Kept (18 page)

Jordan glanced up as they neared. “Tracy! Miska, right?” Jordan gave Tracy a hug, then pulled Miska into a quick one. She smelled like silk. “Miska, this is Matt. He just got home.”

“From?” Miska asked.

“Marines.” He sent her a friendly grin. “Done with that. Time to start school.”

“Miska rescued Dillan when he about killed himself.”

“Ah.” Matt nodded knowingly as he pulled another chair toward them and motioned for Miska to take his. He perched on the deck railing.

“How long were you in the military?”

“Four years. Mostly in Hawaii.”

Tracy shook her head. “We prayed you’d survive that torment.”

Miska laughed with Jordan, and Matt smirked. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t all a beach party.”

When Dave Foster opened the patio door and called that food was ready, Miska joined everyone inside and filled her plate. Tracy and Jordan introduced her to people, the names swirling through her head. She’d be lucky if she remembered anyone besides Matt.

They took their food to the deck and talked while they ate. Two men joined them, but neither singled her out. They asked Matt about his last year as a Marine, about why he was getting out.

“Hey, Dillan,” someone called behind her. She heard the sound of hands clasping, a smack on a back, guys doing their guy thing.

She focused on the conversation around her rather than glance over her shoulder for Dillan, but a fold-out chair scraped beside her, and she couldn’t not look. Dillan, all six feet nine inches of him, towered beside her as he nudged a chair next to her, his plate in his good hand. His face and forearm were darker than normal, the bridge of his nose a touch red from an afternoon at Wrigley.

All around her people called out greetings. Matt jumped up to shake his hand, and Miska hid a smile at the obviousness of a guy trying to impress the brother of a girl he liked. Sweet, though. Wade and Zane wouldn’t have cared.

“How are you?” she asked when Dillan finally sat beside her, plate in hand.

“Good. You?” He glanced at her, then picked up his burger and took a bite.

“Fine. How was your weekend?”

He chewed fast, swallowed. “Busy. But good. Nice to have a day off, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

He stuck his fork into a piece of watermelon and popped it into his mouth.

Around them people quieted.

Miska looked up.

Matt, the other men—their eyes locked onto Dillan as if he were doing something fascinating.

He eased back in his seat as he finished chewing. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Tracy invited me. This where you grew up?”

He nodded, eyes still on his plate, his fork stabbing another piece of watermelon.

She watched him a second longer, and when she turned back, she caught the men’s gazes going from Dillan to her and back again.

What were they seeing that she wasn’t?

Behind her, the chatter picked up. Garrett’s voice rose over others as he told someone about how bad the Hogs’ pitcher looked.

Miska focused on her food. Garrett would think his presence at Wrigley had something to do with Mark’s performance, but Mark hadn’t even told his pitching coach yet about the pain in his shoulder. Let Garrett have his moment.

Matt stood as Garrett pulled up a chair beside Tracy. “Hey, Garrett.”

“Mattie, good to see ya’.” Garrett grabbed the hand Matt offered and pulled him into a male hug, finishing with the slap on the back. “So you’re a regular civilian, huh?”

“Yep. Glad to be back in the flat, boring Midwest. How was the Cubs game?”

Cam, one of the other men, perked up. “You were at the Cubs game?”

Garrett picked up his plate and sat. “Second row. Right behind home plate.”

“Nice.”

Dillan shifted, his foot bumping Miska’s. “Sorry.”

“Shall we talk about the game?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Cubs won so…”

“How much did Garrett heckle Mark?”

“Not much.”

“Then he’s taking credit for the win.”

“You know Garrett. But Mark didn’t look good. I wonder if he’s hurt.”

“Hmm.” She sipped from her can of lemonade.

Dillan scooted lower in his seat, his voice beside her ear. “Is he?”

She peeked at him.

This time he didn’t look away. A smile spread over his face. “He’s hurt? What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t say he was—”

“Don’t take up poker.”

She hissed out a frustrated breath. “You can’t breathe a word. No one knows.”

“Wow. I feel like an insider.” He grinned, rubbing his chin. “You know, this might help me get into my place sooner. What’s it worth to you?”

“If you say
anything
to
anyone
—”

“So a lot. Let me think. You know, my car needs an oil change.”

