Page 10 of All This Time (Blossom Peak #1)

But my goal for the next three weeks is simple: remind Laney of our friendship, get her to lighten up on the icy looks, and hopefully be on a more even playing field with her before I go back to Charlotte—all while trying to keep my contact with my father to a minimum and avoid letting my feelings for her rise back to the surface.

I think it’s feasible. Either that, or I’m much more delusional than I thought.

“I wish you luck, then.” He slaps me on the back. “You’re going to need it. By the way, are you staying in one of the McNallys’ rental cabins while you’re here?”

The McNallys run a cabin rental business in Blossom Peak.

Their son, Vince, was a buddy of ours in school and his parents have always been welcoming to me anytime I’m in town, so I did ask them to hold a place for me so I wasn’t imposing on anyone or—heaven forbid—forced to stay with my dad.

I never bought my own place in town because I never planned on returning for any real length of time.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Okay. Well, if you get lonely and want to have pillow fights in our underwear and stay up late talking and painting our nails, you know where to find me.” He waggles his eyebrows at me before heading toward his truck.

Laughing, I pull my keys from my pocket as I walk backward.

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” After I hop into my own truck, I head for the cabin that will be my temporary home during this stay until I can race back to Charlotte—because when I told everyone I wanted to leave Blossom Peak and never come back here again, I meant it.

Guess not everything we think will happen comes true, huh?

***

“Fletcher Adams!” Justin Cook shouts my name as I enter Blossom Brews, the restaurant and brewery his family has owned for three generations.

The place has been updated a few times over the years, but it’s still got the same hometown welcome and the best onion rings I’ve ever had—and I’ve traveled all over this country.

“Justin, my man. How’s it going?” I take a seat at the bar and reach out to shake his hand.

“Can’t complain.” He tosses a coaster onto the bar in front of me. “What can I get for you? I’ve got a new IPA people are raving about.”

“How about a sweet tea with lemon?”

He laughs as he fills a glass with ice, then tops it off with tea from the pitcher behind the bar. “Watching your figure in the offseason?”

I pat my stomach. “You know it. Less for me to work off later.”

“Smart.” He slides the glass over to me. “You had one hell of a season this past year,” he says. “It’s a shame about the playoffs, though.”

“The team just wasn’t jiving,” I say as I lift my drink to my mouth.

“He can blame it on the team all he wants, but the truth is, without a quarterback who can make the pass and a wide receiver who can find his mark, they didn’t stand a chance.” The voice behind me makes my hackles rise. His monstrous hand comes down on my shoulder. “Huh, son?”

I glare at him over my shoulder as he takes the seat next to me, the smell of beer wafting off him. I wonder how many he’s already had.

“You know that more than anyone, right, Dad?” He doesn’t hear the jab I intended, judging by the mile-wide grin on his lips.

He turns to Justin. “Yeah, I guess I might know a thing or two about the game.”

Justin humors him. “Trust me. I feel like I’m standing in front of football royalty right now. Anything you two say I’ll take as gospel.”

My father slaps me on the back again. “I don’t know about Fletcher here. He’s still too green to know the game the way his father did, and I still don’t see a ring on his finger.”

My teeth grind together as I fight with myself not to say anything in return—because being the son of Luke Adams, one of the best quarterbacks to play the game in his time—comes with never-ending criticism and competition, among other things.

Justin nods toward me. “I don’t know about that, sir. Fletcher is killing it. He’s the top wide receiver in the league.”

My dad takes a sip of his beer and then studies me. “Interesting. Last I checked he was number two.”

I pick up my tea and start to chug, wishing it was alcohol and thankful that it’s not at the same time—because then I’d be dealing with my issues the same way he does.

When I’m done drinking the entire glass, I set it down and move to stand, fishing my wallet from my back pocket so I can pay and get as far away from this man as possible.

When I walked into Blossom Brews today, the goal was to just kill some time before I meet up with Elliot later about wedding shit. But after only a few minutes in my father’s presence, I can think of a million other places I’d rather go.

“Thanks for the tea, Justin.” I throw a twenty on the bar and move to leave, but my dad reaches out to grab my arm.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh you know, the usual. Going to study some game tape.”

“Don’t mock me,” he growls just low enough that only the two of us can hear.

I glare at him over my shoulder as I shake my arm free from his grasp. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Dad.”

“Fletcher…” he draws out, and for a moment, he almost sounds sincere. But I know better. “Would it kill you to just be thankful for everything that I’ve taught you?”

And there it is. The classic Luke Adams cocktail—one part gaslighting, two parts self-congratulation, topped with a twist of emotional manipulation.

According to him, my success on the road to the NFL had nothing to do with my hard work and everything to do with his athleticism, his knowledge of the game, and his tough love that ultimately made me a better player and man.

Jesus. What a load of shit.

“Nice to see you, Dad,” I say instead of the countless rebuttals I’ve rehearsed over the years. I walk away, swallowing the bitterness he always leaves behind.