have chosen to spend most of their time since arriving in Dallas with us instead of their parents.
“Hey Coach.” They greet me in their typical in-unison fashion.
“Hey guys.” I reach out a fist for them to bump.
My stomach rumbles audibly at the sight of the feast spread before me. There are silver chafing dishes filled with French toast, pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and sliced steak. Glass bowls filled with freshly cut fruit and carafes of multiple juices take up the remaining table space.
After perusing the options, I load a plate with some of the French toast and smother it in butter and syrup before rounding out the dish with a handful of strawberries and a few slices of bacon.
“Do you know what your parents’ plans are for later?” I ask the twins around a mouthful of crispy pork fat.
I’m hesitant to bring it up—the twins are a little salty over the fact that they weren’t allowed to get tickets with us in the stands, their parents insisting they join them in their box like they do at the home games—but I figure if I can coordinate our trips to and from the stadium, it might appease them some.
“Yeah. Dad said we need to leave here by two-thirty so we have a solid hour to get there and settled into the suite.” Olly’s tone does nothing to hide his unhappiness.
I was tempted to purchase them tickets in our section anyway but refrained. There’s already a weird tension between Brantley and me; I don’t need to do anything to add to it.
“Solid plan.” I search around, trying to catch Bette’s eye, and when I do, I get the nod I was looking for. “We’ll head over when you do. We can hang around the main concourse and stuff until pregame starts.”
“You know”—Bette braces her elbows on the counter, leaning in so we can hear her better now that we’ve moved to the couches—“after seeing the suites yesterday, I’m almost disappointed we didn’t get a box ourselves.”
I’ve mentioned before how much I love my sister-in-law, right? Her maternal instincts are top notch, like Lombardi Trophy-worthy; she can so easily read any situation. Whenever she and E finally decide to give me the nieces and nephews I’ve been begging for, they really will have the most amazing mom in existence.
“Is that—” Livi breaks off in the middle of her question.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Olly shaking his head at his twin, and I shift to fully face him. “Olly?” I ask. When he stays silent, I turn back to Livi. “Livi?”
The two of them are fidgeting, and that is so unlike them. I have no idea what brought on this wave of nervousness. Something is definitely up.
Livi looks to her brother, waiting for his nod before she’s willing to continue. She blows out a heavy breath then begins to speak. “So…” Pause. “This morning…” Another pause. This time I have to curl my hands into fists to resist the urge to shake her and tell her to spit it out. “These two guys in suits came to our suite.”
The Roberts and McQueens are sharing the penthouse on the top floor of the hotel. If we thought our suite was nice, it’s practically a cardboard box compared to the one Brantley rented for their stay. For all its luxury, the thing I’m most jealous of is the ten-foot-high, fully decorated Christmas tree it features.
“Oh-kay,” I drag out, still not understanding.
When Livi’s eyes swing back to Olly, he takes over the story. “They were from the Outlaws’ front office.” The pieces I’m missing start to come together, and I’m not sure I like the picture they’re forming. Miles’ words from two days ago echo in the back of my mind. “They came to extend an invitation to watch the game from the owner’s box.”
Holy shit.
Never in a million years did I think they would take this approach. When we had Miles relay our “thanks but no thanks” response, we thought that was the end of it. It should have been the end of it. Hell, it should never have been an it.
I take a deep breath, letting my shoulders roll back with my tension. “Let me guess…” I shift forward to place my now empty plate on the coffee table. “They made sure the invitation included me as well?”
“Bette too,” Olly adds.
A frown tugs at the edges of Bette’s lips when I spin to look back at her. I’m sure my