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by May, McKinley

A brilliant smile lights her face. Dark blue water laps at her chest, the soothing sound of liquid hitting skin filling the silence between us.

  "I love you, Weston."

  Her eyes double in size like she can't believe she just blurted that out, and she immediately starts to ramble.

  "Oh jeez. I didn't know that was gonna come out. I swear I'm not trying to freak you out or anything. Sorry." She frowns. "Well, actually, that's a lie. I'm not sorry. I really do love you—I think I have for a while—and you deserve to know. But don't feel pressured to respond; I can just doggy-paddle away and you—"

  I lean forward, palms flattening against her cheeks as I shut her up with a simmering kiss.

  "Lexie," I whisper against her sweet lips.

  Pulling back, I cup her chin and pierce her with my gaze.

  Tiny droplets of water cling to her wet lashes, falling to her cheeks every time she blinks. There's not a trace of makeup on her face, just a warm blush tinting her flesh.

  And then I say those three little words. Words I've never said to a girl before. Words I've never felt for a girl before.

  Not until her.

  "I love you, too."

  30

  Our short weekend escape is exactly that—too dang short.

  The night passed in a blur of black-and-white movies, riveting games of foosball, and sensual Jacuzzi soaks. Morning comes and goes as I track down a box of pancake mix, cooking up a hearty stack while wearing nothing but Weston's T-shirt. Before I know it, we're packing up the car for the drive home.

  "Back to reality," Weston says as he tosses our bags in the back.

  "Awh, damn." I shut the trunk and frown. "You mean we're not moving in? Spending the rest of our lives chilling and swimming and christening every room in the house?"

  "I fucking wish." He grins as he opens the passenger door for me.

  I hop into the car and sigh. "Me too."

  He cranks up the radio and veers out of the drive. Opulent lake homes and manicured lawns give way to green pastures and country roads. When we settle onto the long stretch of highway, I reach into my purse and grab my cell. I press the Home button, but nothing happens.

  "Crap," I say as I drop the device in my lap. "I think my phone charger's at The Treehouse. Can we make a pit stop there before you drop me off?"

  He nods. "No prob."

  Two hours later, we arrive at the property. Weston pulls into his usual spot, and both of us immediately take notice of the brand-spanking-new Ferrari parked out front.

  He kills the engine, whistling at the lavish vehicle. "Shit. Those are some nice wheels."

  We creep on it for a good five minutes before heading inside the Redhouse.

  "Yo, Wright!" Weston calls out as he drops his keys on the couch. "Who the fuck robbed a bank?"

  Liam shuffles out of his bedroom, an uncomfortable expression on his face. When he doesn't respond, Weston throws his arms in the air expectantly.

  "Dude, seriously. Whose car is that?"

  "Uh." Liam runs a hand through his shaggy hair. "Well..."

  Two more figures emerge behind him, Weston's brows furrowing in an instant.

  No introductions are necessary—I've never met these guys, but I know who they are upon first glance.

  The Paine men are strikingly similar appearance-wise.

  "Long time no see." Rhett steps forward, decked out in designer clothing and dripping with swagger and confidence. His eyes travel to me, a suave tip of his chin thrown out in greeting. "Hey."

  He shoots me a wink and yup.

  That's Weston's brother alright.

  My boyfriend puts a hand on my shoulder territorially as he glares daggers at his family. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "You're quite hard to get a hold of." A deep British accent fills the room. Mr. Paine is an older, fine-wine version of his sons—tall, fit, and devilishly good-looking. It's immediately evident who they inherited their strong jaws and thick brown hair from.

  "Yeah, well, there's a reason for that," Weston snaps out. His grip involuntarily tightens on me. "I already told you I'm not interested. You need me to fucking spell it out for you?"

  "Little bro." Rhett shakes his head in disapproval. "You're not thinking this through."

  "Rhett's correct. We should discuss it further," his dad suggests sternly.

  "Nah." Weston doesn't budge. "We shouldn't."

  The tension in the room spikes, waves of testosterone swirling in the air.

