His Greatest Treasure (Greatest Love #4)

Chapter 1

1

OLIVER

I’ve always wondered if it was acceptable to show up to family gatherings with earplugs in.

While I’m used to even louder and far more crowded dinners, the ones I spend with just my parents and younger brother seem to put those to shame in the volume department. Maybe it’s my brother, Jamieson’s, brute tone or my father’s gruff one, but for some reason, their every comment bounces off the walls and makes my ears ring.

My mom is the gentle one, her voice soft and soothing in that typical motherly way. It’s the reason I’d always insist on her reading me books before bed and my father being the one to attend my sports events, knowing he’d make the opposing teams nervous with his pissed-off shouts.

“I’ve got the rest of the season tickets for you guys,” Jamie says between bites of pasta. His lips are covered in Alfredo sauce when he slurps a noodle into his mouth and adds, “You too, Ollie. I expect you to at least show up for a handful of games this season.”

I twirl my fork in the saucy pasta and grimace at his lack of table manners. “Sorry, I couldn’t make out what you were saying over your mouthful of food.”

“Just tell me you’ll come this season. ”

“I came last season too.”

It was his first in the CFL after being drafted out of college. He’s one of the youngest on the BC Pythons’ team at only twenty-two.

Jamie huffs, stabbing more noodles with the prongs of his fork before bringing them to his mouth and tapping his lips. “You came to two games.”

“I worked a lot last year. My job is unpredictable,” I say past the guilt clogging my throat.

Mom eyes me across the table. “Leave your brother alone, Jamie.”

Our mother is a dainty woman with blonde hair that should have grayed with age but hasn’t and sharp blue eyes. She’s the smallest one of all of us, and we always pick on her for it. Dad used to bench-press her in the backyard gym when we were kids because Jamie and I thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Now, I think she’d swat him hard enough to bruise if he tried it.

Small in size, but not bravery or attitude. Somehow, she puts the three of us in our places with ease. Dad might have the towering size and scowl to intimidate any living soul he comes into contact with, but against her, he doesn’t stand a chance. He’d never attempt to intimidate her, though. They’re as in love as two people can be.

Jamie swaps his fork for a beer, taking a quick sip from it. His glare is weak when it lands on me. “A little old to have mommy fighting your battles, aren’t you?”

“Old enough to beat your smug ass with ease too,” I mutter.

“That never ends well for you.”

“Or you, if I remember correctly.”

“Christ alive. Just when I think you’ve both grown old enough to move past the beating each other up phase, you go and prove me wrong,” Dad says.

Mom smiles at him amusingly. He curls his arm around the back of her chair and leans into her space .

“I’ll never be too old to beat Ollie’s ass,” Jamie boasts.

“Your coach would put out a hit on me for injuring you during the season. Don’t tempt me to risk it.”

“Maybe I’d put the hit out myself.”

“I’ll run you over with the fire truck when I know the ambulance is out on a call,” I deadpan.

He sucks a breath through his teeth. “Fuck, you’re a dark son of a bitch, Oliver.”

Dad’s loud laugh cuts through the room, and just like that, we let the fighting go. Sure, Jamie and I like to give each other a hard time—mostly because he’s got the personality of a golden retriever puppy while I’m more like a Rottweiler—but I love the guy. We’re close, only four years apart in age at twenty-six and twenty-two. We’ve given each other a few bruises over the years, but it’s mostly all talk.

“You’re on shift tomorrow until when, Oliver?” Mom asks while swirling a chunk of garlic bread in a puddle of sauce.

“Four on, four off. I’ll be free in time for your game Saturday.” I kick Jamie’s foot, and he grins wide, happy with the news.

“Do you own my jersey, big bro?”

I swallow a laugh. “I was thinking of wearing one of Dad’s old ones.”

Jamie’s scowl is deeply etched, and the urge to laugh grows at how ridiculous he looks when he’s annoyed. “You’re not wearing a hockey jersey to my football game, asshole.”

“Why not?”

“Oliver,” Dad warns, but there’s no heat behind it.

Our father, Tyler Bateman, was one of the best defensemen on the Vancouver Warriors NHL team back in the day. He played there for a long damn time before retiring in his forties. I use his career to bug Jamie more often than I probably should.

We all expected him to follow in Dad’s footsteps when he was a kid playing both hockey and football, but when he was forced to choose once he got older, he chose football without a second thought .

Myself, on the other hand, I played hockey until I was eighteen, but it was more just to give myself something to do after school and over the weekends. I never loved the sport and didn’t have it in me to give any others a try. Being a firefighter is my passion, and my entire family has always supported that.

“I obviously own your jersey, Jamieson,” I tell him.

His scowl disappears in a blink. “Damn right you do.”

“You’ll have an entire row of people wearing number seventy-seven, sweetheart,” Mom soothes.

I finish off my glass of water and push my plate up the table so I have room to lean my elbows against it. Steepling my fist beneath my chin, I meet my mom’s stare. “Was there a reason you were asking about my schedule?”

She hums, nodding. “Yes. Registration is closing soon for fall dance classes, and I wanted to see if you’d be able to be there for the last day. I’m expecting a few stragglers to come in, and you always sell the place so well.”

“You don’t need anyone to sell the studio, Mom. It sells itself at this point,” I say.

“That’s sweet of you, honey.”

“Suck-up,” Jamie mutters beneath his breath.

I kick his shin, shutting him up. “I’ve got Sunday open. I can come by then.”

Dad tips his chin approvingly at me. “Good man.”

