It’s none of my business.
“Yes,” I say proudly. “Actually, my other brother is the coach.”
“Other brother?”
“Yes. I have four.”
“Holy shit. I can’t handle one.”
I chuckle. “I know, right? Brothers can be…”
“A pain in the ass with all their protective shit?”
“Yes.” My chuckle turns into a laugh. “Exactly. They can be a little overprotective.”
“A little? My brother is the very definition of overprotective. He is insane.” She rolls her eyes. “If he had his way, he’d lock me up somewhere and wouldn’t let me out until I was thirty or something. A thirty-year-old virgin. Imagine that.”
She fake shudders, making me laugh. “Your brother sounds like my brothers.”
Which is the truth.
My brothers are overprotective and it can be annoying sometimes.
But I don’t begrudge them that. I don’t begrudge them their overprotectiveness and all their rules and curfews, their genuine worry about me.
Mostly because we don’t have parents.
Our father took off just after I was born and our mother died of cancer when I was four.
So they’ve brought me up, you see.
Together, they’ve taken care of me, loved me and protected me more as my parent figures than my brothers.
Especially Conrad.
“But I guess they do it out of love,” I continue, “since we’re all we’ve got. I don’t have parents, so we take care of each other.”
That makes Tempest smile. A sad sort of smile but a smile nonetheless as she says, “Me too.” Then, “Well, I do have parents but they’re as good as nonexistent so my brother takes care of me and I try to take care of him.”
I smile then too.
I’ve never met anyone who has understood this, understood what it feels like to have no parents and only siblings.
But I guess this new girl gets it.
What a fun coincidence.
“So your brother,” I chirp, wanting to know more about her. “Does he go to school in New York too?”
Oh and does he know Reed as well?
How do you know Reed?
Why are you here for him? Do you like him? Are you…
God.
I need to stop.
It’s none of my business.
She isn’t the first girl to be in love with him and she won’t be the last. If anything, I should probably warn her about him.
I should tell her that he’s never ever going to reciprocate her feelings.
Because all he does is break hearts and makes girls cry.
“Nope. He goes to school here. He’s a senior,” Tempest replies.
“Oh! Who is he?” I ask. “Maybe my brother knows him. He’s a senior too.”
Before Tempest can answer though, there’s a roar around us and we both get distracted. The crowd is cheering and the reason for it is apparent as soon as my eyes land on the field.
It’s him.
He’s the reason, the Wild Mustang.
He has the ball in his possession and he’s not giving it up. The players from the opposite team are chasing him. They’re almost crowding him in from all directions, all their defenders against one Reed Roman Jackson.
And for a second it looks like they might be successful.
They might take the ball away from him.
The whole stadium is expecting it. All the people who are watching, they expect Reed to lose the ball. It’s in the way that they’ve all gone silent and the way the announcers are talking with a rapid-fire speed and a louder tone.
But they’re all wrong. Every single one of them.
Like the way they’re wrong about the fact that Reed is a mere athlete.
He’s more than that.
He’s not only an athlete, he’s also a dancer.
Look at his footwork. It’s exquisite. It’s impeccable. It’s graceful. It’s the envy of every dancer, especially a ballet dancer. And I’d know because I’m a ballerina. Have been since I was five.
Reed Roman Jackson has the kind of footwork that would make any ballerina fall in love with him.
It would make any ballerina go down on her knees and weep at his feet.
Not me though.
I can’t.
What kind of a sister would I be if I did?
Therefore, I can’t widen my eyes at the rapid swipes and the swings of his legs as he zigzags through the closing-in crowd, still somehow keeping possession of the ball. I can’t wring my hands in my lap when he nearly crashes into a guy from the opposite team. I can’t lose my breath when he almost loses the ball but at the last minute, with a fake pass to throw them off his scent, he saves it.
And neither can I hop up from my seat and clap and scream when he finally, finally, sends the ball flying with such force that it feels like it’s slicing the air itself in two before hitting the net and scoring the goal. The first goal of the game.
I can’t do any of that.
I can’t.
But I can’t deny the rush in my chest or the puff of relieved air that escapes through my parted lips.