Page 185 of Tangled with the Tight End

Declan and I exchange a look.

“Well, as much as we appreciate y’all pitching in, maybe save the drills for the field,” Cass suggests, squeezing past Marcus and Dante without dropping even a dollop of cranberry sauce.

“Told you, QB,” Treyvon says. “We’ve got this.”

“You can call Delaney Cold Turkey,” Jaxon says with a wink in Cass’s direction. “He loves that nickname.”

When we’re all seated with all the dishes spread out, Dad says a blessing. Declan’s next to me, holding my hand, and Treyvon’s holding the other. My sister’s across from me, flanked by Jaxon and Marcus.

While everyone bows their heads, Cass and I exchange a silent conversation. I glance not-so-subtly at Marcus. She shrugs. I smile. She rolls her eyes. Then I raise my brows. And she shakes her head.

Dad says, “... and for these blessings we are infinitely grateful,” and the table becomes a flurry of grabbing dishes, passing them around and loud chatter.

“We’re so glad you boys could join us,” Mom says, as if she’s hosting a group of stragglers Cass and I brought home over a break from college, not half the Thunder starting lineup.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carter,” Jaxon says. “We’re just glad we’re not eating leftovers in some hotel.”

“Is that what you normally do?” Mom asks.

“Pretty much,” Treyvon says. “Most years.”

“Well now, isn’t that a shame.”

The basket of bread and rolls is already empty, so I stand to get more, lifting the basket from the center of the table. “Can I get anyone anything while I’m up? I’m going to fill this back up.”

“I could use more iced tea,” Dante says.

Marcus looks at Dante and says, “Don’t make her serve you.”

Cass pivots and looks Marcus in the eyes. “She offered.”

“I did offer. Here, give me your glass, Dante.”

Dante glances between Marcus and me. So I extend my hand and Dante gives me the glass.

As I’m walking to the kitchen, I hear my sister ask Marcus, “Do you have them all under some sort of spell?”

Jaxon cuts through the tension. “You should hear her rattle off stats. It’s impressive.”

“Really?” Marcus says.

There’s a note of taunting in his voice. Basically, that’s like catnip to my sister.

“I know some of your stats,” she says.

Some? She’s purposely underselling herself. It’s like J.K. Rowling saying she might be able to write a story of some sort. These men have no idea what they’ve just unleashed. Jaxon does. And he’s probably enjoying this whole exchange immensely since he set it up.

My sister addresses Marcus. “Let’s talk about your security blanket over here, Treyvon Harris.”

Security blanket? No. She. Didn’t. I laugh to myself.

I step back into the dining room and set the basket of rolls and bread down. The guys descend upon it like a flock of seagulls. Then I hand Dante his tea and take my seat in time to watch my sister pivot and stare directly into Marcus’s eyes.

“This season, in the past eleven games he started, Treyvon’s had an incredible seventy-eight receptions. That’s nine hundred sixty-three receiving yards. Eight receiving touchdowns. An average of over twelve yards per catch. We’re talking fifty-one first downs. Only one drop all season. And one has to ask themselves, was that drop on him or the guy who threw the ball?

“Not to mention his career highs: four games with over one hundred receiving yards, his whopping fourteen catches last year against the Falcons, and his longest single reception of seventy-one yards, which, yes, you threw, but he caught like a work of art.”

She takes a deep breath and then an even longer sip of her tea.