Hedeserves that.
Sometimes I think he deserves it more than any of them. Mostly because a lot of people would disagree with me on this. Their first choice would be either Conrad, who gave up everything to raise his siblings. Or even Stellan, who became Conrad’s right-hand man from a pretty young age. Not Shepard though, never him. They’d dismiss him without a second glance.
Because at first sight, he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d take care of anyone other than himself. He doesn’t look like someone you could depend on. Yes, he’s the captain of his team, a disciplined athlete, but other than that, it doesn’t look like he’s the guy—who loves to party and have fun, who loves to be the center of attention and provocative—to offer anything meaningful to anyone.
But what they don’t know is, growing up, Shepard had been the only one who could calm Ledger down. The youngest Thorne brother has always had anger issues, and it was Shepard who always stood by his side while the others condemned Ledger. It was Shepard who got him drafted to New York City FC, when no team would touch Ledger. Even now, years later, Shepard is the one who comes back home more than any other Thorne brother.
In fact, Callie let it slip that Shepard is now the sole owner of their childhood home. Conrad wanted to sell it off, but Shep bought it from him and now it’s his house. Something about that tugs at my heart. That’s where I saw him first. That’s where I felt that intense connection with him.
Something about his dichotomy tugs at my heart too. How people see him as a carefree soccer superstar and a playboy; someone they shouldn’t bother digging deeper with because he seems so open and fun. In fact, sometimes I think that’s what hewantspeople to believe, so he goes out of his way to pretend to be that. But that’s exactly what it is: a pretense, a façade. Underneath, I think he has so much more to offer.
“Is that why you came out here?” he asks, breaking into my thoughts.
“I-I’m sorry?”
He waits a beat to answer, and I realize his grip on my bicep has gotten harder. So much so that it’s painful, and I can’t help but flinch. Although I don’t know if it’s from his fingers or his words. “Because you’re so happy for me.”
My heart starts pounds in my chest. “I?—”
“Because I gotta tell you, you didn’t look so happy back there.”
“What?”
“In fact, you looked a little”—he pauses to take me in once again—“red. All flushed and breathless. Like all the air rushed out of your lungs. Like your heart wasn’t beating right. Or maybe beating too much.”
“I—”
“Like you’d been sucker-punched.”
I’m starting to feel the same again and I struggle in his grip. “I have to go. I have?—”
His eyes, pitch black and penetrating, turn hard as he says, “You looked likeyouwanted to be the girl I kneeled for.”
I draw back then, my spine hitting the tree with a thud. “I didn’t.”
“No?”
I shake my head, trying to twist out of his grip. “No. I don’t. I’d never…”
He flicks his eyes over my face as he murmurs, his tone soft and low, as opposed to his harsh features and mean grip, “It’s always nice to meet a fan. Especially when they claim to admire us for our tenacity. When they wax poetic about our strength and how we overcame tragedy.”
I flinch. “I didn’t mean it that way. I?—”
“Especially,” he cuts me off, his grip turning meaner, if possible, “when they’ve got no fucking idea what they’re talking about.”
“I—”
“And usually, I just let it go. I even sign autographs if they want me to. Or take a picture with them. Like my life is a fucking reality TV show, but as I said, I move on. But”—he clenches his jaw for a second, his eyes flashing—“for some mysterious, unknowable reason, I can’t move on from you.”
“M-me?”
He shakes his head, slowly. “No, not you.” Then, still studying my face, “And I’m wondering why that is. Actually, I’ve been wondering ever since Callie started to bring you around. What is it about you, whatthe fuckis it about you that bugs me so much.” He pauses, his eyes narrowed slightly before continuing, “And I think tonight, I finally realized why.”
“Why?” I ask even though I know I’m going to regret it.
I know it down to my bones. I know it more when he leans over me, his dark stare, his dark grip, all pulsing sharply. “It’s thewayyou watch me.”
“I don’t?—”
