“You’re not giving up, are you, Coach?” Miles calls after me.
“On dancing with you guys? Sure am.” I walk out smiling.
Because as insane as my friends are, they just reminded me of something: I’ve survived the Marines. I can survive Scarlett Rossi.
Maybe.
TWENTY-ONE
Scarlett
Scarlett
I’m sitting on my bed with a bag of Reese’s Pieces, watching an old Crushers game—the first game where Brendan was the assistant coach.
When I returned to the room tonight, there was a surprise blanket on my bed, a luxuriously soft one with a chunky, knit pattern, and snacks in our kitchenette—sweet and salty popcorn, Reese’s Pieces, and a few other personal favorites.
The Marco family didn’t put these here. These are from Brendan.
It’s been so long since someone took care of me that I almost don’t know what to do with it.
Onscreen, Brendan stands at the bench in his game-day suit, stoic and focused, exactly the kind of calm I need tonight.
Dad and Mom called earlier with news they’d been sitting on for a few days, not wanting to worry me. Dad’s cough turned into a bad case of bronchitis, his chest rattling like loose change in a tin can. Mom said not to worry and to enjoy the wedding, but I could hear him struggling to breathe.
After the call, I spent the next hour scrolling through pictures of happier, healthier times, until I turned on the game.
There’s a knock on the door, and I drag my sleeve across my wet cheek.
“Who is it?” I ask, praying it’s not one of the Marco women. I’m not in the mood for small talk. Not when I’m one picture away from ugly crying into my Reese’s Pieces.
“It’s me.” Brendan pauses. “Can I come in?”
His voice is tentative, and I smile to myself. After telling him I wanted roommate rules, he’s knocked every time.
“Yes.” I turn off the Crushers game and hide my phone just as Brendan opens the door.
He’s changed into black joggers and a Crushers hoodie, his cap on backwards, and something about seeing him like this—relaxed and off duty, just like high school—does more damage to my heart than his game-day suit.
“Hey, Scarlett.” Brendan shoots me a boyish grin. “How was your—” His smile drops. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, but the wobble in my voice betrays me.
His brow furrows. “You’ve been crying.”
“No, I’m just…”
“Scarlett,” he interrupts, “you look like a raccoon.”
I immediately scrub at the mascara under my eyes. “Well, maybe I went swimming.”
“As hard as it was to get you in the pool, I doubt that.” He strides over to the bed. “Tell me what happened.”
I can tell he’s not going to let this go. “Dad called. He has bronchitis, which is not great.”
Brendan studies me. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know. That’s what worries me.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I suddenly want to tell him everything I’ve kept bottled up all night. “I just don’t know what I’ll do if something ever happens to him.”