The Star (Charleston Condors Book 1)

UNFORTUNATELY, EVERYTHING RETURNING TO normal was easier said than done.

Aidan sent Landry more texts over the next few days. He assumed Aidan was texting Riley, too, but he didn’t ask what the messages said because his brain kept filling in the worst possible things. That was no good because he didn’t need to go AWOL from the Condors, head up to Toronto, and punch Aidan in the face.

But even if he didn’t confront Aidan, he clearly wasn’t very happy with Landry.

Probably because Landry had put him off with responses like, Riley’s fine. Stop worrying. Or: Don’t you have some game to be playing in this week?

The last thing Landry wanted was to get caught up in an argument with Aidan over what he’d said to his brother.

Because the truth was, he was still way too fucking pissed.

He’d say something he’d regret. Either about what Aidan had said or about what Riley had come to mean to him.

Someday, they needed to have a conversation about that, but right now was the wrong time, even if Landry knew what he wanted to say.

“You’re staring at your phone like it’s personally injured you,” Deacon said, flopping down into the chair next to Landry’s.

He’d been hoping to have lunch with Riley, but he’d gotten dragged into yet another video session, and he probably wouldn’t see him until practice this afternoon.

Landry told himself he wasn’t sulking about that, and he wasn’t sulking about Aidan’s latest message either, demanding again he interfere and convince Riley to talk to him.

The problem was he’d always taken Aidan’s side.

But he couldn’t anymore.

“Maybe it has,” Landry said morosely.

On one hand, things with Riley were so goddamn good, but on the other, he’d never had any idea Aidan was so brutal with his feedback.

If he’d known, would he have done anything? Would he have convinced Aidan to cut it out? He didn’t know because he hadn’t known Riley back then, except for what Aidan had told him.

Maybe he’d have believed his best friend. He’d have had no reason to do otherwise.

That thought was certainly not helping his bad mood.

“You wanna talk about it?” Deacon paused. “I can’t believe there’s trouble in paradise already.”

Landry rolled his eyes. “It’s not about Riley.” That wasn’t really a lie, because all of this was really about Aidan and the fucked up way he thought he was helping his brother.

It was about their friendship and how to salvage it from this sudden wreck.

He didn’t want to hate Aidan; he loved him.

“You ever have a friend who you know is doin’ the wrong thing? And you want to stop it, but stopping it will…jeopardize your friendship? Maybe destroy it forever?”

Deacon eyed him seriously. “This isn’t about Riley.”

“This isn’t about Riley,” Landry agreed.

“Huh, well, I don’t know,” Deacon said. He stared at his chicken sandwich speculatively. “You know, last year was total shit.”

Landry was aware, though he had a feeling it was one thing to know most of the details, and it was another to have lived it. He nodded.

“I had friends on the team who didn’t have a problem with signing Tom Taylor. Didn’t have an issue with throwin’ Davis under the bus, even though he’d done everything he could as a quarterback to put us in a position to win. Guys I thought were friends who had no issues going along with all of that. Had no problems with implementing the bounty system they came up with at the end of the season, even though the Piranhas beat us the first time fair and square.” Deacon sighed. “I spoke up because I couldn’t do anything else. ‘Course it didn’t do jack shit. I knew it wouldn’t. But what else could I do? I couldn’t just stand by and say nothing. But I spoke up and said my piece, and then everything they did after that, that was on them.”

“You’re not friends with them anymore,” Landry guessed.

“No. We’re not friends anymore. I’m supposing you want to stay friends with this person.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Aidan Flynn wouldn’t be an easy person to be friends with. Not for as long as y’all have been friends.”

Landry nearly asked how he’d guessed, but Deacon was smart. He knew his history. He knew some of Riley’s history. And Jem had played with Aidan in Toronto for a few years before coming here.

“You’d be surprised, probably,” Landry said with a sigh. “He’s…well, he’s not what everyone thinks he is. And I’ll be the first to admit that in the last few years, he’s changed. Gotten harder. Tougher.”

“The NFL’s gotten harder, tougher, too,” Deacon pointed out.

