Found another note this morning in my math folder:

Want you to know we understand your situation. Can’t expect you to get what we want if you aren’t home, but we hear you’ll be home once certain people are back in KY. By the way, number fifteen is wrong. You need to divide instead of multiply.

A stalker and blackmailer who is checking my math homework. My brain is slowly separating into tiny pieces and it’s going to be a very short trip to become a resident in the land of gone crazy.

But my mom? My mom’s happy. It’s Wednesday evening and the cramped kitchen is full of hungry men in black leather Reign of Terror vests and too-loud conversations. They were all drawn in by the scent of freshly baked bread and lasagna. I’ve got to admit, Mom makes a mean lasagna and she bakes bread you sort of think was created in heaven.

“No one can have any more lasagna until Chevy gets in here and makes his plate,” Mom announces like everyone in the room is her child.

I’ve eaten more than my fair share tonight, yet I’m considering the corner piece of lasagna with the burnt edges. Those are my favorite and I think I might still have room in my stomach for more. But with the way Pigpen’s eyes are flickering between that piece and me, I might have to stab him in the hand with a fork to get it.

“It’s mine,” he whispers. “Go for it and you’re going down.”

Despite my best intentions, I smile and his eyes shine with the win.

Cyrus walks into the kitchen from the back door and at the same time Chevy comes in from the hallway. His hair is dark and damp from a shower and his T-shirt clings a little too tight. Butterflies race in my stomach at the anticipation of waiting for his eyes to meet mine.

But Chevy doesn’t look at me—he watches Cyrus and the butterflies give way as I frown. Cyrus isn’t doing anything unusual. He washes his hands at the sink, makes a few comments here and there to the guys, but Chevy is seeing something else, something no one else sees.

Finally, he does tear his eyes away from Cyrus to me and he smiles. That pirate one, the gorgeous one, the dimpled one, the one that makes me very aware he has something up his sleeve. He eases into the chair beside me, holds out his empty palm, fists it, then magically produces a coin. Within seconds, he’s rolling it over his knuckles in a movement I’ve never been able to mimic.

Chevy’s not the only one who can read people. I’ve known him for too long. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“I can read you better than you think.”

“Really?” His eyes wander along my body and I turn pink. “What am I saying now?”

I reach out to steal the coin, but it falls into his palm, and when he reopens it, the coin’s gone. He waves his fingers as he waggles his eyebrows. Yeah, he’s hiding something and it’s not the coin.

Pigpen passes the pan of lasagna in Chevy’s direction and he takes two squares for himself, then deposits the corner piece on my plate. I smirk at Pigpen and he scowls back at me.

The moment Chevy has enough salad and bread on an additional plate to feed a developing nation, the locusts descend and take the rest of the food. Mom stays by the sink and has this pride and satisfaction on her face that I once again find myself envious over.

“Maybe you should have been a cook,” I say, and the guys quiet down. I talk now, but not a ton.

Mom blinks several times. “Are you talking to me?”

I nod with lasagna in my mouth, then swallow the Italian goodness. “Maybe you should have been a cook in a fancy restaurant. Your food is that good. Did you ever think about it? Cooking school?”

Mom seems surprised by the compliment and accepts it with a good-natured grin. “I don’t need a restaurant when I have all these growing boys.”

Rumbles of male laughter and my own glow dies. Mom notices and her smile wanes. Why can’t anything just be about her? Why does it always have to involve the Terror?

“I stopped by your practice today,” Cyrus says, and Chevy, who had been absorbed in his food, lowers his fork. “Why was Ray running your routes?”

The air catches in my throat and my head turns to Chevy. In fact, every conversation ceases and all eyes are on him. Chevy mixes his salad around his plate, then uses his bread to push the lettuce onto his fork. “I’m benched.”

He shoves the food into his mouth as Cyrus stares at him like he announced he has leprosy. “Why? For this week? Because you missed practice last week?”

A shrug and a drink of water. “Indefinitely.”

“What happened?”

Chevy finishes chewing, then tosses his fork onto his plate of half-eaten food. “I was kidnapped.”

“And?”

“The school board has decided since I was kidnapped, then I must be involved in gang activity. Until it’s proven otherwise, I’m benched.”

My heart stops, and I reach out and touch Chevy’s shoulder. Football is his life. It’s his release. It’s his everything.

Guys are cursing, saying words full of malice, but all I can do is focus on Chevy, wishing he’d look in my direction, but he’s locked in a stare with Cyrus. Neither of them speak, don’t even blink.

Cyrus breaks first and scoops lasagna onto his fork. “I’ll talk to your coach. Get this cleared up.”

Chevy pushes away from the table and my hand falls from his body. “Coach said he’ll get it cleared up. No need for you to get involved.”

“No way. You’re family and we take care of our problems.”