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Mom kisses my cheek. “Where do you need me?”

“Izzy made banners. I’ll hang them, you tell me if they’re straight.”

Standing in the middle of the space, I turn in a slow small circle to make sure everything is perfect, and of course it is.

Chapter5

Silence

Kolby

“Listen up, Knights,” Coach Cohen says as he storms into the room. “We’ve had one hell of a season so far.”

“Damn right we have,” Hart hoots.

Coach’s lips twitch up then go straight again. “We’ve also had some near tragedies and a whole lot of haters.”

Boone, who shouldn’t be here—he should be home healing—pipes in, “Hart’s off suspension, a car accident didn’t take out Lily’s mom, and a bullet didn’t stop me from showing up here.” He holds up his hand. “I married my dream girl. Dreams are coming true, men. Haters sure as hell won’t stop the Knights.”

Everyone cheers or hoots. Me? I feel like if I look up, they’ll see it and start firing off questions like, “Where were you last night?” or “You do know you’re not the same caliber of man Boone or Hart are, right? or “Did you have to fuck her hard enough to make her bleed on your dick?”

Okay, the last one, I know the answer. Not the part where I might have hurt her, but that I fucked her hard enough that she was walking a bit funny this morning. She wasn’t in pain; she was falling apart in such a way that got me all tangled up in it.

Lo’s not a screamer; she didn’t close her eyes, she didn’t pose or position herself as if I was gonna whip out my phone and start snapping pictures for the Gram. She responded to every touch, every lick, every damn … thing. She was present. Her breaths, they even shook … like her thighs and trembling hands.

Gonna guess the blood I washed of off my dick wasn’t from a wound. Typically, it would gross me the fuck out thinking I went down on a girl who may have been just getting on or off her period, but if that’s what I’ve been missing all these years, that taste …

Stupid thought. Blood has a metallic taste. She was pure heat and sweetness.

“All right, one last thing before we hit a few drills.” Cohen nods toward the door, where several men, all thick and military-cut, are standing. They are wearing plain black jackets and cargo pants and have unreadable faces. “Most of you have met my stepsons, CJ and Matthew Abraham, and our nephew Remington Ross. Matthew and CJ took over their father’s life’s work of protecting those who can’t protect themselves, and Remington has traveled the world, doing …”

Lucas looks at him and lifts a shoulder.

CJ chuckles. “Let’s just say he can track anything better than any GPS that the public?—”

“Will never know about,” his brother Matthew adds.

CJ continues, “The rest of the Ross boys and Jackson Brooks are just as gifted trackers.”

“Bullshit,” Remington coughs.

Jackson flips him off as he walks in and sits in an empty chair in the front.

“Luke Lane is another security expert,” Lucas says with pride.

“Can’t track worth a shit because he’s been spoiled,” one of them jokes.

“If you call spoiled being guided by the U.S. Army into combat zones to take out the guys so bad your candy asses will never hear of, hand to hand or with a rifle from three thousand meters away,” Jackson states, “then yeah, spoiled rotten.”

“Allegedly,” Reminton states.

“Allegedly,” they all agree.

“All shits and giggles aside”—CJ gets real serious now—“we’re here to do what needs to be done, to make sure you all can also do what needs to be done.”

“And they brought friends,” Lucas adds.

“We’d rather play offense than defense.” Matthew clears his throat. “That being said, we know most of you have people who handle your socials. They’re all connected with the team’s media expert and?—”