Landry knew it. But he also knew that wasn’t the only thing.

Aidan had gotten caught up in his own mystique. But lately, it had been even more than that. He’d gotten dissatisfied but refused to talk about it. Kept his distance sometimes. To the point where Landry couldn’t get through to him.

Landry knew deep down Aidan was afraid of what Riley succeeding would mean for him, no matter how unfair that was.

But none of that excused what he’d said to Riley in that email—and no doubt in countless others.

“Yeah, it has,” Landry said. “But that’s not all of it. I just…” He didn’t know what to say. He’d told Deacon this wasn’t about Riley, and it wasn’t.

But it was, too.

“You know he calls him the kid?” Landry said.

Deacon’s lips quirked up into a smile. “Thought this wasn’t about Riley.”

“In some ways, everything’s about Riley,” Landry pointed out wryly.

“I get it. I’ve been in love before. Didn’t work out, but didn’t mean I didn’t feel it at the time.”

Landry opened his mouth to argue he wasn’t in love. He couldn’t be. But maybe…well, his reaction certainly seemed to prove otherwise, didn’t it? He shut it again. Didn’t know what to say to that. But luckily, Deacon kept talking.

“Riley’s got a level head on his shoulders. He can handle himself,” Deacon continued.

“Yeah, but—”

“But?” Deacon raised an eyebrow.

“I said it wasn’t about him, and I can’t say it isn’t a little about him, but this is also about me and Aidan. Our friendship. I gotta say something. He keeps pushing, and I’m gonna…well, explode. Lose my shit on him. I don’t want to do that. That’ll drive him away for sure.”

“Then tell him,” Deacon said bluntly. “Before you do or say anything you’ll regret.”

Landry knew what he wasn’t saying: that maybe the friendship would be ruined, but it would’ve been ruined anyway if Aidan kept on behaving this way.

He wanted to think Deacon was wrong, overreacting, but he didn’t think so, not anymore. Not after reading that email.

Riley would probably argue that some of the criticisms made him a better quarterback, and even helped him end up here in Charleston. But Landry couldn’t accept any of that.

The man who’d written that email had taken Overprotective Brother Bot to a whole new level, and Landry couldn’t tolerate it, even if Riley found a way to.

It was cruel in a way Aidan had never been cruel.

“You know what you have to do,” Deacon said after finishing his sandwich. He pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll see you at practice.”

Landry had a spare hour and a half before practice and decided to spend it in the gym.

He didn’t typically lift on Wednesdays, but his temper was still boiling away inside him every time he thought of the condescending, patronizing way Aidan had talked to his brother.

The way he still insisted on calling him the kid.

How, before this summer, Landry had actually found that sorta funny.

Well, he wasn’t laughing now.

He was sweating through a series of bicep curls when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Then again. Then a third time.

He finished his set, and checked his phone, hoping, maybe, Riley had gotten out of his meeting early, but no, it wasn’t Riley.

It was Aidan.

Calling.

Landry’s fingers tightened on his phone. The last thing he wanted was to destroy their friendship, but like Deacon said, if he left things unsaid, all that shit was going to do that anyway.

Maybe he could say some of it. Say the bare bones of it, anyway.

He answered. “You stalkin’ me now, Flynn?” he asked, adopting a casual, teasing tone.

“I wouldn’t have to if either of you would actually talk to me,” Aidan said with undisguised annoyance.

“I responded to every single one of your texts,” Landry said, continuing to play dumb.

“Yeah, but not with what I…” Aidan broke off. “Riley’s dodging me, and you’re not helping me at all with that. What’s the point of having him right there, in your house, and practicing next to you if you’re not gonna help me out?”

“Riley’s an adult,” Landry said. And, oh boy, was he—but that wasn’t the point of this conversation. He dragged his mind back on track. “Riley’s a grown person, Aidan. He doesn’t have to talk to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Aidan sounded pissed off and also borderline panicked now.

