Dating the Defensive Back (The Nash Brothers Book 1)

Civil Wars Are Not Laughing Matters

“What the fuck are you wearing?” I ask my brother when he opens the door to the house my parents bought when two of their boys landed in the same place.

As I glance around, I see my mom’s touches are everywhere. She decorated this place, but it’s my dad who’s living here. It hits me once again how strange it is that they’re getting divorced.

I always figured kids were the ones affected by their parents’ divorce. I didn’t realize how much it could fuck up adults, too.

Asher is my dad’s favorite of his four boys, and he’s never made a secret of that. I’m certain it’s why he agreed to allow Asher to stay with him when he got into trouble last year, but I think Asher might be good for my dad, too—at least as he’s going through the divorce, he’s not alone.

My mom, though…she’s all alone in upstate New York, two hours from civilization on her goat farm in the middle of nowhere. There’s a little downtown area with a diner, a market, and a gas station, but otherwise there’s not much around unless you’re interested in a solid thirty-minute drive.

I worry about her, but she insists she’s happy with her goats.

She comes out to visit, and now that three of her boys are on the same team, certainly she’ll spend most of the season either out here or traveling to our games.

She always loved watching us play, and I know it’s been hard on her having us all in different cities. She’d make it to at least one home game and one away game for each of us during the season, but it’s a lot to manage with four boys in the league.

Asher looks down at his outfit—a bright ass purple velvet tracksuit. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You’re wearing velvet. To dinner.”

“It’s velour,” he says, as if that’s a solid defense.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“Well, you like Tootsie Rolls,” he says.

“Yeah, because they’re a fucking delicious, low-calorie treat, and that’s got nothing to do with your ridiculous velour tracksuit.” I pull one out of my pocket, and he laughs.

“Okay, then. Bet. I pick up more pussy wearing this than you do wearing that.” He nods pointedly to the black T-shirt and jeans I’ve had on all day.

“I’m not taking that bet,” I say. I’m not taking it because I’m supposed to be in a relationship with Ava, but he takes it to mean something else entirely.

“Because you know I’ll win.”

“Yeah, exactly that.” I roll my eyes. “Where the fuck is Dad so we can get this over with?”

“I’m right here,” he says, walking into the foyer. At least he’s dressed normally, though black slacks and a short-sleeve, button-down plaid shirt are very much a dad move. “And why are you so eager to get this over with? Got somewhere to be?”

“Always.”

“Never anywhere more important than with family,” he says, pursing his lips.

Do I really have to sit through this dinner with him? I’m starting to remember why I didn’t rush to call him when I arrived in town.

He’s always been about family loyalty, family ties, family this, family that. Yet he’s the one who fucked everything up so badly that my mom filed for divorce. Where’s the family loyalty in that? Pushing away the woman who supported him for the last forty years doesn’t seem so devoted, but I guess I don’t know what the fuck went on in their marriage. All I know is he’s cried family loyalty my entire life, only second to football coming first.

I unwrap the Tootsie Roll I found in my pocket and pop it into my mouth. It’s a little stale, but when they’re hard, it just means I can make the deliciousness last a little longer.

Asher rolls his eyes.

“You two ready?” I ask.

They follow me out to my truck, and Asher slips into the back while Dad rides shotgun.

“Where are we headed?” I ask from the driver’s seat.

“There’s an excellent steakhouse at the Venetian,” Dad says.

Of course he’d pick a steakhouse on the Strip. I force myself not to roll my eyes, but in all honesty, I should start eating less red meat and sugar and start preparing for the upcoming season.

And so should Asher—but that’s on him to decide. I can’t help but wonder if he’s been working out over the last year or if he’s taken it off to play video games.

I should know these things about him, and maybe I will now that we’re in the same town. But even though he’s only five years younger than me, it feels like we come from different eras.

Which is strange considering the woman who currently has my attention is seven years younger than me, and it doesn’t feel like that’s too far removed.

