The Way We Touch: or Wrangling the Wide Receiver (The Bradford Boys)

The sound of voices rouses me from a dreamless sleep, and for a second, I blink in the darkness trying to figure out where I am.

“You didn’t bring me any salsa? After all we went through?” Garrett’s voice pulls a smile across my face, and I sit up, tossing the blanket aside.

Glancing at the clock, it’s almost nine. “Shit,” I swear under my breath. I hope I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

Stopping in the small bathroom, I splash some water on my face and run my hands through my hair. Not too bad.

I pull a clean T-shirt over my head and step into a pair of sweatpants from the top of my suitcase before opening the door and going into the kitchen.

“It’s aliiive!” Garrett cries, holding up both hands like I’m Frankenstein’s monster or something.

“Shut up.” I shake my head, laughing. The scent of something delicious hits my nose, and my hand instinctively covers my stomach. “Dang, what’s that smell?”

“Thomas, our cook at the restaurant, made hamburgers for you two.” Dylan walks around the bar, looking even better than she did earlier today.

Her dark hair is loose now, and it hangs long down her back. She’s done something to her eyes, because they seem to glow even more, and her lips are a glossy pink. The scent of coconut drifts around her, reminding me of a sunny day at the beach, and for a second, I forget how hungry I am.

“Here, let me put it on a plate for you.” Turning, she walks away, into the kitchen, and my eyes land right on her fine ass.

She changed out of the cutoffs, but the denim skirt she’s wearing is equally short, showing off her shapely legs. They’re toned and smooth, and she moves with controlled grace like a dancer.

“You all right?” Garret’s tone has an edge, and I snap the fuck out of it.

“Yeah.” I rub my hand over my eyes then stretch both arms to the sides like I’m still waking up. “I guess it’s too late for coffee.”

“Only if you actually want to sleep tonight.” My oversized friend laughs. “Have a Guinness. It’s like coffee.”

“Right.” I nod, taking the can of beer from him.

“How’s that?” Dylan sets a thick hamburger and a pile of fries on the bar in front of me and one in front of her brother.

Garrett scoops up his. “You tell Thomas I’m coming for him.”

“I did.” She laughs, pouring herself a beer.

He groans, loudly. “So good. Just like I remember.”

“We wouldn’t dare touch that recipe.”

“See what you think.” He sits back on the barstool, pointing at my plate.

I take a big bite, nodding at the perfectly charred beef laced with a tangy, zesty flavor that makes me want more. “Damn good.”

“Thomas has a secret ingredient he won’t tell anyone.” Garrett finishes his last bite. “I think it’s plain ole black pepper.”

“Nah, that’s too simple.” Dylan shakes her head, taking another sip of dark beer. “It has to be some kind of Worcestershire blend.”

“Whatever it is, it’s delicious.” I stuff a few fries into my mouth. “I’m pretty sure this is the best burger I’ve had in a long time.”

“Try ever.” Garrett stands, slapping my shoulder. “And after all you went through, my sister here didn’t even bring us any of that ghost pepper salsa.”

My chin jerks, and I give him a look like he’s crazy. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Are you telling me you don’t like hot stuff, Murphy?” Garrett grabs another beer. “And you’re from Texas?”

“Really?” Dylan’s eyes light. “What part? I’ve only been to Dallas, but I’d like to get out to San Antonio eventually. Get some authentic Chile Pequin.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“You don’t know peppers?” Dylan leans on her forearms, watching me. “How is that possible?”

“My dad wasn’t into Tex-Mex.” I think of dinners served on fine china with cloth napkins and silver utensils at a long, formal table. “He was more they Wagyu beef and lobster type.”

“Fancy!”

“Something like that.” The old bitterness attempts a return, but Dylan curtails it.

“Well, that’s a damn shame.” Her tone is sassy, and her cute nose wrinkles with a smile. “What about your mom?”

“Not sure.” I take a sip of Guinness. “She died before I knew her.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She touches my forearm briefly. “We lost our mom when I was thirteen. Cancer.”

“Yeah.” I nod, wishing I didn’t keep bringing down the conversation. “Garrett told me.”

It was another of the things that bonded us right away—small hometowns, lost moms, and him laying out any football player who got in my way.

“Zane, hey, bro!” Garrett hops around to the long hall leading to the front door. “Where you been?”

I look up to see a tall guy with dark hair standing just inside the front door like he’s trying to avoid being seen. He’s about my height but slim in that way former athletes get after they stop training hard.

“Garrett.” His voice is low and final, and he goes to the stairs.

Garrett, of course, isn’t taking any of that. He hustles down the hall, pulling his brother into a hug. “I’ve been waiting for you. You weren’t with Jack when he picked up Kimmie.”