“Dillan—”

“Yeah, you probably don’t know how to change oil. You could do my grocery shopping.”

“Stop it.”

“I know—you have to open a can of tuna every day until I get my cast off.”

“That’s just wrong.”

He snickered.

She smacked his arm. “It’s not funny. I can’t believe you read that on my face. Don’t you dare say anything to Garrett.”

He filled his fork with potato salad. “You know I’m messing with you.”

He focused on his food, and Miska returned to the conversation. Again, Matt and Cam watched them, looking away as she caught them. Seriously, what was going on?

The deck and yard filled up as the crowd in the house filed outside with their food.

When he finished eating, Dillan joined the guys on the lawn. Someone tossed him a football, and he caught it against his chest with one arm. Not bad for a wounded klutz.

While the girls talked, Miska’s gaze drifted to Dillan. The other men joked with him, treating him like a good friend, like a guy worthy of respect. So much better than the constant ribbing Garrett gave him.

“Hey, ladies,” Garrett hollered from the lawn. “You up for Frisbee soccer?”

“Bring it!” Jordan called.

Tracy scowled at Miska. “I stink at sports.”

“So hold down the sidelines.” Jordan hauled Miska to her feet. “Me, I need to show up Matt before he gets a head like Garrett. You playing, Miska?”

Dillan stood out in the crowd heading toward the empty green space behind the Fosters’ house. “Absolutely.” She kicked off her sandals and stashed them under her chair.

Jordan tugged her forward. “Miska’s on my team.”

The teams divided with Garrett joining Jordan, Miska, and six others. Dillan stood across from her at the soccer field’s center line and quirked an eyebrow.

“What?” she asked.

“Shoeless Miska Tomlinson?”

“Worked for Joe Jackson, didn’t it?”

He shrugged.

Miska’s team started with the Frisbee. Jordan and Garrett made a great tandem with Jordan flinging the Frisbee true and straight to Garrett who jumped higher than everyone else, snagged it, and sent it into the soccer goal. In a matter of minutes, they were ahead, two to zero.

After the other team got the Frisbee past her and into her team’s goal, Miska gave up on defense and switched to offense, running down the opposite side of the field from Garrett. He caught sight of her before anyone else did and sent the Frisbee flying. She snagged it by a fingertip and threw it toward Jordan, but it arced away and landed in the grass.

Beside her, Dillan ran backwards as they headed toward the other end. “Nice try, newbie.”

“Newbie? Do you know how tempting it is to trip you?”

“You wouldn’t—” His foot flew out from beneath him. He caught himself before his head could slam into the ground.

Miska gasped. “I swear, Dillan, I didn’t trip you.”

“I know.” He grinned at the Frisbee that landed a few feet ahead of them. His teammate grabbed it and sent it the opposite way. “I was distracting you.”

“Oh, of course.”

They jogged farther down the field. Dillan’s team kept the Frisbee near her goal, and she and Dillan stopped to catch their breath. Behind the trees on the far side of the park, the sky began to turn pink and lavender. She squinted at the occasional ray of light that jumped between swaying leaves and tried to blind her.

Somewhere someone was grilling. “Smell that?”

Dillan sniffed the air.

“What is that? Ribs? Steak?”

He pointed behind them. “It’s coming from over there.”

She looked but couldn’t find the source. When she turned back, Dillan was yards ahead of her, sprinting for the Frisbee heading their way.

“Dillan!” She chased him.

The Frisbee stayed up, and Dillan leaped high into the air, nabbing the edge and pulling it into his palm. He landed hard on his feet, almost falling to his knees as she skidded to a stop. He flung his arm out for balance.

Two of his teammates stood alone by her team’s goal. Once he stood—

Miska leaped onto his back.

He laughed beneath her. “Uh, foul.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. “Drop the Frisbee and no one gets hurt.”

People began to laugh and cheer. Someone wolf-whistled.

“Miska.” Dillan coughed. Laughed. “Get off.” He twisted, his left arm coming back to his chest to fling the Frisbee.

Miska lunged over his shoulder for it.

He laughed again, straightening. “Are you serious?”

She slipped. With a yelp, she tightened her hold around his neck, one hand grabbing a fistful of shirt.

