“Hurry up, Annabelle!” I call out, anxious to leave. “The stables are expecting us.”

Annabelle’s mare is kept at Mallory Ranch and Stables. Our parents actively encourage extracurricular activities, like horseback riding alongside her ballet. She’s undertaking equestrian jumping, a second language, and deportment lessons. It all sounds good in theory, but it leaves me sick inside. My sister is outspoken with a bright, happy spirit, yet they’re slowly breaking it down and grooming her as a future trophy wife.

“I’m coming! Hold your horses,” she replies with a snorting giggle.

Moments later she’s making her way down the stairs, her back straight, chin high, and hand trailing the banister like a beauty queen entrance. My mouth falls open. It’s not the blouse, jodhpurs, and riding boots that capture my attention. It’s her face. It’s a festival of color.

Her mouth cracks a bright, practiced smile. The move showers her outfit in a rainbow of glitter dust. My lips press together. Do not laugh. Do not fucking laugh.

“Wow, Moo Moo.” I scratch at my chin as I stare, at a complete loss. “Are we off to Mardi Gras or something?”

I shouldn’t have said that. Annabelle falters, her bottom lip aquiver. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s um …” I clear my throat. “Aren’t you a little young for makeup?”

She huffs. In no way deterred, she pushes off the bottom step and collects her bag from the entryway table. “You sound like Mom.”

“You used mom’s stuff?”

Annabelle’s grin is one of satisfaction. It means she left behind a mess big enough to cause grief. “Yep.”

My keys jingle as I pluck them from my pocket. Insisting Annabelle wash her face will only make her heels dig in further. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Don’t be dramatic.” She rolls sparkle-encrusted eyes as we leave, calling out a quick goodbye to Hattie before I pull the door shut behind us. “She won’t kill me. She might poop a brick though.”

I beep the locks. “Poop a brick?”

“Yeah, you know,” she says as we both climb in the car. “Hershey squirt.”

My mouth falls open. “Hershey what?”

“Freak out! It means freak out.” Annabelle shakes her head as I back out the drive. “You need to get with the lingo. You sound like old man Lewis.”

“Don’t call him old man Lewis.”

“Why not?” she shoots back.

“Because it’s impolite.”

We drive past our aforementioned neighbor. He’s busy blowing grass clippings off his driveway. With the wind picking up, it pushes them across to my parents’ lawn. A check of my rear view mirror tells me the old man is pretty pleased about that.

“You call him old man Lewis.”

I glance across at my sister. “Because I’m a disrespectful college kid. You don’t want to be like me.”

Annabelle is unusually quiet on the forty-minute drive to the stables. It’s unnerving. When we arrive at the property and select a trail, she’s still mute. Riding out side-by-side, I glance across at her. She’s chewing her lip, worrying off the red lipstick that’s too old for her young face. Whatever is on her mind, it will build up and explode if it doesn’t come out soon.

“How’s school?”

Her voice is curt. “Good.”

“And your friends? Rachel?”

“Good.”

“Hell,” I mumble under my breath. It has to be boys, which perhaps explains the attempt at makeup. How do I broach that topic? I’m not the freaking parent here.

“Is anyone bullying you?” Because little boys can be dicks when they like a girl.

I wince behind my sunglasses. Last night proves it doesn’t change as they get older. They just grow into bigger dicks.

“… my older brother.”

I miss Annabelle’s reply. “Sorry?”

“I said,” she enunciates louder, “that no one would dare bully me. Not with the Great Brody Madden being my older brother.”

The Great Brody Madden. I snort at the ridiculous term, but inside it worries me. Public perception can change at the drop of a hat. You play a good game, you become a god. You play a bad one, you get raked over the coals—so do those close to you.

My hands tighten on the reins. “You’ll tell me if that changes, right?”

“Yes, Brody.” She rolls her eyes and glitter mists the air. “I’ll let you know if you stop being great.”

“You know that’s not what I mean. I’m being serious here. I don’t want anyone bullying you if I have a bad game.”

“No one is being mean to me,” she snaps.

We reach the halfway mark of our trail ride, and I’m yet to unearth the issue. Granted, I haven’t dug far but she’s eight. If it’s not school, friends, or boys, what else could it be?

“Moo Moo …” I start and sigh. My horse snorts loud beneath me, no doubt feeling my frustration.

“Do you have a nickname for her too?”

“Do I what?”

Annabelle’s eyes drop to her reins and her bottom lip pokes out. I brace accordingly and the little bomb she drops doesn’t disappoint.

“For your girlfriend.” Her voice is small, like she’s trying to stop the hurt coming out. It might as well be a shout. My throbbing hangover reaches new heights. “The one you never told me about.”

Hell. It was never my intention to keep Jordan from Annabelle, but Jordan is mine—just like football is. Something just for me. Jordan and football on one hand, family and its drama and responsibility on the other—a subconscious division.

“How did you know?”

Our dad enforces a blanket ban on social media and ESPN.

“Rachel’s dad,” she answers.

Of course. Her friend’s father is a zealous fan. Phil watches sports religiously. All kinds. He’s a big guy, brash and rough, but also warm and lighthearted. On the several occasions I’ve met him he’s spouted detailed opinions on my recent games. While I don’t take his unqualified advice on board, it only makes my father’s lack of interest sharper.

“They had ESPN on,” she adds. “There was a special on the upcoming draft.”

“And you watched it?” They listed me as a first round draft prediction. They also delved into my personal life, broadcasting a dynamic little slide show of Jordan and me together. Funny photos lifted from Facebook. Us leaving Eastside Cafe holding hands. That kiss on the soccer field right before Jordan’s game.

“Yeah I watched it. Jordan Elliott.” She clucks her tongue, urging her horse into a fast clip. “Sounds like a boy’s name.”

“Be nice,” I snap, catching up to her.

“Why should I? You’re keeping stuff from me. Did you know she’s poor?”

“What?”

“Dad did a background check.”

Hot and cold chills prickle my skin. “He what?”

“You heard me. Do you think she’s after your future millions?”

“Do I … No! Dammit, Annabelle. You’re being ridiculous.”

She reins in her horse, her glare blistering my skin. “And you’re being a tool.”

We’ve reached a standoff. Both horses rest on the trail, tails twitching as they sense our combined aggravation. I stifle a sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Jordan. It’s a little complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Annabelle digs her heels in. It seems we’re not moving until this gets hashed out.

“Jordan believed in me.” It’s not until I say the words out loud that I realize how good that belief made me feel.

Her chin juts out. “And I don’t?”

“I know you do, Annabelle. It’s just …” I wanted her to always believe in me.

“You know how Mom and Dad are. How they see me. I wanted to keep Jordan away from that. From their hateful words and their constant disappointment. I don’t want her to see me the way they do.”

“I don’t hate you.” A little yellow butterfly flitters between us. Her eyes catch on it and hold, following it until it disappears behind a tree. When her eyes return to mine, they’re wide and childlike. “And I’m pretty like she is too, right?”

The reason for her painted face becomes clear. “Is that why you’re wearing makeup, sweetheart? You think if you put all that stuff on your face people will like you more?”