“I had some errands to run.” Zane slaps his back before taking a halting step away.

He looks up to where Dylan and I stand watching in the kitchen, and his eyes are a striking shade of blue, clear like water. Still, they’re haunted, and even though he turns away quickly, the pain is evident.

“Are you hungry?” Dylan calls to him, and her voice is softer than it’s been all day, laced with something like caution.

I wonder if that’s why he seems to want to escape. I don’t know how I’d feel if my career was cut short the way his was, my entire world turned upside down in the blink of an eye. I sure as fuck wouldn’t want everyone treating me like glass.

“I got something earlier. I’m just heading up.” He grips the bannister, but Dylan goes to where her two brothers are standing.

“How’d it go today?” she asks.

“Fine.” Again, he says the word like it’s the end of the conversation.

“Did they say how much longer you need the crutches?”

He’s not on crutches, but I notice a pair propped in the corner. Zane’s square jaw moves as the muscle flexes, and I imagine Dylan is the only person who can get away with pressing him like this.

I turn and go back to the bar, feeling like I’m intruding in a situation where I don’t belong.

“They said I can stop now.” His response is low.

“That’s good! We put Logan in the guest room, but if climbing stairs is too much⁠—”

My ears perk up, and I return to the hall. “I can stay upstairs. It’s not a problem. I haven’t even unpacked yet.”

“I’m good.” Zane nods at me. “You must be Logan? Welcome.”

I nod in return. “Thanks. Big fan. I watched all your games…”

My voice fades out, and I feel like an asshole. I’m sure the last thing he wants to be reminded of is the game.

“Thanks.” Is all he says, and he grips the railing, using it to help him climb the stairs. “Have a good night.”

Garrett returns slowly in my direction, his eyes on the floor, but Dylan stands at the foot of the stairs, her lips tight as she watches her brother go. Eventually her chin lowers, and her eyes meet mine as she walks to the kitchen.

“How’s he really doing?” Garrett’s voice is quiet when she enters the room.

“I don’t know. Jack takes him to PT, and he’s got pain meds. He’s supposed to be talking to a therapist, but he stopped going after two weeks. Said reliving it over and over wasn’t helping him any.”

Garrett glances at me. “I’m going to head up, bring him a beer. Sometimes people will talk more at night when it’s quiet.”

I nod, understanding completely. “What time do we need to be ready in the morning?”

“You know the drill. Summer camp starts early.” He smiles like the thought of picking a high school team takes all the pain away.

“Bang on the door, and I’ll be ready.”

He grabs a beer and leaves us. I turn around to see Dylan collecting his plate and pint glass off the counter. Worry lines her face, and as much as I can’t imagine losing everything in an instant, I also can’t imagine being one of the people trying to support him.

“I can help with that.” I hustle around to where she’s standing, and she smiles in a way that doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

Carrying my stuff as well, I try to break the tension. “I’ll probably be awake all night. My days and nights are all mixed up.”

“I can’t believe Garrett talked you into making that drive.”

“And my dad has a jet service.”

“He does?” She switches on the water, taking the plates from my hands. “How does that work?”

“It’s like a timeshare. You put in a request, and they find you a plane with a pilot. Saves having to own a jet.”

“That’s really smart.” She hands me a clean dish, and I dry it with the towel.

“That’s my dad.”

“Are you two close?”

“No.” I exhale a bitter laugh, taking another plate from her hands. “He’s sort of an asshole. Or maybe he just never wanted kids. I like to think I was my mom’s idea, then when she died, he didn’t know what to do with me.”

“I’m sorry.” She hands me another dish, giving me a worried glance.

“Don’t be. I survived my childhood, and now I guess he finds me interesting.”

“Because you play?”

“Yeah, and he’s betting once I retire, I’ll bring all my fans to his channels.”

“Is he in entertainment?” She turns off the water as I dry the last dish.

“He owns MurKo Communications. It’s a big sports radio network.”

“Ah.” Her chin lifts. “You’ll be a commentator, then.”

“Not if I can help it.” I put the last dish on the stack beside me on the counter.

“That’s funny.” She picks up the stack of dishes and carries them across the small space. “Most guys I know would love to talk about sports all the time as their job.”

“Sure, I’d like that part. I just don’t want to work for my dad, and I don’t want to move back to Houston.”

Reaching overhead, she opens the cabinet door, but I step up quickly, taking the plates from her hands and putting them on the shelf where they belong. My chest brushes against her side, and she steps away with a light laugh.

“Such a gentleman. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I grin down at her, and I notice a light bruise on her upper arm. “What happened here?”

