“He says hi. And he will so kick Brock’s ass if he needs to.” There was a pause. “No, you don’t know him… Yes, the football player… That Brock.” Another pause. “He said he would totally kick his ass.”
Emmy shook her head, but she was smiling. “I’m pretty sure that won’t be necessary. But I appreciate the offer. Love you.”
“You too, sissy.” Krystal made a kiss-sound. “Talk later.”
“Okay.” Emmy dug through her bag, pulling out her brush and make-up bag. Her momma would have a fit if she saw the state of her daughter. CiCi King was all about a woman looking her best—at all times. Best might be pushing it. But that didn’t stop her from attempting damage control.
Besides, she needed to remember why she was here. Her sweet Daddy had found a way to combine her fledgling solo career with working on a cause she believed in. She was the new face and voice of every Sunday night football intro anthem—and she would serve as one of the American Football League’s Drug Free, Like Me ambassadors. The AFL’s charity program helped raise funds for drug addiction prevention, treatment, and recovery programs as well as outreach education in schools and sports camps. Between her millions of fans and followers and the several million more football devotees, this was her chance to do something that mattered.
Little things like squishy socks, limp hair, or running into the boy—man—who’d crushed her hopes and dreams and heart didn’t really matter.
; * * *
“Don’t you dare get water on my wood floors, Brock Nathaniel Watson.” Aunt Mo’s voice carried all the way down the hall from the kitchen.
Brock stepped back outside the front door, kicked off his still-soaking Racer sneakers, and left them on his aunt’s covered porch. His socks were just as saturated. With a sigh, he tugged them off and rolled up the cuffs of his jeans. The damn rain continued to pour down, thick sheets hammering the roof and ground with surprising force. A crack of thunder split the air and rolled across the grey-black sky.
A flash of Emmy Lou, wide-eyed and shaking, with rain dripping off her nose and chin, rushed in on him. Again. He couldn’t shake it—shake her.
She’d been scared stiff. For damn good reason. If his brakes had locked up? His truck had skidded? The crushing pressure against his chest had him sucking in a deep breath, his eyes narrowing as he peered out into the storm. She was okay. Shaken, sure, but okay.
Hell, he was damn near in shock. She was the last person he’d expected to see. And this? Well, running her over wasn’t exactly the sort of reunion he’d imagined.
Not that he’d spent much time thinking about her. Of course not. That—she—was ancient history. Once that door shut, he’d locked it up tight and never opened it again.
Her band, The Three Kings, were probably doing some concert or something. Football wasn’t the only thing that happened at the stadium, he knew that. But, in the six years he’d been playing for the Houston Roughnecks, he’d never run into a single performer.
Of course, it would have to be Emmy.
“You coming in?” Aunt Mo’s voice jolted him back to the present.
He stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Your shoes out front?” Aunt Mo called out, the steady beat of her footsteps coming down the hall. The moment she saw him, she shook her head. “Look at you, Brock. Did you swim here? Go on, find something dry to wear before you catch pneumonia.”
“Not just worried about your floors after all?” He grinned.
She rolled her eyes and offered up her cheek. “Don’t you give me any sass, young man. You give me a kiss and get yourself changed for lunch.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek, then headed down the hall to his old room, and closed the door behind him.
“I made you some brisket to take home. And some meatloaf.” She was on the other side of his door. “I remember you said the boys liked my oatmeal cookies so I made five dozen for you to share.”
He tugged off his wet clothes, shaking his head. “Training doesn’t start for another two weeks, Aunt Mo.” She knew that. As soon as training, pre-season, and games dates were posted, she knew. Half the time, she knew about things before he did. Her large-print calendar was marked up with a rainbow of permanent marker ink. Aunt Mo never missed one of his games. She was a die-hard football fan. No, she was his fan, and it meant the world to him.
“Is that right?” she paused. “Well, I guess you’ll have to take them. You can share with Connie.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell Aunt Mo his agent was a vegan. And a health fanatic. He’d only ever seen Connie eat salad. Without dressing.
“Connie could use a cookie or two. She’s all skin and bones. You tell her to send Trish over here so I can teach her partner how to cook.”
“I’ll tell her.” He chuckled, tugging on some jeans, socks and boots, and pulling on one of the starched button-up shirts hanging in his closet. He ran a hand through his hair and pulled the door open. “Better?”
“It is.” She hooked her arm through his. “Come on and eat. I’m guessing you didn’t have much of a breakfast?”
He’d told her most of his meals were prepared for him by his trainer—something she’d clucked her tongue over. But it took a hell of a lot of effort, and about nine thousand calories a day, to stay in peak shape. Being six five and almost three hundred pounds of muscle wasn’t easy. “I ate.” At six, he’d consumed five eggs, oatmeal, wheat toast with peanut butter and honey, an apple and a banana. At eight, he’d eaten nearly as much. Six meals a day, every day. All a necessary part of his fitness regimen.