Page 3 of Presley's Christmas Catch
Somewhere. The only place people talk about TOK are obscure Reddit threads or the TOK forum on the website. I wonder if I’ve ever seen him post something. That flicker of a crush flares. And besides that, this conversation is hard to fit with the memes that pop up of him throwing things. It makes me want to find out about the good guy Layla told me not to dismiss.
“I’ve heard that story before,” I say. “I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”
“Same.” Brock takes a sip of his Coke. Our eyes meet for a moment, and it seems like he relaxes a little more into his seat. “Still, I can’t help but cross my fingers. I’m dying to know if Lyra gave up her powers or took the chance that she could save Eldraeth with them.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’re glossing over the biggest part of the choice—abandoning Kael.”
Brock stares at me, that squinty, almost a glare, look coming back, but I see it for what it is now. He’s pondering. He’s one of those people who has a resting angry face, and it’s been misunderstood. One side of his mouth turns up. “How could I forget?”
There’s something knowing in that turn of his lips that makes me blush. Yes, as a thirteen-year-old girl, I was extremely invested in the romantic subplot of Lyra and Kael through the books.
Okay, yes. I still am.
Also, I have a feeling that next time I reread the books, how I imagine Kael to look might shift. He’ll be impossibly tall, blondhair darkening closer to the roots, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache.
Our conversation turns into discussion and light-hearted arguments over various plot lines and fan theories. Little by little, the grumpy persona Brock hides behind fades. I’m seeing the good guy that could be friends with Lincoln, that would have Layla championing him.
After our third Cokes, Brock nods to my necklace again. “Is your aunt a fan of the books too? You said she bought them for you.”
I keep a smile on my face because even though Brock and I have solidly bonded over TOK, it’s too soon to cry in front of him. Talking about Aunt Shannon doesn’t always bring me to tears. It’s been almost a year since she died. But even though she only read the first book with me, she supported my habit in every way she could. The only reason she didn’t buy me the rest of the series from Amazon herself was because Mom insisted I should earn it.
“Not really,” I say, grateful my voice is steady. I clear my throat to make sure it stays that way. “But she loved my obsession and fed it all the time.”
“Loved.” He catches the way I used past tense and tilts his head at me.
My smile turns into a sad one that I can’t help. “She passed away almost a year ago.” I reach up and touch the necklace. “She was my best friend.”
“I’m sorry, Presley.” The genuineness to his tone melts my insides.
“I think Layla might have been right,” I murmur.
I can’t believe he picks it up amidst all the noise around us, but his pondering face comes back as he eyes me. “Right about what?”
My cheeks warm, but I think of Aunt Shannon and how she’d be giving me eyebrow wiggles and encouraging me to flirtit up if she were here. “Just that you’re a good guy, despite your penchant for helmet throwing.”
He lets out a short, dry laugh. “Long story short, my dad left when I was eight, and my mom didn’t have money for a therapist—not that I would’ve talked to one, to be honest—so she signed me up for football so I had an outlet for my anger. I know I shouldn’t do stuff like that on the sidelines, that I should express my frustration in private. And that the Devils are using it to sweep stuff under the rug. But dumping a cooler of ice water out—” Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten about that meme last season. “It’s better than me pointing out all the ways my teammates aren’t doing their jobs.” I barely catch it, but he says under his breath, “I know football.” It’s not meant for me to hear, and unlike him, I let it go because this is different than admitting that maybe Layla is trying to do some matchmaking. He’s reassuring himself.
“Things are bad?” I say anyway. Honestly, anyone watching a few football games knows the Devils are in a spiral that no one wants to take responsibility for. Not management, not the coaches, and definitely not the all-stars they keep trading for to save the sinking ship.
It’s a couple moments before he answers, and he doesn’t meet my eye when he does. “Too many guys are in it for themselves, trying to be the star and to make the headlines. That’s not howteamswork.” He looks up and meets my gaze. “McKay Thompson was picked in the first round, led LSU to a national championship. He’s one of the best QBs in the league, but none of that matters if he doesn’t have time to make plays, if linebackers are on top of him before he can hand off—forget about getting a pass. And if he does? Half the time it’s intercepted because he has to rush it.” He shakes his head quickly. “I’m sorry. You probably don’t want to know all of that.”
It's my turn to smirk, although I don’t think it’s as sexy as when Brock does it. There really is something to say about thosebrooding guys. And I have a weakness for them—thank you, Sir Kael Winteridge.
“You know who my dad is, right?”
“Hmm. Presley Tatum… Tatum.” His eyes widen, surprised. “Wait.ThatTatum? As in Steven Tatum, the legend?”
“I can’t wait to tell him you said that.” I grin. “The point is, I can talk football. And I like to. I wouldn’t be working for the Rays if I didn’t.”
He returns my grin, and the way it lights up his face makes tiny footballs bounce around in my stomach. “Well, Presley, I don’t know what it is about tonight. Maybe it’s that you’re a fellow TOK fan—” He makes the sign of the Eldraeth brotherhood, three fingers pressed against his heart. I giggle, which I try to reel in and then can’t. “Or drinking all this soda,” he continues. “But I’ve said more to you about all that than I’ve told anyone except Lincoln.”
“You got a Veilstone on you?” I ask in a teasing voice. “I’ll happily Shadowbind your secret and take it to my grave.”
“Too bad. I’m fresh out. Any chance that necklace is a Veilstone?”
I pick it up and finger it. “Pretty sure it’s glass. Or maybe a rock painted black.” I shrug. Aunt Shannon showed me the Etsy store she got the necklace from, and the artist is legit, but I don’t think they’re charging $19.95 for real obsidian.
“Guess I’ll just have to trust you.” He makes a face like it’s no big deal, but I don’t buy it.
