Yeah, I didn’t hold back my sniffle. “Thank you, Carter.”

Sacha patted my back. "Let's go sit over there, Princess." He stood up first, holding his hand out for me to take. After pulling me up, he led me toward one of the benches nearby. “I’m sorry,” he kept repeating, smiling more than he should have, but I could tell he felt remorseful at least. If it had been either of my brothers who’d done that, they would have been on the floor dying laughing.

Out of my peripheral vision, I could see Eli arguing with Mason and Julian. By the time we made it to the bench, my brother was gesturing wildly and pointing in my direction.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” the man sitting next to me asked, his entire body angled toward mine.

I went back to holding my face. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Positive?”

I nodded.

“I’m not joking. Are you sure?”

I gave him the same answer. I was fine. Mostly.

The corners of his mouth pulled down just slightly, his eyes roaming my cheeks and jaw. After a minute of silence, he smiled gently at me, his dark eyebrows slightly rising. “That was pretty fun though, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I sniffed again, “until you tried to break my jaw.”

“It was an accident!” He frowned, reaching over to put his hand on the top of my head gently. “I am so fucking sorry, I can’t tell you how shitty I feel. Do you want to hit me?”

I shook my head.

The corners of his mouth twitched up again. He was still fighting laughing no matter how bad he felt. “I really do feel awful. I can’t believe that happened.”

I made sure he watched me as I rolled my eyes but smiled afterward. “It’s all right. It isn’t the first time I’ve had a ball kicked at my face.”

Sacha had this expression that was a perfect mix of a frown and a smile. “If it makes you feel any better, you kicked my ass a few times on the field.” We both looked down at him. Brown and green splotches covered his shirt and shorts, and I swear there was even some mud tangled in his leg hairs. If he weren't so handsome, he'd look like a homeless person. "You play pretty fucking dirty."

I just shrugged at him. What was the point in denying it?

"Will you forgive me?"

"No." I frowned and blinked at him from the corner of my eye. "Yes."

Carter came jogging up to us a moment later with an ice-filled plastic baggy. “Here you go,” he said, handing it over.

I thanked him and took the bag; my hand had barely left my chin when both men hissed. I froze in place. “Is it that bad?”

Carter said “no” at the same time Sacha grimaced and tipped his chin down just enough for it to be counted as a nod.

He didn’t even try to bullshit me. The “yes” that came out of his mouth was loud and clear.

Ah, hell.

Chapter Seven

I saw the cinnamon roll first—of course I did—before I saw the long masculine finger pushing the small plastic plate my way. I didn’t need to look up to know whom it belonged to. I closed my book slowly—this week I was on The Story of Edgar Sawtelle—and set it down on the merch table.

Sacha stood there, still in his everyday clothes though the doors were about to be opened any minute. His face was contrite and hopeful and way too sweet-looking to stay pissed off at. “Eli told me they were your favorite,” he offered.

Cinnamon rolls weren’t my favorite; they were Eli’s. I was more of a glazed donut kind of girl. But I didn’t tell him that, and I didn’t make a face either, mostly because it would hurt too much. The truth was, everything ached, but it was mostly my face that bothered me. I once worked with a woman that never smiled because she said she didn’t want to waste the collagen in her face. Back then I didn’t understand how the hell that even seemed like a sensible idea but with the way my face was hurting… yeah, I was keeping my facial expressions to a minimum.