It’s a brush off. The farm keeps her busy, but she’s not too busy to read my report. It would take an hour at most.
“Mom—”
“You need to stop worrying about the farm,” she says, like it’s as simple as flipping a switch. “That’s my job. Your job is to focus on school and football.”
“I can do both.”
I shove the chicken in my mouth, chewing aggressively. I’ve got everything under control. My grades are fine, and I’m playing the best ball of my life.
“That isn’t the point,” she says firmly. “You shouldn’t have to.”
Frustration wells up from the pit of my stomach. I don’t know what it says about me that all the women in my life are infuriatingly stubborn and independent, but just once, it would be nice if they’d let me help carry the burden.
“I graduate in eight months. You have to let me take on more responsibility.”The sooner, the better.Purple shadows line her eyes and several tendrils of hair have escaped her braid to hang limply around her face. “When was the last time you even had a day off?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “I can sleep when I’m dead.”
My stomach hardens and I have to remind myself that she’s only forty-two.
It’s just a figure of speech.
“Enjoy the time you have left at school,” she urges. “Your grandmother and I have been running this farm since before you were born, and we will continue to do so until it’s time for you to take over.”
That’s half the problem. They’re convinced Willow Bend can weather any storm, and maybe they’re right, but the thought of losing the legacy our family has created over the last five generations is gutting.
“Brady Jameson Vaughn.” Gran leans in close to the screen, eyes narrowed. “Why on earth do you have a bag of ice tied to your thigh?”
Mom straightens and now there are two pairs of narrowed eyes staring critically at my ice clad thigh.
I sigh and set my plate down on the bed, accepting defeat.
There’s always next week.
“Sunday is supposed to be your day off,” Mom says, not missing a beat. “Coach Collins better not be overworking you. If he is, I’ll be giving the NCAA a call, right after I give that man a piece of my mind.”
Mama bear mode activated.
Like mother, like son.
“Relax, Mom. The bruises aren’t from football.”
“Then what are they from?”
I scrub a hand over my face and mumble, “Dance class.”
Mom’s brows shoot up. “I’m sorry, did you say dance class?”
I nod and adjust the ice pack on my left thigh, hoping she’ll drop it.
“I want to know more about this class,” Gran says, chuckling. “What kind of dance class leaves a strapping young man like yourself in recovery?”
The kind I can’t possibly tell them about.
I do not need my mom and grandmother picturing me twirling around a pole.
“It’s, uh, modern dance.” I shrug. “Turns out it requires different muscles than football.”
“Show us your moves!” Gran orders, practically vibrating in her seat. “I need to see this.”