“Oh…” She quickly covers it with her hand almost like she’s embarrassed. “It’s nothing. I… uh, caught it on a door knob in the restaurant. Moving too fast.”

I nod, wondering why it feels like she’s not telling me the truth. Then I dismiss the thought. Why would she lie about it?

Still, her mood shifts, and she reminds me a little of her brother Zane—suddenly wanting to escape.

“Well…” She claps her hands together, taking a step towards the hallway.

“What happened to your dad?” I don’t move, hoping by giving her space, she’ll decide to stay a little longer.

I’d like her to stay a little longer. I like talking to her. I like watching the way the light plays off her soft hair, the way her full lips move when she speaks. I like the light in her almond eyes that are sexy and sweet at the same time.

I want to change our memories from me falling out on the floor or being afraid of dolls to something a little more… interesting.

“Well,” She exhales heavily. “The doctors said it was a stroke, but he’d been having memory problems, irritability, headaches…”

My stomach pits. I know those symptoms well—we all do, and it’s scary as fuck. “CTE?”

Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, or the football disease. A brain condition thought to be linked to repeated blows to the head.

“Nobody wanted to call it that, because then we’d have a case.” An edge is in her tone, and I get it. Families suffer as much as we do when it comes to injuries.

“It’s a tough sport. We know a lot more now than we did back then.”

“Yet they all continue to play.” She nods, then she seems to shake it away, looking up at me brightly. “It’s why I only date golfers.”

“What?” The word jumps from my mouth, a cross between a laugh and a protest and a few ticks louder than our conversation.

Her pretty eyes widen, and a small dimple appears at the side of her mouth as she fights a smile. “Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Murphy?”

You bet your ass I have a problem with it, but I’m not about to say it out loud.

“Not at all, Miss Bradford. Date who you want. I just can’t imagine somebody like you settling down with a golfer.”

“What’s wrong with golf? It’s a sport that requires skill and patience, and it involves zero physical contact.” She counts on her fingers. “I don’t know a single golfer who’s sustained a concussion playing the sport.”

“If you call that a sport,” I quip.

“How many golfers are at risk of getting CTE?”

Holding up my hands, I straighten. “You got me. I’m just saying, from what I’ve observed, you’re not shy about physical contact.”

And it’s sexy as fuck.

“I’m not getting hit in the head, and I’m not watching them get hit in the head either.”

My brow furrows. “You don’t watch the games?”

She shakes her head no. “It’s too hard after what happened to our dad and knowing the risks. I wish they’d all retire, but you can’t tell my brothers what to do.”

I’m not sure how I feel about this new information. No, I do know how I feel about it. I don’t like it one bit.

Gentling my tone, I take a step closer. “Life is uncontrollable, Dylan. I could walk out the door tomorrow and get hit by a car.”

“Don’t say that,” she whispers, lifting her hands as if she’ll say a prayer to ward it away.

“My point is, you’ve got to do what you love, and we love the game.”

“Trust me. I know.”

“You can’t control who you love or what happens. Saying you only date golfers is silly.”

“Maybe, but if I don’t date football players, I’m not at risk of falling in love with one.”

Our eyes meet, and the air grows quiet and still. My stomach tightens, and somehow I’ve gotten close enough to touch her again. She’s standing in front of me in that short skirt and tight shirt, and her soft breasts rise quickly with her breath.

It’s been a while since I’ve been around a woman so open and vibrant and full of life. Someone who likes to play and dance and experiment with hot peppers.

A woman who has no business settling down with a man who plays golf.

Fuck that.

My hands are at my sides, and I tighten them into fists, exhaling a breath and taking a step back. What’s crazy is me talking to her this way, thinking about her this way.

As previously noted, Dylan is my best friend’s little sister. She’s completely off-limits, and even if she weren’t, she lives here in this tiny coastal community, and I’m headed back to the East Coast in a few weeks.

One month, and I’ll be a thousand miles away.

Clearing my throat, I fix my eyes on the floor and not on her sexy little body or her pretty eyes or her long hair I want to thread around my fingers.

“I’d better try and get some sleep if I’m going to help your brother tomorrow.” My hand instinctively goes to my stomach like it does when I’m hungry.

“You’d better.” She nods, slipping off her shoes at the door and walking to the hall. “If there’s anything you need in the night, just make yourself at home and get it.”

Her toenails are painted red, and fuck if my mind doesn’t fill with images of what I might need in the night. What I want to get. Her soft curves pressing against my hard angles, her silky hair falling around us in a curtain as our bodies move together.

“Thanks, I’m good.”

That’s a fucking lie. I’m very, very bad, but at least I know what’s right.

I’m here for a break and to get my head on straight, not to create more problems than I already have—or give my giant of a best friend a reason to kick my ass.