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But I shouldn’t have bothered.
Because Monday night, the security system chirped—and before I could mope my way to the front door, Leighton Rhodes had kicked her shoes off and was bouncing barefoot across my foyer, holding two pizzas over her head like a goddamn champion.
“Hi, Ollie,” she muttered like an afterthought, already yelling, “Tillie!! Move your cute little ass!”
“Leighton!” I scolded.
“Oops. Sorry. Tillie!! Skedaddle your keister! Neon Purgatory’s new album dropped and I’ve waited all damn day to listen with you!”
“Leigh,” I warned, even as my grin split wide.
“Right, fuck—darn. I’ve waited all darn-tootin’ day to play it together!”
She hoisted her phone like a boombox, shoved the pizzas into my arms—and Jesus, were her hands made of iron? Those were scalding hot—and marched up the stairs like nothing had changed at all. Like we were still just...us.
* * *
Q-four is always a shit show,but this year was worse than most. Leighton had, in fact, stopped dropping by for the bulk of November. That—or I’d just been gone too much to see her. Since I hadn’t had a face-to-face with my kids in two weeks, the latter felt more likely.
Between holiday campaigns rolling out and final sign-offs on Black Friday launches, end-of-year meetings, charity galas, and next-year goal setting, I’d basically been drinking my calories since Halloween.
Add in our cousin Ellington—acting GM for theBombers—and Coach Sartori waiting on my final okay for mid-season performance reviews, trades, and contracts, and I was cooked. Ellington handled most of it these days, but he still wanted me visible. Which was why I’d been guilted into appearing at this year’s Turkey Trot, our annual five-k fundraiser for youth sports.
Come Thanksgiving, I felt about as good as the dead bird Greyson’s chef was about to roast.
But I wasn’t the only one who looked like death warmed over.
When Leighton opened her door after my third knock, she gave a half-hearted smile before turning and slogging through the loft.
I peeled a scrap of paper off her shirt where it clung with static—some crumpled receipt. “Uh... Hey, Trouble. You okay?”
“Yeah,” she yawned, dragging herself toward the coffee machine. “Kaia, Alice, and I were up too late. Didn’t get home until two.”
“Oh shoot, I didn’t realize she was in town already.”
“Yep,” she said through another yawn. “Maverick gets in this morning.”
“Excited to see him. I, uh... figured you’d be ready to go, but you’re looking a little?—”
The glare she leveled at me shut my mouth on impact. She looked exhausted.
“Nothing a carafe of coffee can’t fix,” she mumbled, grabbing the carafe and filling it with filtered water, yawning as she did.
“You getanysleep?”
“Maybe? Some? I don’t know. I just can’t seem to feel rested lately.”
“You sick?”
“I don’t think so. Just... stressed.”
“Well. Splash some water on your face and pull yourself together—we have a race to win.”
“We?” she asked skeptically, arching a brow.
“Well,you. But you get the picture.” I, unfortunately, would be manning the registration booth with a few of our more charismatic players. As I watched her nearly fumble the carafe, I stepped forward, bracing a hand against her lower back and swiping the glass from her hand.
“Here. Let me help.”