  Anddd this is officially awkward for me.

  As the men partake in some alpha-male stare down, I feel like I'm observing something I shouldn't. It's one of those uncomfortable situations like when you were a kid at your friend's house and they were fighting with their parents. You just have to twiddle your thumbs and pretend you're not listening even though you're standing right there.

  When I can't take it any longer, I pull out of Weston's grasp and make my escape.

  "I'm gonna get my stuff," I say in explanation, but no one acknowledges me as I duck into his bedroom.

  My charger is right where I thought it'd be—plugged into the outlet right next to his desk. Agitated murmurs carry into the room as I yank it out of the wall and take a seat on his bed.

  I'm not in any hurry to return to the family dispute.

  Unfortunately, Weston calls out my name a minute later, so I have no choice but to head back into the hotspot.

  "Look," he says to his dad as I close the door. "I can't talk right now. I need to give my girl a ride home."

  "I can take her," Liam offers. With a friendly pat on my back, he motions for me to follow him.

  Weston looks pissed, but I catch his eye and quickly mouth 'It's okay'. He emits a frustrated sigh and gives in. "Fine, dude. Whatever."

  "They've been here for hours, mate," Liam says quietly as he ambles past. "They're not leaving until you chat with them."

  Weston curses as he roughly rubs the back of his neck and turns to me. "You get what you needed?"

  I hold up the white wire. "Got it. Thanks."

  Reaching forward, he pulls me into a tight embrace. "I'll call you later, okay?"

  "Okay."

  He cups my cheeks, pressing his lips to mine in a swift kiss.

  "Love you," he mumbles against my mouth.

  "Love you, too."

  I squeeze his middle, kinda wanting to squeal with glee at our new parting phase, but I don't think now's the best time for that.

  Liam tosses his keys from hand to hand, the jingling sound grabbing my attention. "Ready, Lexie?"

  I nod, quickly waving goodbye to the Paine men before gracing Weston with one last encouraging smile.

  After getting my duffle from the Jeep, I glance at the strawberry-blonde boy sheepishly. "I can totally walk home. It's not a problem."

  He cackles like that's the most ridiculous idea he's ever heard. "Not a chance. If word of my unchivalrous act got back to Weston or Ellie, I'd be a dead man. Plus, I'd like to get out of that war zone, too. I'm giving you a ride whether you want it or not."

  "Thanks." I grin as we saunter over to his rust-red truck and get inside.

  As he shifts the gear, I tug on my braid. "Are you sure we should leave them all alone? I feel like they'll kill each other in there."

  Liam shakes his head. "It'll be fine. They just need to hash some things out."

  "Like what?" I ask with confusion. "I mean, Weston did already tell them his decision. What's left to discuss?"

  "Quite a lot, actually," he says as he takes a brisk peek in the rearview mirror. "Weston and Rhett and Robert...their history makes for a complicated situation. This whole thing is a long time coming, Lexie."

  "If you say so."

  "Don't fret, love," he reassures me. "Weston can hold his own with his kin. He's a big boy."

  I rest my forehead against the smudged window, watching as the lush property slowly fades from view, and I know that Liam's right.

  Weston can handle himself.

&
nbsp; 31

  The moment Lexie and Liam exit the house, I turn towards my dad and brother with a scowl.

  "Why are you here?" I ask for the umpteenth time in the last five minutes.

  I don't think they've stepped foot in Texas since the day they boarded that plane for London. And here they are, all these years later, in my freaking living room. Not on the TV, not in a still-image on a sports article on my computer. They're here in the flesh.

  My dad brushes some lint off his jacket. "Mr. Edwards rang me yesterday. Said you brushed him off and skipped town."

  "Yeah." I raise my shoulders apathetically. "And?"

  "And his incompetence has shown me I need to take matters into my own hands. Since you seem unable to answer your mobile, email, or any other forms of communication, I decided a face-to-face discussion was best." His jaw ticks as he pins me with a severe glare. "I've grown tired of playing this game, Weston. You were supposed to be in training last summer."