“It means I’m not gonna be your errand boy,” Landry said firmly. “You want to talk to Riley, then talk to him, don’t order him or boss him or God forbid, criticize him. I think he’ll be a lot less likely to dodge your texts and your calls if he doesn’t actively dread everything about you.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aidan’s tone had morphed again, and now he was sulking.

But he knew.

“I mean, be nice,” Landry said firmly. “And for God’s sake, stop trying to win the Overprotective Brother of the Year award. You’ve got a whole bunch of them on your shelf already, right next to your MVPs. You don’t need one more.”

Aidan didn’t say anything.

“Personally, I think he’s doing great,” Landry said. Told himself he’d have said that no matter what. Even if they weren’t sleeping together, even if he wasn’t crazy about Riley. It was just the truth, wasn’t it? “He’s a dynamic player. Dynamic like you, but different, too. You can rest easy. You taught him everything you know, and he’s gonna be right up there in the future.”

“Great.” But Aidan didn’t sound particularly happy about that outcome.

Landry didn’t understand. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“Jealous? Jealous? Fuck no.”

“Good. Because you’ve got enough issues already.”

“I do not,” Aidan sputtered.

But he did—and even if Aidan denied it, he knew fear mingled with jealousy over how Riley might do in the NFL was one of them.

Landry didn’t know what the rest of them were, but he knew the man well enough to know they definitely existed. Maybe someday Aidan would choose to confide in him, or maybe, instead, they’d drift apart.

Or even worse, maybe they’d end up fighting over Riley, and their friendship would end up exploding in one big catastrophic argument.

“Yeah, you do, but it’s alright.”

“Well, thanks,” Aidan retorted sarcastically. “I appreciate your understanding.”

That prickliness that had been growing over the last few years was what told Landry something was up.

Just not what that something was.

He nearly asked, but he could already tell Aidan wasn’t in the mood to share.

Not today, anyway.

“You know I’m always here for you, Aidan,” Landry pointed out.

“Yeah, except when I want you to get Riley to talk to me,” Aidan said.

“I told you—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Riley’s his own person, blah blah blah. Fine. I’ll try to be nicer if you’ll try to put in a good word, okay?”

“Alright,” Landry said, only because Aidan had promised to try to be nicer.

It wasn’t going to fix everything, that was for sure. But maybe slowly, it would begin to get better between them. If Riley was honest, and Aidan was nice, maybe.

He hung up the phone and finished his workout, heading down to the locker room to get ready for practice.

Riley and Charlie were sitting on one of the couches in the locker room, absorbed in a tablet, going over some plays, but when Landry passed by, Riley glanced up, and there was a wealth of words in that single look.

Missed you.

Want you.

Hope Aidan didn’t piss you off too much.

Have a good practice.

Can’t wait to get home with you.

It wasn’t nearly as good as hearing Riley tell him all those things—or saying them himself—but it would have to do.

A few of the players they were close to had definitely seen them together at the Pirate’s Booty on Monday night, but they weren’t officially a couple, and Coach Kelley didn’t know either, so this would have to be enough for now.

When they headed to the field, Coach Oscar called out, “Gather up, guys. Let’s go over the plan for the day.”

Landry jogged over and discovered when he did that the plan for the day was a clinic on route-running.

Something every guy who caught a ball could improve on, even him. Even Carter, who kept making faces about the implication that he wasn’t absolutely fucking brilliant every time he set foot on the field.

And in a turn of events he hadn’t expected, they’d be running routes with the actual starting corners covering them. “A test,” Coach Oscar said, “for both sides of the ball.”

Which meant that after the team warmup, Landry found himself lining up opposite Rex, the corner Deacon had said he didn’t quite trust.

But Landry himself didn’t have feelings about Rex one way or the other.

At least until Coach blew his whistle, Cole snapped the ball, and Riley dropped back.

The play they were running was a button-hook route, where Landry would pretend to sit in the soft part of the zone, then once he was past the safety, he’d curl around, hopefully deep down the field, and Riley would hit him right on the edge.

