She’s being ornery and we both know it. There ain’t a soul on this planet who tells my sister what to do. Hell, Luke’s probably tried a time or two . . . again, not thinking of him railing my sister . . . and she’d probably still do whatever the fuck she wanted. I grind my teeth together, not sure if I want to strangle her neck or protect another generation of Tannens if she’s got one in her belly.
“Shay,” I say dangerously low and quiet. It’s my line, letting her know that I’ve had enough.
“Fine, fine. No, party pooper. I’m not pregnant, though that honeymoon was something else. Some. Thing. Else. Whoo, boy. I didn’t know reverse cowgirl was so much fun. Why didn’t you tell me, big brother?”
I can’t headbutt my truck, so I skip the words I can’t handle and go for the important one. “You’re not pregnant? Then what’s the big news?” I say. Or growl. Same difference, mostly.
She boops me on the nose with zero fear for her own life, the only person on Earth who can do that. “Guess you’ll have to show back up to find out.”
And like that was an answer at all, she spins on her heel and skips, literally skips, back to the house, leaving me feeling like I just ran a marathon when all I did was walk from the kitchen to the driveway.
On second thought, good for Luke. If he can handle all that, good for him. Less for me and my brothers to have to deal with. I try to convince myself that’s true and remind myself that I like Luke, that I was the one who knew Shay was sneaking out to go meet him long before anyone else did and even helped her cover her late-night proclivities. It works, a little bit.
I take two more trips back and forth from the kitchen to the truck, stepping over Murphy and listening to Shayanne and Mama Louise chattering away, though about what I have no idea, and for now, I don’t care.
That’s unlike me. I’m usually the silent sleeper who people somehow forget about, even though I’m the size of a barn and I listen intently to just about everything that goes on. I watch people, I listen to them, and I analyze them. I’m not particularly smart book-wise, but I’m observant, and sometimes, that’s even more important.
But right now, I just want to check these deliveries off my to-do list, eat some dinner, and crash into bed.
“Bye, ladies. I’ll be back for dinner,” I tell them with my last load, and they both toss an easy smile my way.
Shay’s happy, and that makes me happy. Way deep down in my heart, beneath all the mud and muck this farm boy is known for these days.
I slam the door of my truck, damn near peeling out of the driveway of my last stop. Even though I’m ready to get the hell outta dodge, I glance up at Millicent Jenkinson, who’s standing in her doorway waving at me. She’s a nice old lady, but I really don’t need another grandma trying to set me up with her granddaughter, and she was the third just today. I don’t know why they think subjecting their beloved daughters and granddaughters to a bastard like me is a good idea. Maybe they’re just desperate and figure beggars can’t be choosers. Because nobody’s choosing me willingly. Too big, too gruff, too quiet.
Little do they know, those are my best qualities.
But I’m not a complete asshole, so I toss a two-fingered wave to Mrs. Jenkinson from the steering wheel and drive away without revving my engine. Much.
The Chris Stapleton song on the radio is a good one, not as good as Bobby’s, but it’ll do for the drive back home. I’m in town but on the far west side from home, and with all the booming growth Great Falls has had the last few years, traffic will be piled up until I reach the city limits. We’re still not big by any stretch, but the roads haven’t quite caught up yet. This could take a while, but a look at the clock tells me I can still make dinner.
Music and dinner are all that’s on my mind as I sit at the stoplight until I see a group of boys running around a field at the park beside me. In the three rounds of green, yellow, red, I haven’t even made it to the light’s white line, but my heart’s already beating just a little too hard.
It looks like a football practice, or what’s supposed to be one. There are probably twelve boys out there, around eight or nine years old, I’d guess, not that I’m good at judging kids’ ages. But they’re goofing around with a pigskin, playing more keep-away than running plays.
I remember being that small, just learning the ropes and enjoying every minute of it. Coaches yelling advice, Dad proudly clapping me on the back when I did well, and Mom cheering from the sidelines. We were so little, there weren’t even bleachers, just foldable camping chairs the parents would set out to watch us play. It was picturesque and easy, and the bulk of my childhood centers around those happy memories.
I learned a lot on those fields in the early days, lessons that carried me through puberty and later, through high school in ways both good and bad. Football gave me a focus, a drive, and made me who I am. I hope for the same for those random boys.
A sentimental smile crosses my face, two in one day, which is probably a record for me. But it’s premature because in the next instant, I see two of the bigger boys tackle one of the smaller guys. He goes down hard, and it was definitely not a clean hit or a good fall. To add insult to injury, I see one of the tackling boys, a blonde-haired lanky kid, dig a toe into the other kid’s side.
Not just dirty but mean.
It shouldn’t be like that. Not at that age, not ever. If you’re not good enough to earn the win, take the L and do the work to deserve it next time.
I blink, and I’m pulling into the parking lot of the park, marching across the field. “Hey! You! What the hell are you doing?”
Who said that?
Well, shit. Guess that was my grumbling voice calling out Mr. Kicks-A-Lot. The kid looks like he’s about to piss himself, which would serve him right.
I lean over and set the smaller kid back on his feet. He’s got dark hair, which he shoves out of his face revealing big, frosty blue eyes that’ll serve him well with the ladies later in life.
“You all right, kid?” His lower lip trembles, and I realize belatedly that it might be partially from the tackle and partially because I’m a scary looking motherfucker. Especially to someone his size.
I bend down, taking a knee and pulling my shoulders in to round them. It’s as small and unimposing as I can get. I even smile to soften the fear factor I cause.
“It’s okay, you ain’t in trouble. But those shits might be.”
I throw an arched eyebrow to the other kid, who’s standing with his buddy-slash-partner in crime. While my attention was focused on the little guy, Kicks-A-Lot is digging down and finding his attitude, judging by the sneer on his face. He kinda reminds me of Brody in a four-foot-tall sort of way.
Little Guy sniffles once, but it turns into a sort of laugh. “You can’t say that.” I look at him questioningly. He shakes his head, the laughter blooming a little louder. “You can’t say the S word.”
I do honestly grin at that. Out of everything that just went down, getting tackled, kicked, and having some random guy step in to save his ass, he’s worried about my language.
Mama Louise would like this kid, I think to myself.
“Uh, sorry. Just wanted to make sure you were all right. Saw what happened, and that’s not all right.” I say the last bit over my shoulder, accompanying it with a glare at Kicks-A-Lot.