He stumbled back a step.

Safely on his back again, she made another grab for the Frisbee.

“Please.” Amusement tinged his voice. He held the Frisbee out, way beyond her reach.

“No fair. Your arms are like six feet long.”

“And you climbing on my back is fair.” He brought the Frisbee in close, let her reach for it, and held it out again. Pulled it close, let her reach for it, held it out again. And again.

Across the field laughter grew. Jordan flopped onto the grass, an arm across her stomach, while Garrett watched with his hands on his hips. “Let me have it, Dillan. You’re making a scene.”

“So?”

“So I can live with this. Can you?”

“Watch me,” he said and started to run.

She jerked backwards. Her mouth flew open, and she grabbed his shoulders. “Dillan!”

His long legs ate up the distance. Miska hung on, each fist clenching the front of his shirt, each step jouncing her up and down. She pressed her cheek against the side of his head, his hair cushioning her jaw. They passed everyone until only one man stood between them and the goal.

Dillan leaned over the shorter guy’s head and tossed the Frisbee in.

His team erupted.

Miska slid off his back and landed in a heap on the ground. Dillan high-fived Cam, then turned to her, a grin across his face. He offered her a hand up.

She swatted it away. “You cheated.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What was I thinking?”

On her feet, she flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You weren’t, I’m sure. There’s not enough oxygen up there. How are you even alive?”

Laughing, Cam shook his head and jogged downfield.

Dillan pointed toward his ear, his chest heaving beneath his crumpled Cubs T-shirt. “You’ve got grass in your hair.”

She ran her fingers over her curls. “Did I get it?”

“No, it’s still—” He brought his hand closer. “You’re right below it.”

She shook her head, moved her hand up. “Here?”

“Let me.”

Her hair gave beneath his fingers, a curl separating his skin from hers. And then his fingers were in front of her, a blade of grass—brown and jagged at one end—in his hand. He tossed it to the ground. “There.”

“Any more?”

“Don’t think so.” He checked both sides of her head. “You’re good.” He took a step toward the center of the field, and Miska fell in beside him, seeing the Frisbee take off at the other end.

Cam said something to a guy who glanced over his shoulder at her and Dillan.

“Why does everyone keep looking at us?”

“What do you mean?”

“While we were eating and just now. Every time I look up, guys are watching us.”

He shrugged. “Got me.” He eased into a jog and began to leave her behind.

“What are you doing?”

“Playing defense.” He smirked over his shoulder. “I’ll explain it to you some time.”

Wasn’t he funny. She matched his pace, staying behind him, out of sight. Across the field Garrett noticed her, and she fell back, letting Dillan put distance between them.

Garrett zipped the Frisbee to her.

When Dillan turned, his mouth fell open. She caught the Frisbee, and he came at her, arms stretched out, huge frame blocking her angles. She aimed the Frisbee above his head, waited until he jumped, then threw the Frisbee between his feet.

But his giant foot knocked it to the ground. He scooped it up and sent it the other way.

She growled out her disgust.

Jordan jogged to her and slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Good try, but it’s pretty much impossible to get it past Godzilla over here.”

Dillan snorted. “Godzilla?”

Jordan peered at the back of Miska’s head. “You’ve got grass in your hair.”

Grass? “Dillan, you said my hair was fine.”

He watched Jordan pull a few pieces from the back of her hair. “I didn’t check the back.”

Really?

He winked at Miska, then jogged down the field.

“Did he just wink at me?”

Jordan stared at Miska, then Dillan. “Did he?”

Yes. He had. “It’s no big deal.”

“Umm…” Jordan swallowed and sent another questioning look Dillan’s way. “You’re good. No more grass.”

Jordan jogged across the field, saying something to Garrett as she passed. Garrett glanced toward Dillan who stood a good ten yards ahead of Miska, his hand shading his eyes while he followed the action at the other end of the field.

So it was a big deal. Evidently he didn’t wink at women very much.

But he’d winked at her.

Tracy’s tire was as flat as a tire could be.

Beneath the streetlamp, Garrett fingered the nail responsible. “Dad should have something to plug this. Miska, you okay if Dillan takes you home?”

It was nice of him to ask, but that was more than okay. “Sure.”