
My mother had lost Box Day. Again. And she was being even more melodramatic than usual about it. So I nodded seriously and accepted her thanks and did not roll my eyes, no matter how badly I wanted to.