Free Rushing Amy: A Love and Football Novel by Julie Brannagh Page A

while I’m in your house.”
    He let out something that sounded like the combination of a choke and a snort. She quickly cleared the crumpled tissues and napkins, shoving them into the plastic bag. She took the dishes into the kitchen and returned to him with a glass of orange juice.
    “You need to drink this.”
    “I’m tired,” he said.
    “Too bad. Drink it.” She folded her arms and watched until he drained the glass. “Samantha said you were supposed to go to the father-daughter dinner at her school, but you were too sick.”
    “Yeah.” The normally confident—hell, arrogant—Matt seemed to deflate a bit. “I hate missing any of her stuff. I would have just gone anyway, but if she’d gotten sick, too, I would have never forgiven myself.” He shook his head. “She’s growing up so fast. Pretty soon, it’ll be guys and cars. She won’t even want to be around her old man.”
    “That can’t be true.”
    “You don’t have a teenage daughter, do you?”
    “No. I don’t. No kids.” Yet. Amy stifled a sigh as she felt another stab of pain. She wondered if she would ever have a kid, let alone a daughter of her own.
    “How did you feel about your dad when you were fourteen? I couldn’t wait to be an adult. I love my mom, but she treated me like a baby.” His expression was wry.
    “What about your dad?”
    “He left when I was two. I was the man of the household.” Even in the dimness of early evening, she saw something pass over his face she couldn’t quite identify. The normally laughing, somewhat sardonic Matt didn’t want to discuss this. At all.
    “I’m so sorry.”
    “Yeah. Me, too.” He glanced up at her. “Soup?”
    “As fast as I can get it made.” He closed his eyes, and Amy readjusted the blanket over him. Maybe he’d sleep for a while.
    The chicken noodle soup warmed on the stove while she loaded and started Matt’s dishwasher. She wondered how many other women had been in this kitchen before and whether or not they were dressed at the time. She couldn’t figure out why she was doing housework for a man she didn’t even know, but truthfully she was worried that he seemed so sick. The zillions of women he’d had in his life were, evidently, nowhere to be found. Shouldn’t they want to take care of him at a time like this? Maybe she was just an idiot.
    She dug around in one of the kitchen drawers till she found a notepad and then started a shopping list—he’d need more tissues, more soup, and some bread. Finally she tiptoed back into the family room with the soup to find him fast asleep. He needed food, though. She put the bowl and spoon down on the coffee table and gently shook his shoulder.
    “Matt. You need to eat.”
    “Lemme sleep.”
    “I’ll let you go right back to sleep after you eat something,” she coaxed.
    “Sleep.”
    “You have to eat,” she urged.
    “Not hungry.”
    He was talking in his sleep. He didn’t open his eyes.
    Amy’s evening plans consisted of laundry, dishes, and watching the DVRed episode of some show she didn’t care that much about. She could stay with him for a little while, but then she absolutely had to go. She’d call his mom or something. His mom could get to his house in a taxi if he really needed her.
    The only noises in Matt’s house were his soft snores and the ticking of the clock on the mantel over the fireplace. She knelt down next to him and touched his forehead once more. Dry and warm. He didn’t have a fever. He stirred a little, but didn’t wake up.
    Amy grabbed the other blanket on the opposite end of the couch and hit the couch across from him.
    M ATT’S HOUSE WAS dark when she awoke to a loud crash. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness enough, though, to note that the couch was empty, and so was the soup bowl. He’d gotten up.
    “Matt?” She called out.
    She pulled herself off the couch and glanced around. He wasn’t in the room, but she heard the shower running. Dread skittered up her spine. He might have