“I bet you’d sell the studio better if you had Jamie and the team set up outside. They could host a shirtless car wash,” I suggest with a smug smile.

Jamie considers me for a moment before smacking the table with his palm. “That’s actually not a bad idea. It’s scorching outside this summer. I could chat with Sarah about it.”

“You boys are too good to me,” Mom sighs, her eyes beginning to glisten. My skin tightens over my bones uncomfortably as the tears begin to fall. “Oh, fucking hell. Here I go.”

Jamie laughs at her foul mouth. We heard every curse word under the sun all throughout our lives. Dad’s never been able to censor himself.

I’ve never been good with tears, maybe because I saw them so rarely growing up. The moment I do, I lock up tight, and my protective instincts scream in outrage.

Dad’s quick to rub her arm, his mouth grazing her cheek while he swipes her tears away. “They aren’t too good to you. They’re doing what you deserve, Gray.”

The shortened version of my mom’s name, Gracie, has always been used more often than not by everyone but Jamie and me. She’s just Mom to us.

“We’ve got your back, Mom,” Jamie promises with a shove of his hand over his floppy blond hair that’s so similar to hers.

The movement makes him look just as boyish as his personality is to match. Fitted with the same steel-blue eyes as her, they share a resemblance that’s hard to miss. So opposite of my resemblance to my father’s black hair and brown eyes.

“Yeah, we do,” I say in agreement.

Mom sniffles and straightens, pushing back the swell of emotion that had tugged her under. “Thank you. I know that the studio has taken up a lot of our time over the years, but it seems I can’t let it go just yet.”

Dad frowns. “You don’t have to let it go ever if you don’t want to.”

I grunt. “It’s your legacy. Keep it forever.”

The studio has been open since before I was born. It’s a space for families who can’t afford the expensive cost of regular dance studios. Every year, Mom takes in as many applicants as she can and helps dozens of kids learn to dance the way she loves to. The studio covers everything from the lessons themselves to the competition costs, ballet shoes, uniforms, and costumes.

It’s been nearly three decades of love, blood, and a whole lot of sweat from an entire team of people to make the studio what it is now. Yeah, she might delegate a lot more now that both she and Dad are officially retired, but my guess is that she’ll be ninety years old and still helping out if she has her way. And I want her to have her way. She deserves it.

Mom’s blue eyes meet my hazel ones as she tilts her mouth into a warm smile. “I’ll certainly try, love.”

“Just let us know whatever you need from us whenever you need it, and we’ll take care of it,” I promise gruffly.

Jamie pats my back harder than necessary. “Damn right we will.”

“Oh, we got lucky with you two. I feared because of what a little shit your father was when we met that you’d be his karma, but that couldn’t be further from it.”

Dad scoffs in mock offense. “A little shit? I’ve never been little.”

“A big shit, then. Better?” she asks, batting her lashes up at him.

He pinches her cheek and laughs when she swats at him. “It’s more appropriate.”

“Oliver’s a big shit too. He just hides it all behind his gruff exterior,” Jamie says, smirking at me. “Isn’t that right, Olliepop?”

My childhood nickname—the one I despise more than anything else—grates against my nerves the way he knew it would.

“I’ll tie you up by your fucking old man briefs if you don’t stop poking me,” I threaten.

He pouts. “But I love it so much. Your anger is such a warm comfort at the dinner table.”

“If you’re going to throw punches, please do it in the backyard,” Mom begs.

Dad stands and starts to clean up the dirty dishes from the dining table, his grin subtle enough to make me believe he’s trying to keep it from stretching into a full-out grin.

“It’s your turn to scrub the dishes,” Jamie tells me, no longer pouting. “Am I remembering correctly, Dad?”

I snap my eyes up at my father and glare when he nods, suddenly placing the stack of plates in front of me. The mess of food he’s piled on the top one makes my stomach roll .

“Why so green?” Jamie asks, knowing damn fucking well why.

Mixed food like this . . . isn’t for me. I’ve always had a sensitive stomach, and the sight of Alfredo-slicked noodles mixed with soggy bread and cut-up lettuce from the Caesar salad has me swallowing repeatedly to keep from throwing up right here.

“Stop being an ass to your brother, Jamie, or I’ll have you cleaning the dishes with your tongue,” Dad muses.

My brother pats his stomach like a heathen. “I’m still starving, so I’m up for the challenge.”

“You’re repulsive,” I mutter before standing and clasping the dishes in my hands.

Without breathing through my nose and risking smelling the mix of food, I suck in air through my mouth and slip into the kitchen. Soft footsteps follow me, and a second after I’ve placed the dishes on the counter to be rinsed off, Mom settles beside me. Rubbing a hand over the middle of my back, she leans her cheek against my arm.

“Thank you for helping Sunday, sweetheart. I know you feel it’s your responsibility, but it still means a lot to me.”

I drop my arm to her shoulders and squeeze. “Anything for you, Ma. I mean it.”

“Want some help with the dishes? I can clear the plates, and you can wash them?”

“Go sit down and relax. I’ve got the dishes.”

The stainless-steel dishwasher a few feet away taunts me, but we never use it during family dinners. Even if I wish we did.

With a nod, Mom leans up on her toes to kiss my cheek before leaving me in the kitchen. It isn’t even three minutes later that Jamie appears and brushes me aside to take over the washing so I don’t have to stick my hands in the water and risk touching the bits of food missed with a rinse.

We wash the dishes in silence, but for the millionth time in my life, I’m reminded exactly why I love my family as fiercely as I do, loud to the point of ear pain or not.