“Great actually,” Kincaid added. “He’s very talented. Gifted, really.”

Shut. Up.

Coach Isaacs barely spared her a glance, sniffing derisively. “Denise, did you know about this?”

The words were innocuous on the surface, but Kincaid’s skin prickled, some primal part of her picking up the menace in them.

“No,” Ash answered, voice firm. “Mom had no idea.”

“I didn’t,” Mrs. Isaacs said. “I would’ve told you.” She looked to Ash. “Ashton, you should come to Thanksgiving. It’s been so long…”

Ash’s hard expression softened just enough for Kincaid to see how much this was killing him. “Mom, I don’t think—”

“He’s not invited,” his father said brusquely. “Unless he’s coming there to apologize, he’s not welcome.”

His mother’s face fell. “But, honey, we haven’t seen him in—”

“I said no, Denise,” his father snapped. “He knows what he needs to do to get an invitation.”

Ash scoffed. “Yeah. Lie. No thanks. I’m good.” He stepped over to his mom to lean down and kiss her cheek. “Good seeing you, Mom. I hope you have a nice holiday.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

Ash grabbed their tray of food and looked at Kincaid as if she was a lifeline. “Come on, KC. I think there’s a better table near the dance floor.”

She nodded. She’d been willing to go when he’d suggested it, but now it looked like he’d changed his mind. When Ash turned his back on them, she gave his father a scathing burn-in-hell look before walking away.

Ash sank down into his seat, putting his back to the football players’ table. His fists balled beside the tray, and he took a deep breath.

Kincaid placed her hand over his clenched one. “You okay?”

He gave her a helpless look. “Not even a little bit.”

Her heart hurt for him. She wanted to scream on his behalf, get in his father’s face and just rage. How could a family have a son this wonderful and treat him like dirt? How could a man crush a woman’s spirit so thoroughly that she wasn’t even capable of fighting for her own child? Ash deserved so much better. “We can go. I’ll grab takeout boxes.”

His gaze flicked up to hers. “No way. I’m not running just because he’s here.”

She peered over his shoulder, catching his mom looking their way. “Are you sure? This isn’t a contest. We don’t have to win.”

“I’m not leaving,” he said resolutely.

“Okay.” She gave his hand another squeeze. “We’ll eat then.” Kincaid set about getting their food divided up and arranging things on the butcher paper. If he didn’t want to talk about it, she would give him his space. “Do you want the fatty brisket, the lean, or the burnt ends?”

Ash let out a breath and closed his eyes, his head resting in his hands for a moment as if gathering himself. “She’s going to pay for that.”

Kincaid paused at that and set her fork down. “What do you mean?”

He lifted his head, his mouth a grim line. “He’s pissed at my mom. I saw how he looked at her. He thinks she knew I was in town. She’s not supposed to talk to me.”