Page 6

* * *

Four days later, I return to New York from the minicamp. I am ready to grab my things, sign annulment papers, head to Mississippi, and stay with Skinner until we have to report back to camp.

When I get to Deb’s family’s Park Ave place, however, she opens the door, smiling, and beyond her, a whole room full of people I don’t know. She hugs me and whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

Dozens of “Congratulations” sound off behind her.

“Dad insisted we throw you a party.”

* * *

After I got that contract —two years as an undrafted free agent— and signing bonus, we put the down payment on our one point eight million dollar “starter home,” one she picked out.

It wasn’t Park Avenue, but it was close enough to her parents’. It was also tall enough that she could look down on everyone while shadows cast from the skyscrapers surrounding us fell across me, shielding me just enough to make me appear like I could belong. But when I left for training camp, she made it clear that she did.

She started in again about the Knights being a disappointment. It never stopped.

Before I even played my first game, we were separated.

Word of advice? Never marry a lawyer’s daughter, because here I am now, years later, just treading water.

Chapter2

Wildcard Watch Party at Brooks Brewery

Lo

The damn tap handle’s stuck again.

I mutter a curse, give it the kind of twist that says, “I dare you to keep misbehaving,” before I finally get it to pour … Straight foam, naturally. Because nothing in this place ever does what it’s supposed to when it’s busy—not the taps, not my life, and definitely not the six-foot-four, two hundred and forty pound headache currently leaning against the back wall, talking to some of the team and surrounded by the slew of single women who flock here when word spread our playoff bound Knights are having a party to celebrate.

I line up another row of glasses to polish, not because they need it, but because I need something to do that doesn’t involve watching Kolby Grimes get pawed at like he’s the last puppy available at our annual adoption drive.

Back to the mystery of the night: Who the hell spilled the beans that the guys would be here tonight?

Could’ve been anyone, honestly. Maybe Darlene from the Kwiky Fill station let something slip. Wouldn’t be shocking—she’s forgetful as hell. Or maybe that girl by the pool table, the one with the chin mole that looks suspiciously like Marge’s niece from the diner, decided tonight is her chance. Lord knows Marge’s been trying to marry that girl off for years; said she didn’t want her ending up with five cats, four dogs, and a cooter full of cobwebs, like herself. I about lost my mind when she said that. But even funnier than that? It’s Jackson she has been trying to get to ask her niece out. And those words? She said them to him.

Small-town matchmaking? It’s practically a blood sport when someone unrelated stumbles into Blue Valley, an arena of sorts that they didn’t even know they were entering.

Speaking of …

I roll my eyes as Mom and Dad wave from the pub table, watching me like a hawk, no doubt trying to figure out if I’ll be next to couple up. Maybe lose my V-card. Well, Mom knows it’s still unpunched at twenty … something. I hope to hell Dad doesn’t. I mean … ew …

Never mind. I don’t want to know.

I glance back over and narrow my eyes at the group gathered around Kolby. One girl has her hand on his arm like she thinks she’s going home with him tonight. Another laughs way too hard at something he probably said that wasn’t even meant to be funny, because he’s not funny.

Kolby Grimes is a dick. The grumpy-to-nobody’s sunshine kind of guy. The kind of guy who will have a V permanently etched between his brows before he’s thirty from all the scowling he does.

No V tonight, though he doesn’t look interested. But he also doesn’t look miserable, either.

I wipe the bar a little harder than necessary and force myself to keep my head down. Just another night. Just another man who won’t be breaking the Covid curse.

Yep, I blame Covid on the fact I didn’t get to sow my wild oats. My first two years of college, I lived at home. Then, when I finally decided that I would make the move, everything shut down and the thought of even kissing freaked me out.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my cousin, Maggie, sliding onto a barstool, propping her elbows up, and tilting her head like she’s watching a soap opera.

“You look like you’re about two seconds from yeeting a pint glass across the brewery,” she says casually, picking at the edge of a coaster.