Maybe women are just more mature than men.

And I suppose we prove that once we’re seated at our table.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” our server says. “Are we celebrating anything tonight?”

I nod at Asher to give him the signal.

You know…that signal between brothers where we silently agree that we’re going to annoy our father at this meal and where it becomes our sole mission to get the other one to crack first.

“Well, it’s April first, which is National Trombone Players Day, so we figured a steakhouse was an appropriate place to celebrate,” I say.

Asher smirks at me. “It also marks the ending of the Spanish Civil War, and if that’s not a reason to celebrate, I’m not sure what is.”

I keep my face smooth at his words, but in all honesty, that was a pretty good one.

Our server just looks at us like we’re a couple of weirdos, which we are. It’s fine. “Oh, I get it. April fools!” she says.

“No, these two jackasses are just playing a game to see who can get the other one to laugh first,” Dad says. He rolls his eyes.

“That’s not what we’re doing,” I say solemnly.

“Yeah, Dad. Civil wars are not laughing matters,” Asher says just as solemnly as me.

I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me.

We each order our signature drinks—Hendricks for me, a beer for Asher, and whiskey for Dad—and I peruse the menu as I try to come up with something to make my brother laugh.

To that end, I get up, head to the host stand, and let her know we’re actually here tonight celebrating our dad’s birthday, and if she could be so kind as to find a way to really embarrass him, I’d be forever in her debt.

Usually I flirt my way to getting what I want, but tonight…I don’t. Instead, I simply ask a favor, and I hope she’ll do it. If she doesn’t, that’s cool. If she does, great. But I’m not in the mood to flirt when I can’t get Ava Fucking Maxwell out of my goddamn mind.

Speaking of which, the second I sit back down, Asher glances at me. “So, Ava Maxwell, huh?”

“Fuck off,” I mutter.

His brows shoot up. “Ooh, seems like a touchy subject. Think I’ll press on that nerve just a little more. Are you really doing your best friend’s little sister?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, yes, I’m seeing Ava.”

“I remember little Ava Maxwell,” he murmurs. “She wasn’t so little by the time I went home between my sophomore and junior years of college.”

“Yeah? You saw her back then?” I ask.

“I banged one of her friends. Ava was more the innocent type who didn’t have a clue what was going on in the Taco Bell parking lot on Friday nights.” He shrugs. “Not that I wouldn’t have taken a shot at her, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well, she wouldn’t have taken one with you.”

He holds up both hands. “My-oh-my, we’re getting awfully defensive over the new girlfriend.”

“She had a thing for me back then,” I admit. “She wouldn’t have blown her chances on the likes of you.”

“The likes of you? Who the fuck talks like that?” he asks.

Dad just watches us like we’re in some sort of tennis match. I can’t tell if he’s impressed or embarrassed.

“The brother of the guy wearing velour to a steakhouse,” I say dryly. That gets a laugh out of Dad.

The server delivers our drinks along with a basket of bread, and I snatch the first piece of bread after we order. The three of us make small talk about the voluntary minicamp that’s just three weeks away. It’s voluntary, but since Asher was out for a year and I’m new to the team, we’ll both be there.

I continue my quest to make Asher laugh first after our food is delivered. I pick up the bottle of ketchup sitting on the table, make a space between my steak and my vegetables, and start squeezing the bottle.

“What do you need ketchup for?” Dad asks.

“My veggies.” I keep squeezing, and I catch Asher watching me as a pool of ketchup forms on my plate.

He keeps watching me as the pool spills over the side of my plate and onto the tablecloth.

He glances up, sees me watching him with intensity as I keep squeezing the bottle, and he bursts into laughter. “Fine, you win, you win,” he says, and I start to laugh, too.

Damn, it feels good to laugh with my brother.

It’s been a long time.

Dad just looks at us like we’re both idiots, and maybe we are. But at least we’re two laughing idiots who are about to play on the same team for the first time in our entire lives.

And I, for one, cannot wait.