Page 13 of Made Better Together

We’re both quiet for a beat before she glances back up at me. “Are those glasses new?”

I instinctively adjust them with one hand. “No, I wear contacts on the field.”

“I like them. They suit you.”

I blink. My first compliment from Eden. “Thanks.”

A couple more swipes of the stain follow.

“Dang it, this isn’t working,” she says in frustration, throwing the towel down.

“What are you using?”

“Just warm water.” She shows me the damp towel. Nah, that’s not the best plan for wine, and you’re definitely not supposed to rub it.

After looking at the supplies in the laundry room, my mind swiftly formulates a better one, and I whip off my shirt.

“Whoa,” she exclaims in response. Oh—I probably should have given her a warning.

“There’s a different method I think will actually work.”

Her eyes slide down my bare chest. “Okay.”

I’m proud of my body. Landon’s kicked my ass so many times during workouts over the years, not to mention my relentless hours of training for the national team and college. I’m currently rocking a six-pack thanks to some brutal sessions with my brothers this summer.

All in the name of my sporting goals, not for vanity’s sake. Though, I’ve never been so grateful as now, seeing the appreciation in Eden’s eyes.

“Here, put my shirt on, and then give me yours.”

“But—” She stops whatever objection she was going to make and takes the offering. After putting my T-shirt on, she wiggles off her own underneath it.

It takes over a minute, so it’s no surprise Bree comes and checks on us, craning her head through the half-open door.

“Any progress?” She looks me up and down. “Princeton boy, you’re helping by getting naked?”

Eden laughs. “He has a new strategy. Go ahead and take care of your other guests. I’ll let Connor give it a try.”

“Fine. Pizza’s waiting for you both when you’re done.”

When she disappears, Eden hands me her shirt. “What’s next?”

I grab the cleaning vinegar I see on the shelf, find an empty plastic container, and set up a soak for her shirt. Once I plop it in, I put the cover of the container over it.

“In about an hour, the pigment should be out.”

I tilt my head to hers, and she’s still intently watching me. There’s an unreadable look in her eye.

“How did you know what to do?” she asks.

“I spent the last two years of high school basically on my own. My siblings were all at college. I learned to fend for myself.”

“What about your parents?”

“Not much help in these matters. In anything that matters.” My voice is flat; I’m not trying to invite sympathy.

“Oh—” she exclaims, before stopping herself again. “Wait, you were cleaning wine stains out of clothes in high school? That was the drink of choice for teenage boys?”

I chuckle. “No, but fruit punch was, and I figured the same approach would work.”