It was designed, when executed well, to result in a touchdown, or at the very least, a thirty or forty-yard gain, and it was typically the kind of route the Carters of the world would run. But Landry wasn’t the run-of-the-mill kind of tight end. His ceiling was much higher. He knew it, and he definitely knew Coach knew it, which was why he’d given it to Landry to execute first.

“Gonna make me work for it?” Rex asked, raising an eyebrow, and for the first time, Landry thought he saw something in his eyes, in the smugness of his taunt, that he didn’t like either. Maybe it wasn’t just Deacon’s instincts overreacting.

But before he could look closer, the play began, and he took off, noting his position to Riley, to the safety, hanging back in the zone, and also Rex, who was shadowing him pretty closely.

In a real game, Rex might not be so sure Landry was the targeted receiver, but here, it was obvious enough that he barely gave him any room to maneuver, constantly trying to box him out, make it so Landry couldn’t turn around and catch the ball.

It wasn’t quite playing dirty. Landry had been covered by enough corners playing dirty he could tell the difference, but it was skating right along the edge, and frankly, it pissed him off. This was just practice. Who would be stupid enough to risk injury to themselves or one of their teammates by being so unnecessarily aggressive?

Landry jabbed with his elbow, turning just in time to see Riley releasing the ball. The timing wasn’t perfect, but then game timing rarely was, either, so maybe this was good practice.

Still, he wasn’t happy about it. Not at all.

But that wasn’t the end of being annoyed. Not by a long shot.

Because then, a split second before everything went to shit, Landry felt the pressure of Rex’s leg against his own, then they were tangled up, and Landry fell to the ground, unable to keep himself upright, landing with an oomph, as Rex batted the ball away above him.

It wasn’t the first—and definitely not the last time—he’d been tripped up by a corner. But maybe one of the first times it had happened during practice and definitely the first time during a practice when he was sure it was on purpose.

For a second, Landry lay against the turf. His back ached, understandably, but as he felt his extremities, he was pretty sure other than a few bruises, he’d be fine.

Still. What the fuck had Rex been thinking?

“Landry!”

He glanced over and saw Riley running over. Out of the corner saw Rex, too. Saw the smugness on his face before he turned away.

Yeah, Deacon had good instincts, and Landry didn’t think he was wrong.

He hadn’t wanted to get beat today, and Landry had been about to beat him.

“Oh my God,” Riley said, out of breath, leaning down close to him. “Are you okay?”

He’d gotten here so quick that he must’ve run full out. The concern on his face told the whole story: he must’ve gone down as ugly as it had felt.

He was lucky he didn’t have a broken ankle or a sprained knee. Or worse.

“I’m good,” Landry said, and Riley reached out a hand to help him up. He groaned a little as he stood. “Gonna be black and blue tomorrow.”

“Whoops,” Rex said with a shrug. “Sorry about that, dude.”

But his apology didn’t reach his eyes.

“You good to go again?” Coach Oscar said, arriving at their little group.

Landry met Riley’s gaze. “Yeah, I’d like to try that again,” he said.

This time he wouldn’t let some amateur move literally trip him up.

He’d expect Rex to play dirty.

“You sure?” Coach looked worried—but not as worried as Riley, who was still frowning. “Don’t need to get checked out or anything?”

“I’m good,” Landry reassured him.

He’d noticed this overabundance of caution when it came to conditioning and injuries since coming to the Condors, and based on comments a few of the guys had made who’d been here last year, that was for a reason.

They were actively trying to change the culture of the team, and that wasn’t an easy thing to do.

“Alright. But we’re gonna give you a play off. Maxwell, you’re up next.”

Landry considered arguing, but when he started to jog over to the sideline, the leg he’d fallen on was already protesting.

He’d definitely be spending some time in the ice bath post-practice.

Reaching the sideline, he hit the bench, grabbing a cup of Gatorade, sipping it as he watched the same play unfold again.

This time, though, Landry noticed that Coach hadn’t put Rex on Carter; he’d put Eric on him instead. The other starting corner.

Carter might not have had Landry’s finesse with routes—though Landry had a feeling he’d fight him on that—but he didn’t have to because he had a whole new gear Landry didn’t have a hope of reaching.

