“He isn’t laughing at you, Coach,” I push out breathlessly when the heat on Coach’s face looks close to boiling over. “He’s laughing at the fact he’d rather act like a pussy than eat one.”
Coach chokes on his spit. It’s barely heard over the warning growl rumbling up Saint’s chest. He’s about ready to blow his top, and I’m right there, willing to push him over the edge like all little brothers should be.
With the swagger of a man not being eyeballed as if his head is on the chopping block, I backhand Saint in the chest. “Come on, Saint, admit it. You’ve been drooling over the same girl for years.”
“Yeah, so?”
Don’t let his honesty fool you. He isn’t doing it because he’s a stand-up guy. Lying just isn’t a Walsh forte. If you want us to sugarcoat things, you better offer one of us a scholarship in baking because that’s the only way we’ll sweeten things up for you.
Loud and proud isn’t our motto either, but you won’t ever doubt when a Walsh is in your vicinity. That’s why I’m shocked about Saint’s constant sitting on the fence when it comes to Demi. She’s drop-dead gorgeous, smart, and witty, has never been seen with a man who isn’t related to her by blood, and she forever glances his way when we’re dancing in the ring like we’re destined to become the next Conor McGregor. Her last name leaves a bad taste in your mouth any time you say it, but come on, doesn’t the abovementioned make up for that?
When Saint remains quiet, I wordlessly demand he return his Town Stud badge with a two-finger clap. When my voiceless command doesn’t have him coughing up the goods, I throw words into the mix. “You can’t keep a title you’re not willing to uphold.”
“Fuck off, Maddox. Don’t try and pin your bullshit on me.” He smacks me up the side of the head before he moves to the ropes to scrub the sweat off his face with a towel hanging off the top rung. “From what Landon told me, you haven’t done much… pussy eating yourself.” A gleam I know all too well sparks through his eyes before he says, “When I was a senior in college…”
The growl that finalizes his statement pisses me off. I’ve been crushing on Demi for years. I’m not talking she’s-real-pretty-and-I’d-like-to-get-to-know-her-some-more crush. I mean, crush crush. She’s ruining all my hookups crush. Stick-me-with-a-fork-I’m-fucking-done crush. And they’re just examples of when I’ve caught the occasional smile she’s tossed my way the past five years.
I’m a fucking mess, and Demi Petretti is solely responsible for the carnage.
Fortunately for me, the Walsh men aren’t just masters at brawling, barbecuing, and philandering, we’re also really fucking good at hiding our emotions as well.
While smirking like the smug fuck I am, I add to Saint’s mortification that he said ‘pussy eating’ in public. “As I’ve told you before, Saint, if your big brother is still chaperoning your dates, you’re doing it wrong.”
He hits me with an evil sideways glare, doubling my smile. “How about you be fucking honest for once? We both know why you’re pushing me on this.” I almost reply, ‘cause you’re a pussy, and it’s my job as your little brother to push your buttons, but he continues talking, foiling my endeavor. “Because you’re hoping she’ll reject me, then you can slot into my place.” He tosses the towel back over the ropes, stands tall, then puffs his chest out. “News flash, bozo, that’ll never happen because I’ve never been rejected.”
Spit flies out of my mouth when I brush off his claims with a pfft. I’m one hundred percent praying like fuck Demi shoots down his signature move, then I might finally get the opportunity to prove dreams can come true, but there’s no chance in hell I’ll ever let Saint know that.
It’s a pity for me that there are days where he knows me better than I know myself. “Now who’s the fucking pussy?” With the swagger of a man aware he has the eyes of over a dozen women on him, he saunters back my way. Yes, I said saunters. The fucker is strutting like he’s making his way to the octagon. “We don’t travel all the way to Hopeton to work out for no reason, so come on, out with it. What’s the real reason for the change-up?”
I give lying a shot. It isn’t something I’m proud of, but when you’re backed into a corner, you must come out swinging. “Our gym was remodeled.”
“With better, more up-to-date equipment,” Saint argues, his smirk growing. “Try again.”
My back molars crunch together, hating that he read my lie so easily. I don’t know why I’m shocked. I’m a shit liar. The knowledge won’t stop me from giving it another whirl, though. You don’t just come out swinging. You’ve got to have your guard up as well. “The owner doubled the membership fees.”
Saint’s deep exhale ruffles the reddish-blond hair stuck to my temples. “From ten dollars a week to twenty. Jeez. How dare he!”
Our family isn’t close to being poor. Our mom works as an architect, and our father is a pilot. We’re not wealthy, but my parents made a sound decision when they invested in Ravenshoe long before a multi-millionaire rocked up to glam up the place. The price tag on our family home is now in the millions, and my parents don’t owe a dime on it.
Their decision many moons ago means their children didn’t have to race out and get jobs the instant they left high school. We all did, though. Landon is following in our father’s footsteps, Caidyn is giving architecture a whirl, Saint has a hand in just about everything, and I’m working even while studying, just the basis of my job is kept on the down-low.
As I said earlier, my parents would never judge my decisions. However, there are some things you can’t share until the time is right.
“We’re here, slumming it in Hopeton because the only pussy around here is you,” Saint continues, directing my focus back to him.
I roll my eyes, acting as immature as my twenty-one years on this earth. “How many times do I have to tell you, Saint? Shunting the blame for your lack of balls onto your baby brother won’t cut the mustard. If you get out a measuring stick and the odds don’t fall in your favor, only you are to blame for that.”
Have you ever wondered what a man looks like in the seconds leading to him going into coronary failure? I had once. I’m not curious anymore. Saint alleviated my curiosity within a nanosecond of me reminding him I’m may be the youngest brother, but that’s the only ‘young’ thing about me.
As the determination on Saint’s face grows, so does the volume of his voice. “You know what, fuck it. I’ll do it.”
“Do what, exactly?” Coach Merritt asks on my behalf, worried Saint is about to finish what I started in this ring almost five minutes ago.
I’d like to see him try.
Saint rips off his gloves, tosses them into his gym bag at the side of the ring, then climbs through the ropes. “I’m going to prove how effective my signature move is.” In a manner no man on the planet should ever replicate, he makes a ‘V’ with his index finger and middle finger, slams them against his quirked lips, then wiggles his tongue between them like he’s devouring an invisible buffet of pussy.