Page 105 of Racking Up Penalties
“I think it’s really cool, what you’re doing with the jerseys,” he comments, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us. “It shows how much you care about them… about all of us.”
I glance at him, caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze. “They mean a lot to me,” I admit, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks. “And I want everyone to see that.”
“Then let’s make sure they can’t take their eyes off you,” Tristan says with a warmth that sends ripples through my core.
As we reach my place, I unlock the door and we step into the sanctuary of creativity that awaits us. Tristan’s presence fills the room with an energy that’s both soothing and invigorating.
“Let’s get started,” I say, the jerseys draped over my arm.
The hum of the sewing machine fills the room, a steady heartbeat accompanying the afternoon light that spills across my makeshift workstation. Jerseys splayed out before me, I can’t help but smile at the sight of their last names. My fingers brush over the numbers, tracing the contours of what will become a testament to my tangled affections.
“Need any help?” Tristan’s voice is gentle, but I shake my head without looking up.
“No, I’ve got this,” I reply, threading the needle with practiced ease. “This part… it’s something I need to do myself.”
I feel him nod, though my attention doesn’t waver from the task at hand. The jerseys lay side by side.
With the pieces positioned just right, I press the pedal down and the machine whirs to life. The needle dives into the fabric, punctuating my focus with its rhythmic dance. I guide the material, careful not to snag or bunch, as Ethan’s number begins to meld seamlessly alongside Liam’s. Their names, once emblazoned on separate backs, now join in a display of unity that feels like a mirror to my heart.
“Wow, Tessa, that looks incredible,” Tristan murmurs from behind me, his voice tinged with sincere admiration.
“Thanks,” I say, pausing to wipe a stray thread from my cheek. “It’s symbolic, you know? They’re both so important to me, in different ways. I don’t want to choose. I shouldn’t have to.”
Tristan’s hand lands softly on my shoulder, his touch grounding. “You don’t,” he assures me. “They love you for who you are—all of you.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Almost done,” I announce a while later, securing the last stitch and snipping the thread. Holding the jersey up to the light, I can’t help the swell of pride that fills my chest. It’s more than fabric and thread; it’s a declaration stitched from the depths of my soul.
“Ready to knock their socks off?” Tristan teases, and I laugh, the sound lighter than I expect.
“Game day will never be the same,” I say, folding the jersey carefully. This creation, born from compromise and creativity, is ready to make its debut. And I, with the support of the boys I love, am ready to face whatever comes next.
Slipping the jersey over my head, I smooth the fabric down my torso, feeling its weight settle against my skin. It’s snug but comfortable—a perfect fit.
“Look at you,” I murmur to myself, turning this way and that. The name “Matthews” on top of “Johnson” across my back in a symbol of unity, the numbers below each name. I imagine Ethan’s possessive gaze and Liam’s playful pride as they spot me in the crowd, and a surge of excitement courses through me.
With the game approaching, I hustle to get ready, wanting every detail to be just right. I brush my red hair until it falls like a curtain of flames down my back. A touch of mascara to accentuate my lashes, a dab of gloss to make my lips shine—subtle yet effective. Today is about them, yet I can’t deny the thrumming of my own heart, eager to celebrate all of us.
“Let’s do this,” I whisper, giving myself a final once-over. Slipping into a pair of well-worn jeans and comfy sneakers, I grab a jacket.
I am ready to make a statement.
Tristan and I weave through the sea of excitement leading to the stadium. Our fingers are laced together, a lifeline in the swelling crowd. Every step pulses with the collective energy of game day—the shouts, the laughter, the distant roar that seems to call out my name.
“Feeling good about the jersey?” Tristan asks, his voice a soothing melody above the clamor.
I glance down at the unique fabric embracing me, Ethan’s and Liam’s legacies interwoven on my chest. “More than good,” I say, squeezing Tristan’s hand.
“Then they’re the luckiest guys here,” he replies with a soft chuckle, his deep blue eyes reflecting pride and an unwavering bond that only siblings understand. “Except for me, obviously.”
We navigate the throngs of fans, each one adorned in team colors, faces painted with numbers and wild stripes. But in the sea of uniforms, it’s my patchwork jersey that draws curious looks and whispered speculations. It’s not just a piece of clothing; it’s a declaration.
“Look at you, trendsetter,” Tristan teases, but there’s an undercurrent of admiration in his tone.
“Maybe after today, everyone will want a mixed jersey,” I muse aloud, imagining a world where love isn’t confined to a single number or name.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Emma absolutely will,” he agrees, and we share a knowing smile. “Too bad she has to miss tonight’s game.”
