False Start - Jessica Ruddick Page 0,85

is clueless when it comes to romance. Did I ever tell you he got me a toaster for Valentine’s Day the first year we were married?” She chuckled at the memory.

“Really?”

“Yes. In his defense, he explained that I’d been complaining about the toaster burning my bagels every morning, so he thought he was doing a nice thing. I guess he was, but Valentine’s Day?” She shook her head. “His other excuse was that one of the things he loved about me was how practical I am.”

I snorted. “That sounds like a cop-out.” I wondered how I would react if Carson gave me a similar gift. Probably not as coolly as my mother. Though she might have lost her shit at the time.

“He honestly thought he was doing a good thing.” She made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Clueless, I tell you.”

We continued food prep in silence for a few minutes. “You know,” I said, “I was going to tell you about me and Carson. It’s only recent, and he wanted to talk to Roman first.”

“I understand, and I’m not upset. I’m just glad he finally got his head out of his ass.”

I gaped at my mother. “Mom.”

Shrugging, she popped a cherry tomato into her mouth. “In some ways, Carson is as dense as your father. But like your father, he’s a good man.”

He definitely was, and my heart swelled to hear my mother say that.

I smiled as I looked out the sliding glass door at Carson. He sat next to my father and brother with a dazed look on his face, and my smile vanished.

Broken. He looks broken. And I wasn’t referring to his arm.

***

Carson

I WATCHED THE clock from three a.m. to four a.m. Even with Becca sleeping beside me, I couldn’t relax. The pain meds were wearing off, but the pain didn’t bother me. What bothered me was that my broken arm wasn’t an injury I could hide. I’d played through pain, but Coach Coyle wouldn’t let me play with a cast on my arm.

And fuck. Of all the fucking games to get injured in, it had to be during one with a pansy-ass team who couldn’t score a single point against us. It was insulting. Though I supposed I should have been glad the game hadn’t been televised. At least that shit wasn’t memorialized for the pro coaches to view. But they would hear about it regardless. Still, that wasn’t the main problem. Last year, I’d been a solid player, but I’d been in FM4’s shadow. Everyone had except for Archer. This was supposed to be my year to prove myself, even if we weren’t destined for a national championship. Now that chance was lost, and I’d only gotten a fraction of the season in, all because some dipshit hit me with his goddamn helmet.

Spending the evening with Becca’s parents should have been a highlight of the weekend. I loved them more than I loved my own damn parents. But all I could think when I looked at Becca’s dad was that I’d just lost the one thing that made me worthy. I didn’t have shit to offer her—I wasn’t smart or particularly good at anything except football. Lucky for me, Americans treated athletes like royalty and massively overpaid them. I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I recognized that was ass-backward. People like Becca’s dad, who risked his life keeping his community safe, and Roman, who was prepared to go to war to defend our freedom, and Becca, who would no doubt invent some kind of life-saving medical device, deserved much more than they would get.

My injury had clarified things for me in a hurry. I’d always said if I didn’t make it to the pros, I would take whatever scraps my father was willing to pass my way in Fleck Holdings. But I’d never believed it would come to that. Now I had to accept that it was a real possibility. The thought was more than distasteful—it was unfathomable. Not only did I not want to work for my father, but he would be sure to remind me every day that I hadn’t earned my place in his company, that it was a handout. The kicker was that he would be right. He’d started with nothing but debt from a few community college classes, and he had built Fleck Holdings into one of the most successful companies on the East Coast. Yet I couldn’t manage to get my shit together