  "I told you I was gonna stay another year. For my team."

  "Yes, and that year is quickly coming to an end. You have your little university accolade now—"

  "You mean winning the National fucking Championship," I amend.

  "Right. National Championship. How could I forget?"

  His jerky tone isn't exactly subtle.

  "You're wasting your time," I say as my fingers dig into the top of the couch. "I said it to you three months ago and I'll say it again now—I'm not going over there."

  He takes a seat on an armchair, eyes narrowed in my direction. There's anger in his scrutinizing gaze, but it's overshadowed by confusion. "That's where I'm not following. This has been your dream since you were a boy, since you first played the game. And now you have no interest?"

  "He's right, Wes. It was all you talked about as a kid," Rhett adds. His mouth twists into a half-grin. "'Member when you were seven and wore Dad's old jersey for three weeks straight? Mom had to cut it off while you were sleeping. You were so pissed, you gave her the silent treatment for days."

  "I forgot about that," I admit, trying to thwart the smile that's tugging at my lips.

  Flashes of my childhood come rushing back, memories I haven't reminisced on in a long-ass time rolling through my mind like a highlight reel. Arsenal posters and paraphernalia covering every square inch of my wall, watching old footage of my dad in his glory days, vivid daydreams of playing in Emirates Stadium...

  Fuck.

  I did want it more than freaking anything.

  "We need a defender like you on the pitch," Rhett says.

  My dad produces a sharp nod of agreement. "We want you on the squad. This year."

  With his statement, one final memory strikes, and this specific recollection is not a stranger to my thoughts.

  A flood of negative emotion surges through me, my next words burning like venom as they pass my lips. "You want me on the squad? Maybe you should've fucking thought about that before you left me behind eight years ago."

  I sound like a punk-ass bitch, but I'm only spitting truth.

  You didn't want me then?

  You can't have me now.

  "Is that what this whole tantrum is about? A grudge of some sort?" My dad rubs his temples and emits a sigh. "Throwing away a Premier League contract as a form of reprisal? The only person you're harming in this situation is yourself."

  "I'm not holding a grudge," I snarl, but a tiny twinge of questioning pricks at my skin.

  Is that why I'm so dead-set on shunning his offer?

  Petty revenge?

  I quickly shake off the thought.

  "It's utterly childish, Weston. And I don't have time for childish." He stands. "This is your last chance. I've got you a private flight booked in two-and-a-half weeks to London. Whether or not you get on that plane is up to you. However, if you don't want to look back five years from now and regret passing up this opportunity over a boyhood grievance, I'd suggest you get your arse on that jet."

  Before I can respond, his phone chimes. He pulls it out of his pants pocket and checks the screen. "And speaking of flights, my car's here to take me to the airport."

  Thank God.

  "Well, it was great visiting with you two. Such a freakin' pleasure," I spout off as I open the front door and motion them out. "Have a nice flight home."

  "Rhett's not leaving quite yet," my dad reveals. "He's got some things to say to you as well."

  "What? Seriously?" I groan, glancing towards my look-alike in annoyance.

  Rhett lifts a hand in cheeky salute and I roll my eyes.

  "Come on, little bro," he says with a smirk. "Show me around your stomping grounds."

  The proposed afternoon of brotherly-bonding doesn't thrill me whatsoever, but it doesn't go as horrible as expected.

  I mean, how bad could it really be when we're cruising around Windhaven in a fucking Ferrari?

  And my bro...he's not exactly the asshole I've been building up in my mind for all these years. Sure, he's cocky as fuck and ostentatious with his wealth, but who the hell could blame him? Dude's a bonafide celebrity in the sports world. He's gonna milk that shit for all it's worth.

  We haven't exchanged more than a dozen texts or phone calls for over half a decade, but we manage to pick up right where we left off as teens. As I point out all the different places around the college campus, we shoot the shit and listen to old alternative rock on Spotify.

  When some classic blink-182 comes through the speakers, Rhett's eyes go wide as he laughs. "Dude. I haven't heard this shit in forever."

