Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book) by Reinhardt, Liz (knowledgeable books to read TXT) 📕

"Pop, have you seen this kid's spiral? Unbelievable." Winch shakes his head, his dark eyes bright with pride, his arm draped over his little brother's shoulders with easy grace. "He'll have the craziest college scouts fighting like a pack of hyenas over him."

Colt shrugs his wide shoulders, still lanky with his lean, long muscles. If he keeps playing football in college he'll bulk up, but right now he looks more like a javelin thrower or a fencer.

Their father stubs his cigarette in a bronze urn and frowns. "Still football, Colt? Soccer isn't good enough?" The smile on his face has morphed, no longer condescendingly pitiful, but indulgently disappointed. Colt's face falls and Winch's eyes flash hard, then neutralize.

"Soccer's not really my thing, Pop," Colt says, tossing the football back and forth in his enormous, long-fingered hands, and it's like that ball is a part of him. The grey in his father's eyes darkens as he drinks in every minute detail.

"Soccer was good enough for generations of Youngbloods. I don't know if you gave it a fair chance. Maybe a few weeks back on the homestead with your cousins this summer..."

"But I'm captain of the team, so I'll be in for extra training, Pop." Colt presses his lips together as his father goes very still and quiet. "Sorry to interrupt, sir."

Immediately Mr. Youngblood's charming smile radiates again. "Don't be ridiculous. We'll talk about Hungary and soccer in a few weeks, when you've had time to think about how good it would be for you. Now come on in and we'll watch that movie about the UFC fighter Remington keeps going on about. Winch, you coming?"

Winch looks at me, and I try hard to keep my nerves under control. I feel trapped. I feel trapped inside a maze that's in a sealed box that's been thrown down a deep, dark hole and I'm crashing to the bottom.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice low.

"Fine." I say the word, but I look right into his eyes and he takes half a second to read my every obvious, unhidden thought.

"I won't be able to watch tonight, Pop. Evan and I have plans." He threads his fingers through mine and the pressure is slow and deliberate, like he's willing the calm strength of his hold to transfer through to me.

"Go out later. Evan's welcome to stay with your mother and the girls. You come join me and your brothers. Your grandpa and uncle are coming around later." Mr. Youngblood's voice has all the confident exuberance of a circus ringmaster, and there's so much charm, anyone not listening closely would fail to detect the blade of unequivocal demand in his words.

Winch only hesitates for a minute. "Sorry, Pop." His father's shoulders tense, and Colt jerks his head in Winch's direction, his mouth quickening up and down with a nervous twitch. "I have some things to do at the shop later tonight."

His father's eyes are hawk-like on my face for a single blink, then that smile is back, all warm lines and general happiness. "Of course. You have a man's obligations now. Go and take care of what you need to. It was nice meeting you, Evan."

"Thank you for having me at your home." I manage to say it with a smile and wave to Colt, who returns my wave with a nervous lift of his hand.

We walk to Winch's Mustang silently, and we don't talk or make any eye contact until he has my door opened, I'm buckled in, and he's behind the wheel, pulling out.

"You want me to take you back to your grandparents' house now." He should be asking it, not telling me.

"I don't want you to do that. I texted them after dinner. They won't be home until tomorrow afternoon. My granddaddy’s committed to all these golf tournaments this year, before they realized I’d be living with them full time, so they haven’t really been home a lot on the weekends. And I don't really feel like being home alone tonight."

I undo the pins in my hair and let it spill over my shoulders and whip partially out the window while I study his grim profile.

"You want me to stay the night?" His voice is quiet and unreadable.

"Do you have to check in first? Make a phone call? Fight in a bare-knuckle fight?" I guess I was going for funny, but the words clang out with the disappointment I feel after this long slog of a day. I'm drained in every way possible, I kind of hate Winch's parents, I'm pissed at how much I actually like Remy and kind of get Benelli, and I feel bad for Ithaca and Colt.

And I thought I came from extreme dysfunction.

He takes his phone out and sends a text. "I told my cousin he's on Remy-watch tonight, and not to call me unless there's a murder," he says to the steering wheel.

"Really?" I creep a hand across the interior of the car and run it over his eyebrow and the bruise purpling his eye, down his scraped, swollen cheek bone, along his jaw, which must be sore, because he winces away from my gentle touch. I pull back, but he grabs my hand first. "So, no calls tonight?"

"No calls." He kisses my fingertips. "Just you and me. I promise."

"Then head to my grandparents' beach-house," I instruct, stretching my arms over my head, our hands still locked together. "We can crash there tonight."

"Evan..." Winch says nothing, but I can hear the arguments he's chewing over, ping-ponging tensely in the air between us. "You have school tomorrow. I don't want you skipping out on school to spend time with me."

"I'm a senior. It's my red-blooded American right to play hooky. Especially when I have a gorgeous boyfriend to play it with. C'mon, Winch. Be bad with me." I turn in my seat and caress the tight line of his jaw with the hand he isn't holding. "Please. We've hardly had a