Page 184 of Tangled with the Tight End

Dad stares at Declan. “Now, I saw you play in high school a few times. Then I watched your college games when they were broadcast locally. And when you got drafted for the Thunder I was thrilled. And here you are with Winona. You know, she didn’t know a thing about football before dating you.”

“Oh, I know,” Declan says with a smile in my direction.

All eyes are on the scene of my dad meeting Declan for the first time, so I turn to Jaxon. “Here, let me take that into the kitchen for you.”

He hands me the casserole. Declan follows me, walking in the boot without crutches.

“Mom?” I say when I enter.

“Well, hello,” she says, sizing Declan up. “I don’t know who any of those other boys are, but I did look you up.”

Declan smiles at Mom.

“You’re Conrad O’Connell’s son.”

I think Declan thought the same thing I did—that mom looked up his football stats. Nope. She looked him up.

“Yes, ma’am. I am.”

Mom crosses her arms over her chest, eyeing Declan like she can assess his character by scanning him with her laser mom-vision.

In an uncharacteristic burst of mama-bearishness, she surprises me by saying, “Winona is the tenderhearted twin. That’s why we figure Cass came out first. She’s the one you’ll answer to if you break my daughter’s heart.”

“Mom!” I step between Declan and her. “Please.”

She smiles. “I’m kidding.” Then she looks at Declan and points her wooden spoon at him. “Sort of kidding.”

He laughs. “I have no intention of breaking Winona’s heart, Mrs. Carter. I see protecting her heart as my full-time job. Your daughter means the world to me.”

Mom beams and says, “Well then, welcome to Thanksgiving.”

The guys offer to help carry things to the dining area from the kitchen, and it’s a comedy of errors watching them try to fit their large frames past one another through the hallway between the two rooms. Bowls are lifted overhead as two giants turn sideways, barely squeezing past each other. Boots knock the baseboards. Shoulders press against the walls. The men almost have to duck to pass through our doorways.

Marcus takes over, giving orders.

At first he’s helpful, saying things like, “Guys, could someone grab another chair?" and “Can somebody take the gravy from Mrs. Carter?"

Over the course of a few minutes, he starts raising his voice and getting more commanding.

“I need someone on rolls!”

“Dante! Put the caramelized onions on a trivet!”

“Declan! …” Marcus looks at Declan, who’s sitting down because he’s still on injured reserves. “Never mind. Pierce! Grab the sweet potato casserole, will you?”

Mom’s eyes go wide. She raised two girls. When we had boys over they were our bookish or musical friends, understated and average size. I’m not sure she knows quite what to do with six overgrown men with booming voices.

Cass cradles a bowl of cranberry sauce. She’s heading toward the hallway when Marcus raises his flat palm to stop her, and in a voice that means business, says, “Hold up. I think Dante's coming back through.”

Cass narrows her eyes at Marcus. She’s still smiling, but her tone says, Oh, no you didn’t.

“Hey, QB?”

“What?” he asks.

“I’ve been navigating this hallway since I could walk. And my mom has hosted Thanksgiving in this house for thirty years.”

Marcus sizes Cass up and says, “The guys are used to my direction. And I’m used to giving it.”