41. Hannah

FORTY-ONE

Maddox sits back in his chair with a groan, and I don't know if it's from eating that second cinnamon roll or from losing the last round of poker to Chelsea.

We don't actually play for anything, just bragging rights, but I don't think Maddox has lost at cards to a twelve-year-old before.

"I concede defeat." Maddox lifts his hands.

"How gracious of you." Chelsea snickers as she stacks her chips.

Tonight has been… nice.

Surprisingly nice.

Devastatingly nice.

Maddox came here to talk.

Talking could mean a lot of things, but no matter which way this conversation goes, I don't expect I'll enjoy it.

"Welp, I think it's time for some reality TV therapy." Mom pushes her chair back from the table. "We'll clean up later. You two"— she points to me and Maddox— "can go talk in Hannah's room."

"If I have a boy over, will you let us talk in my room?" Chelsea asks as she heads toward the couch.

Mom follows her. "Of course. When you're thirty-five."

Maddox and I watch each other, his amused look to my slightly pained one.

"Shall we?" He pushes up to stand.

I don't miss the way he grimaces getting out of the unforgiving wood chair.

"How are your knees?" I ask before I can think better of it.

But even if I hadn't been outed by Mom and Roberts over the last twenty-four hours, it's no secret that playing pro football damages your body.

He shrugs. "I'm nearing thirty-seven and have the knees of a sixty-five-year-old. So they're doing great."

I shake my head and gesture for him to follow. "Come on, old man. Let's go talk."