Page 85 of Topping the Jock
A knock sounded at the front door.
“Should I answer it and scare the hell out of him?” Dad asked with a mischievous gleam in his green eyes.
“Definitely not. Stay there and behave.” I cast him a warning look before leaving the kitchen, hearing him laugh behind me. I walked into the living room to answer the door.
Monty stood on the other side, smiling nervously. He bounced a little on his heels as a cold gust of air rushed past him. “Hey. Is it safe to come in?”
“He’s so pissed,” I lied. “I think he’s going to kill you.”
Horror filled his eyes.
“I’m kidding.”
“Dammit, Specks. I nearly shit myself.” He put a hand to his chest.
“Close the door,” Dad called from the kitchen. “You’re bringing the cold in.”
“He doesn’t sound happy,” Monty whispered, stepping into the house and taking off his coat. He wore a fitted sweater beneath it and jeans that hugged his muscled thighs to perfection. I’d have a lot of fun stripping them off him later. “Quinn?”
“Huh?” I glanced up him. “Did you say something?”
Monty smirked. “Were you checking me out?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Monty’s demeanor changed once we entered the kitchen and he came face-to-face with my dad. I failed to see why he was so intimidated. My dad was roughly the same size as me with a few extra pounds around his midsection. It wasn’t like he could actually kick Monty’s ass if it came down to a one on one fight.
“Mr. Beck,” Monty said, holding out a hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
Dad stared at Monty’s hand, and I held a breath, worried he was going to do or say something rude. But then he clasped Monty’s hand. “Call me Brian.”
Monty wasn’t the only one who smiled in relief.
The oven beeped, and I took the potatoes out before setting the pan on the stovetop. Dad talked to Monty about football as I made our plates and brought them over to the table. Chicken, green beans, and potatoes wasn’t the fanciest meal in the world, but Monty had said it was one of his favorites. He smiled at me across the table as we sat to eat.
“None of that now,” Dad mumbled, looking between us. “No goo-goo eyes over dinner.”
I pressed my lips into a line as Monty dropped his gaze to his plate. I had to look away from him because I knew he was trying hard not to laugh. We really were like two damn kids.
“So, Montgomery,” Dad said, cutting his chicken. “Do you think you’ll stick around for a while?”
Monty wiped his mouth. “Yes, sir.” His eyes found mine. “It took me a while to realize it, but this is my home. The only place I wanna be.”
Weight pressed on my chest, but I felt light too. A contradiction. But love wasn’t meant to be logical. It was confusing and messy, sometimes painful, and more than anything, it was the most incredible feeling in the world.
“Good to hear,” Dad responded. “I’m looking forward to next football season. Did that Dean kid get a scholarship?”
“Yeah.” Monty beamed like a proud parent. “He got a full ride to play college ball in Texas. Same school I went to.”
As Dad started talking about plays and ways to improve defense, I zoned out. That crap went over my head. But Monty looked so hot as he sat across from me, brown eyes bright as he answered my dad’s questions. They were getting along better than I ever imagined.
After dinner, Monty helped me wash off the plates before we went into the living room. Dad stood by the mantel, smiling as he touched the little metal steam engine he’d helped me make for the high school history fair.
“I remember that,” Monty said, looking at the figure before moving his stare to me. “Mr. Fulton displayed it in his class for weeks after you won.”
“You have a good memory,” I said, impressed.