He sprinted past the line, losing Eric in the first few steps, though when Carter slowed down in the zone, past the safety, he did manage to mostly catch up—but, in the end, it didn’t matter because then Carter found that other gear again, and Riley’s throw found him.

And because Carter already had half a dozen paces on Eric, and he was long past Beck, there was nobody to stop him from practically jogging right into the end zone.

On the next play, Landry got back on the field, blocking as Nick was tripped up by Rex just before Riley could throw the ball.

He saw Nick’s disgusted expression before he turned his head and wondered if he was mad at himself—or maybe more understandably with Rex.

Then it was Landry’s turn again.

“You ready?” Riley asked him before Coach blew the whistle.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Landry said.

What he meant was, I’m not gonna let this asshole play dirty this time without playing dirty right back.

Rex lined up in front of him again, and for a second, Landry saw the concern flash across Coach’s face. But he let it go. It was the right thing to do, to let him work through this, and that he’d decided the same thing made Landry respect him a little bit more.

The play unfolded the same way as it had the first time. Landry found a little extra burst of speed, glad that he’d put in the hard days during the off-season, and managed to put a little more distance between himself and Rex.

But still, Rex stuck to him like glue.

Landry huffed out a breath as he got close again, pushing right into Landry’s space.

But this time, Landry didn’t give him a chance to stick his feet right into his path, and instead, he shoved hard with his elbow, turning his body so Coach wouldn’t see it and call it like the blatant foul that it was.

Rex went down like a sack of potatoes, with an accompanying groan, as Landry’s elbow connected right with his stomach.

Angling his arms, he watched as Riley’s pass arced towards him, and he caught it mid-stride, covering the rest of the field to the end zone in a few long strides.

Riley’s face lit up.

“Touchdown!” Carter hollered, from the other side of the field, miming the ref’s action with his arms.

“Great play,” Riley said with a smirk when Landry returned to the huddle. “I especially liked that stiff-arm.”

“What stiff-arm?” Landry said innocently.

But Rex was glowering as he limped over to the bench.

Served him right, Landry decided.

Later, when practice was breaking up, Carter meandered over to where Landry was standing by the bench.

There was something unexpectedly contrite in Carter’s face. An emotion he’d never seen there before.

“Sorry,” Carter muttered under his breath. “Should’ve warned you Rex can’t keep his elbows or his feet to himself.”

Landry wanted to be surprised, but deep down, he wasn’t as much as he should be.

“Seriously?” Landry said. “Why didn’t you say something to someone?”

But Carter just shrugged. “It’s good practice, I guess. ‘Cause it’s not like corners keep them to themselves during games. I’ve gotten better at shrugging him off. But you weren’t expecting it. You should’ve been.”

“Still,” Landry said, feeling like he should be pushing this. The Bills never would’ve tolerated that behavior at practice because, like any NFL team worth their salt, they wanted to field a complete team on game day. Not lose players to stupid, easily prevented injuries.

“Yeah, who’s gonna believe me,” Carter said wryly. “I’m Carter Maxwell. I know what they say about me. Talented guy, but let me tell you all about all his fuckups.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Landry said firmly, patting him on the shoulder pad. “He pulls that shit on you again, you tell me. One better—you tell Coach.”

“Everything okay?” Riley asked as he approached.

“Everything’s fine,” Carter said cheerfully.

Landry considered disagreeing with Carter’s assessment, but if he did, maybe Carter wouldn’t tell him the next time.

He’d been around this team long enough to realize there was definitely going to be a next time. Yes, the Condors had significantly cleaned up their act, but there were still residual problems lingering right under the surface. Everything wasn’t fixed, and pretending it was, wasn’t going to do anyone any favors.

“I think that just about wraps it up,” Charlie said, shutting his tablet, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looked about as tired as Riley felt. “I think I’m gettin’ too old for this.”

“If you are, then so am I,” Riley said. “‘Cause I’m worn out. But I wanted to go over one more play.”

He’d considered watching this particular snippet of film on his own because it was entirely possible Aidan was full of shit.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

But it also wouldn’t be the first time he was right.

