Page 128 of Well That Happened

Hunter limps in at that exact moment, one hand braced against his lower back, the other gripping a bag of frozen peas pressed to his thigh.

“Can someone explain why the sweet potatoes are in the bathroom sink?” he growls.

“You okay there, Grandpa?” I ask.

He glares. “Pulled my groin during warm-ups yesterday.”

Caleb snorts. “That’s code for ‘was showing off during hallway sprints and tripped over a hockey stick.’”

“It was astrategic misstep,” Hunter mutters.

“You cried,” Grayson says flatly. “I watched it happen.”

“Igrimaced.”

“You said—and I quote—‘Tell my mom I love her.’”

“I was being dramatic for effect!”

“Gentlemen,” I interrupt, stepping between them with a dish towel like I’m breaking up a toddler fight. “Can we please just get the food on the table before someone needs actual medical attention?”

The dining table is too small. The chairs are mismatched. Someone definitely used a wine glass for the gravy because we don’t own an actual gravy boat. But it’s warm and loud, and the food—against all odds—is edible.

I’m carrying the last of the plates to the table when it happens.

Grayson sets a chair down beside his, gives me a look, and murmurs, “Here.”

Caleb swoops in on the other side. “Hey Ri, this side’s closer to the wine.”

Hunter, across the table, just scowls at both of them. “She can sit wherever she wants.”

“Thank you,” I say primly. “I choose…” I sit down on the armchair we used as a seat at the head of the table, between all three of them.

It’s neutral ground. Switzerland with stuffing.

Around the table, it’s a mash-up of the misfit elite.

Nate—the cocky lacrosse player with a heart of gold and a mysterious stash of gourmet spices no one understands—somehow brought truffle mac and cheese and is already angling for leftovers.

Tanner—Caleb’s freshman protégé who blushes every time someone curses and brought a store-bought pumpkin pie like he was offering the Holy Grail.

And Zoe—the team’s part-time trainer, full-time chaos gremlin, who arrived with a tub of whipped cream, a bottle of tequila, and zero explanation.

And for the record, I’m not complaining about it.

Dinner is loud and messy and perfect.

Hunter complains about his pulled groin every fifteen minutes like he’s been gravely wounded in combat.

Grayson keeps refilling my glass without me noticing.

Caleb tries to feed me bites from his fork just to be annoying—and yes, I let him. Once.

Dessert follows, and everyone migrates to the couch like pilgrims returning from battle. There’s a movie playing, but no one’s really watching. There are too many full bellies, too much wine, and way too much cozy energy buzzing around the room.

I don’t mean to fall asleep.

But one minute I’m wedged between Grayson and Caleb, curled under a throw blanket that smells suspiciously like Grayson’s detergent—and the next, I’m out cold.

---