I smiled like we were chitchatting about butterflies and the weather.
The brothers glared at each other.
“I was just reminding your girl here that family takes care of family,” Nash said.
“Now you’re done reminding her. Why don’t you get your ass back home and rest the fuck up so you’re in shape to take care of family?”
“I’m enjoying the game. Think I’ll stick around,” Nash said. “Good to see you, Naomi.”
I said nothing and watched him wander over to Liza and my parents. Neither of the Morgan brothers appeared to be in good moods in the mornings.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, tilting my head back to look at Knox.
His gaze was on the field where Nina missed the ball entirely and instead connected with the shins of the opposing player.
“Heard there was a game. Thought I’d swing by.”
His thumb was rubbing lazy circles against my upper arm. I felt a tingling that originated at the site of his touch and traveled through the rest of my body. My grumpy, tattooed sort-of boyfriend had dragged himself out of bed on an early Saturday morning after a closing shift at the bar just to show up for me and Waylay. I wasn’t sure what to do with that information.
“It’s early,” I pointed out.
“Yep.”
“Nash is just worried,” I said, trying to move the conversation along.
“He does that.”
The crowd noise picked up, and the game drew my attention. I felt Knox tense beside me as Waylay intercepted a pass and dribbled down the field.
“Go all the way, Way,” Wraith yelled.
“Keep going, Waylay,” Dad shouted.
“Come on, kid,” Knox said under his breath, his attention riveted on the number six jersey.
My fingers curled into Knox’s shirt as she closed in on the goal.
Just as she reared her leg back to let the ball fly, another player ran into her, and they both dropped to the ground.
There was a collective groan from the fans.
Nina and Chloe pulled Waylay to her feet, and I saw how red her face was.
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh, what?” Knox asked.
“What the shit, ref?” Waylay bellowed.
“Ah, crap,” I whispered.
“Did she just say ‘shit’ to the ref?” Knox asked.
The referee blew the whistle and strode up to Waylay, digging in his front pocket.
I groaned as the yellow card was produced and held up in front of my niece’s mutinous little face.
“She does this every game. It’s like she can’t control her mouth,” I groaned.