“One more play? Really? Okay, which one.”

Riley cued it up on the screen.

“What?” Charlie looked confused. “This one? You scored a touchdown on this play.”

“Yeah, I did,” Riley said, watching as the play unfolded. It hadn’t originally called for him to keep the ball and run for it, but when the defense had rushed, his offensive line had managed to split them, and he’d seen the opening and run right through into the end zone. It had seemed like a pretty easy decision at the time—touchdown or no touchdown—but then Aidan had brought it up specifically.

“Why are we watching this again?” Charlie asked, as Riley played the clip for the second time. He sounded mystified.

Riley wasn’t sure either. But there was something…the way the defense had shifted in response to their own formation…yep, there it was.

He could see it now. Exactly what Aidan had said. There’d been another route. An easier route. And, if he wasn’t imagining things, he could’ve actually gotten Landry the ball. In Aidan’s mind, a throwing touchdown was always better than a running one. You won’t be able to keep running the ball the way you are now, he’d said to him probably a hundred times. Don’t just be a glorified running back. If you’re gonna be a quarterback, be a quarterback.

“I see it,” Charlie said. “I can’t believe…” He trailed off.

“What? That I didn’t see it? Me, either. Well, put something on the weekly schedule…go over all the scoring plays, too.”

“Really?” Charlie sounded surprised. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“We can learn as much from our successes as our failures,” Riley repeated, his stomach sinking.

He hadn’t wanted Aidan to be right.

It was galling that he could be such a jerk, but what was most infuriating was how often he was spot-on with his assessments.

“That doesn’t even sound like you,” Charlie observed.

Riley began to pack up. He was ready to get home. Hug Landry. Collapse into bed.

Then get up tomorrow and do the whole thing over again.

“It’s not me,” Riley said matter-of-factly. “That’s one of my brother’s favorite sayings.”

“Ah, Aidan.” There seemed to be a wealth of meaning in those two words.

“Yep,” Riley said. He really didn’t want to talk about it. First off, he was too tired. Second off, he was even more conflicted about his brother than he’d ever been.

If only he’d been wrong.

But he hadn’t been.

“He giving you shit?” Charlie asked, waiting until they were in the elevator, heading up to the main level, where the entrance to the parking garage was.

“Aidan? Uh, well, not any more than usual.” Riley wasn’t sure whether that was the truth or a lie, considering how many unanswered texts were sitting on his phone.

Aidan hadn’t taken his silence well at all.

But then, Riley hadn’t really expected that he would.

“You should—”

But Riley knew how this went. He’d heard it enough times from enough people. “Tell him to fuck off? Yeah, I know.”

“Actually, no, that’s not what I was about to say.” Charlie grinned. “But yes, that works, too.”

His phone buzzed again in his pocket like Aidan had somehow known they were talking about him.

Of course, it could be any number of other people, but at this particular time? When Riley was just finishing up his work day?

Well, chances were good it was Aidan doing the same.

“Why don’t you?”

“Because of plays like that,” Riley said, gesturing. “Because he was right. He’s right more often than he’s wrong.”

“So are you,” Charlie insisted. “You’re gonna lead us to another great win this week. I feel it.”

Riley knew Charlie meant well. But still. “Appreciate it, man,” he said, and the elevator doors dinged open. “Tell the girls hi from me.”

“Will do. Natasha keeps telling me she wants a jersey with your name on it. Guess I’m just not that cool anymore.”

“Were you ever?” Riley teased.

Charlie chuckled and broke off on the way to his own car.

Riley had finally found the time to grab a rental, so Landry wouldn’t have to stick around for him past when he might normally. And as the starting quarterback, that was becoming more and more likely. Landry had grumbled about it, which had touched Riley, but it made sense.

He unlocked the car and slid inside, tossing his bag into the backseat.

Sat there for a long moment, then dug his phone out of his pocket.

He’d been right. The text had been from Aidan.

Don’t hate me, was all it said.

“Fuck,” Riley said, banging his free hand against the steering wheel. It was like Aidan knew the only way to get through to him was to be semi-apologetic.

