Travis leaned forward to grab the back of Jace’s chair. “Don’t forget the beer. Maybe a Budweiser instead?”
Jace laughed.
“If you’re that hungry, why not go eat?” Emmy asked, ignoring her brother’s beer fixation. “Sawyer is here somewhere—since you chased him off. He’ll take me home after.”
“Emmy Lou?” Melanie called out to her. “I think they’re ready to do a quick rehearsal and sound check.”
“Go, Emmy!” Krystal called out.
“Check that sound!” Travis added, laughing.
Emmy shot her siblings a look and walked back to the spot marked on the field. “I’m ready.”
“Nice to see they came out to support you.” Melanie nodded toward the stands.
“Is it? Is it, really?” Emmy asked, shaking her head. “As long as Brock doesn’t show, it shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“Oh, well…” Melanie smiled, her gaze shifting to something beyond Emmy. “About that.”
“About what?” Emmy turned to see Brock crossing the field—in a sleeveless, skin-tight, white compression shirt and a close-fitting pair of black joggers. He wasn’t just physically fit; he was… What? What words could adequately describe just how massive he was. One thing was for certain: his attire only confirmed her his-muscles-have-muscles theory. The whole hanging-upside-down-over-his-shoulder episode had been enough for her to realize just how physically impressive he was. And seeing him now—head down, earbuds in, all muscles and totally unaware of the audience he had—reminded her of the very mixed swell of emotion his touch and presence and scent had stirred. Also, she was staring.
“Oh no.” She spun away. Chill. Calm down. It was no big deal. Unless, “They didn’t see, did they?” She risked a look over her shoulder at her siblings.
Emmy didn’t cuss. It had never come naturally to her. But right now, with her sister and brother and newly returned bodyguard and her sister’s boyfriend all staring at her, she almost did.
“He didn’t see y—nooo…never mind, he sees.” Melanie tried to move her lips as little as possible. “And he’s stopping.”
Which has nothing to do with me. “Let’s do this,” she pleaded. “Can we, I don’t know, move this along?”
“On it.” Melanie pivoted on her heel and marched toward the director. When Melanie made up her mind, there was no stopping her. She might be tiny and soft-spoken, but she had an iron will and a commanding presence that people tended to listen to. And right now, the director was listening.
The walk-through didn’t take long. He pointed at the colored spots on the field, showed her the storyboard, and asked her if she had any suggestions or changes.
“No.” She shook her head. “Seems pretty straightforward. We’ll film it tomorrow?”
He nodded. “We’ll do a few shots here, then finish up in a warehouse, get a gritty vibe, and use a green screen—some effects.”
She nodded. Did a football intro need effects?
“Watch it.” It happened so fast she didn’t have time to process. Hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her away, narrowly dodging a football that slammed into the ground where she’d been standing. “You good?”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Her savior couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Good-looking, clean-cut, well-built—but young.
“Yes.” She shook her head. “Guess y’all don’t yell ‘fore’ when you throw?”
“Holy shit, I know you. You are Emmy Lou King.” He stepped back and gave her a head-to-toe inspection. “Damn. You are something to look at.”
“Um…thank you?” She exchanged a look with Melanie. “Are you one of the team trainers? On a college internship?” Was he even old enough for college?
“Are you serious right now?” he asked, hands on hips. “You don’t know who I am?” From the smile on his face, he wasn’t offended.
Another look at Melanie, who shrugged, before she admitted, “No. Should I?”
He grinned—he had an adorable grin. “You should. I’m Ricky Ames. Soon-to-be defensive end for your favorite team.”
Which had to be a mistake. Brock was the defensive end for the Houston Roughnecks. He had been for the last six years. “Oh, right.” He must be the backup. “Second-string? Until Brock gets clearance to play?”