  "Me neither," I say with a grin. "Takes you back, huh?"

  His fingers tap along with the beat as he nods. "Feels like I'm sixteen again, man. Those were some good times."

  The summer Rhett got his license, we spent every freakin' night riding around in his Mustang. The previous owner accidentally left a C.D. behind—Enema of the State by blink-182—and we listened to that thing on repeat. That album was the soundtrack to everything from cruising the streets of our tiny town looking for trouble and girls to chilling at the local Sonic, hotboxing with shitty weed and drinking slushies 'til our brains froze.

  Those were some good times.

  There was always some underlying strain with our relationship regarding soccer and shit, but that didn't change the fact he was my badass older brother. My best friend.

  Rhett was my damn role model.

  And as we spend the day together, singing along to the songs of our youth and reminiscing on old times, I'm actually starting to wonder why the hell we grew apart in the first place.

  He's pretty freaking cool.

  That statement only becomes more accurate as we sit down to lunch and he reveals more details of his life in England. The endorsement deals, the VIP treatment, the sweet as fuck flat he resides in...

  "So is this your angle?" I ask as I dunk a fry in ketchup and toss it in my mouth. "Try to convince me with the glitz and glam?"

  "Maybe." Rhett chuckles. "Not only do I get to play football for a living, the perks are damn swell, too. Gotta let you know what you're missing out on."

  I take a bite of my cheeseburger and give him an unimpressed shrug, but I'm not gonna deny it; the bonus benefits are tempting as hell.

  "And the girls, man. Shit." A bawdy expression takes over his features. "I'm in fucking heaven. Every single night."

  When I don't show any enthusiasm over this revelation, he frowns. "What? Not your style?"

  "Used to be," I say. "Not anymore."

  "Right, right." He slowly nods in realization. "The hot blonde. You're together?"

  "Yeah."

  "Are you two serious?"

  "Pretty damn serious," I answer with conviction.

  Rhett crosses his arms over his chest, looking peeved for some reason. "Jesus. It sucks I don't know anything about your life. You should freaking call me sometime."

  "Phone works both ways, dude," I counter.

  "I guess we're both at fault here. Different time zones, busy sch
edules...It's tough to stay in touch. But I miss you, bro."

  "Miss you, too, man."

  A sly look sneaks its way onto his face. "But you know, we don't have to live on separate continents. You come be a Gunner and we can make up for lost time."

  I push my empty plate aside and lift my hands in confusion. "What's the catch, though? Why do you guys want me there so bad?"

  "There's no catch. You're talented, Weston. Too talented to waste your time with American soccer, no offense to the ol' Red, White, and Blue. It's just not the same over here and you know that." He drains his milkshake before continuing. "I've always wanted you on the team, bro. Always thought you had what it takes. Dad's the one who took too damn long to come around. But he's on board now, and that's all that matters. You can't turn this down, man. It's once in a lifetime."

  He cocks his head as I consider his words.

  Once in a lifetime.

  No idea why, but that sentence seeps in deep for some reason, penetrating the minuscule cracks in the exterior I have up.

  It's like I've never thought about it that way before, like the vastness of the opportunity is just now sinking in...

  I immediately shake it off.

  "Dude, I dunno," I finally say. "I just don't think it's what I—"

  "Whoa." Rhett quickly cuts me off. "Don't make up your mind right now. You have weeks to think it over."

  I roll my fork between my fingers. "Well, don't get your hopes—"

  Rhett tosses something across the table, interrupting my denial once more. He arches a brow and nudges his chin towards the object. "You want to drive?"

  All my muddled thoughts and excuses dissipate when I glance at the cherry-red sports car parked out front. I can already feel the purr of the engine and the smooth glide of the vehicle under my control.

  My brother's distraction works as I snatch the shiny keys, a wide smile stretching my lips.

  "Fuck yeah I do."

  32

  There are less than three weeks of school left—two of actual lectures, plus one last tortuous week dedicated strictly to final exams—and the vibe around Windhaven is straight out of a horror movie.