Semi because it wasn’t like Aidan ever bothered to actually apologize.

But they both knew this was as close as he was getting.

He pressed call before he could change his mind. “I don’t hate you,” he said when Aidan answered with a cautious, “Riley?”

Aidan didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“I just didn’t want you to say anything about the stupid mistake,” Riley continued, feeling reckless. “And I knew you would.”

“It’s what I do,” Aidan acknowledged.

Didn’t even sound like he regretted it.

Years ago, Riley might’ve told him that maybe, just maybe, he could try not to do it, but he’d learned there was no point. This was who Aidan was.

He should’ve spent all those years coming to terms with it, learning to live with it. But he never had.

It still stung every time, no matter how much he tried to fight the hurt.

“You know, you could’ve just said, good job,” Riley said.

“What’re you gonna learn from that?” Aidan asked, but his voice was as gentle as it got. “That’s not gonna help you win next week, or the week after, or the week when it really matters. You know that.”

Just like that touchdown play, Riley wanted so badly for him to be wrong.

But he knew Aidan wasn’t.

Just like he knew he’d never really tell his brother to fuck off.

Riley sighed.

“I know, you hate it when I’m right,” Aidan said.

“How’d you know about that play?” Riley asked, changing the subject. Because there was no use in going round and round about the same fucking topic. Aidan wasn’t going to change, and Riley wasn’t going to stop wanting him to.

“I watched it. That’s how. You know, I’ve told you that you shouldn’t just be reviewing your fuckups but your successes, too. Learn from them, too.” Aidan took a breath, and Riley knew he was going to keep going. Going to keep lecturing, but he was full up with that kind of thing already.

“Yeah,” Riley said before he could start in again. “Message received.”

“Alright.”

“Your practices going okay?” Riley asked into the awkward silence. This was why they rarely talked on the phone. The minefield of things they’d only argue about was too treacherous. Too full of things that might make him hate his brother, and he didn’t want to.

“Fine, of course.”

Of course.

Riley rolled his eyes.

“Charlie workin’ out for you okay as a backup? I hear he’s kinda taken the quasi-coach role, too,” Aidan said.

“Yeah, he’s cool. Good at the job. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up as a coach one day.”

“You know what they say: those who can’t do, teach.”

“Aidan,” Riley warned.

“I know, it’s shitty. Don’t you think I don’t know how shitty it is? I like Charlie. I want more for him, same as I want more for you. But you know why I say it—I don’t want you to end up like him. Washed-up and barely hangin’ onto a backup spot. You’re worth more than that.”

“Even if that’s what I want?” Riley retorted.

Aidan didn’t say anything to that.

He was probably thinking the same thing: this is why we don’t usually do this.

“Don’t ignore me next time,” Aidan said brusquely. Then we don’t have to do this again.

“I was busy,” Riley tried protesting, but he knew it was pointless.

Aidan knew; Aidan always knew.

Sometimes he even knew best.

But not one hundred percent of the time.

“Yeah, okay,” Aidan said, sounding amused. “Just let me know you’re alive, alright?”

“You have Landry for that.” Riley had told himself he was not going to bring up Landry because Aidan was weirdly observant, and what if he gave something away before either of them was ready to tell him? Or before they even knew what to say about it?

“Landry’s strangely protective of your status.” Aidan’s tone was frustrated. “Doesn’t want to get involved.”

“I don’t blame him for that. I wouldn’t want to get involved between us either.”

“Riley.”

“Don’t Riley me.”

“Hey, at least I didn’t call you the kid. You know I’m trying not to do that anymore.”

“Yeah, for good reason ‘cause I’m twenty-four,” Riley retorted.

“Fine, fine, fine,” Aidan said. “I mean it, though.”

“Okay.” Riley didn’t know what he meant. That he wanted to make sure he was alive? Or that he didn’t want Riley to hate him?

Or both?

“Good luck this week.”

“You, too,” Riley said. “I gotta go.” He needed to before he said something he’d regret.

Like that he missed and dreaded Aidan in equal parts.