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Boone

L eaning against the fence surrounding the family ranch in Willowridge, North Carolina, I watch the dust fly from under the SUV tires as my four brothers head out for a night of debauchery. Me? I’m no longer in the mood to head into the city. Why? I received yet another certified letter from Lindsey’s lawyer. It’s sitting on the desk in the office at the stables because that’s where I dropped it when our carrier, Ron, delivered it a few hours ago while I was helping Mom muck stalls.

Why haven’t I opened it? I know what it’s going to say. They’ve been asking me to sign away parental rights to my girl, Lily, who will be three years old next month, since Lindsey moved from Jersey, where we went to college, back to her family home when Lily was three months old.

I look out over the field. The sun slants low over the pasture, catching on the sleek, muscular bodies of the ten horses grazing there. Ten. It still feels strange to see that many out there again. For years, this land was quieter, emptier, an echo of what it used to be.

Whiskey, a palomino mare with a coat like molten gold, her head dipping lazily as she crops off the grass. She was one of the first I picked. Beside her, Bandit, the jet-black gelding with a star-shaped patch on his forehead. Then there was Blaze, the chestnut with a fiery streak down his nose. He’s the wild one, kicking up dirt one second and grazing the next. A little way off, Sugar, the silver-gray mare, nuzzled up to her pasture mate, Frost, a young gelding who still has some growing to do.

The rest moved as a loose herd, switching spots in a lazy rhythm. Duke, the sturdy bay who could plow fields if he needed to, and Star, a soft-eyed paint whose coat seemed to map out constellations. And at the edge of the group, the two youngest, Thunder and Lightning, played at mock battles, their energy a sharp contrast to the older ones.

Cinder, the elder of the herd, was the most expensive of them all. A twenty-year-old mare with a smoky gray coat that has lightened over the years, now speckled with flecks of silver, like ashes scattered in the wind. Her mane and tail are still an inky black but now have streaks of white, no doubt a testament to what she’s been through.

Her movements are slower now, deliberate but graceful. There’s an undeniable strength beneath her measured steps. She’s the one the younger horses look to for guidance, a steady presence that keeps the herd grounded. Cinder’s deep, soulful eyes hold decades of stories—challenges and the quiet moments of peace she’s now able to return to.

Her galloping days are behind her, but she still enjoys a spirited trot every now and then, showing the herd that age is just a number. Cinder’s fiery spirit hasn’t waned. To me, she’s the heartbeat of the pasture, a symbol of resilience. She’s also the most important one of all.

I was pissed when Mom sold her to begin with. But she told me Cinder was old and probably didn’t have many years, and Lily was young and had at least a hundred. She took it a step further by adding, “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my boys,” then stated, “Tell me you haven’t done the same.”

She knew I had. Hell, I had sold plasma twice a week before Lily was born. My blood literally paid for her crib. I also had two part-time jobs—I bartended weekends and nights when I could and drove for two different ride apps—while training, playing football, and taking a full course load to make sure we had everything we’d need for our child’s arrival.

I continued, even after Lindsey left, to pay for our place because I was sure she’d change her mind and come right back. I worked even more when the season ended, so I was sending her even more money after being told by her parents’ lawyer that the money was not only unnecessary but also a pathetic amount.

Wasn’t so pathetic when I got drafted and received a signing bonus. Everyone, including our mutual friends from college, Max and Mila Steel, who tried everything they could to get Lindsey to stand up to her asshole parents, told me not to send any more until they started following the court-ordered visitation.

I rub the back of my neck as I feel it heating up, a sure sign my blood pressure is rising and I need to expel some energy or stop mind-fucking the situation. Since the boys are now long gone, and I won’t be expelling shit tonight, I refocus by honing back in on Cinder.

The day Cinder was delivered was my seventh NFL game. We were playing against the Colts, and it was almost time to hit the field for the game when a whinny and a neigh stopped me from shutting my locker.

Mom’s ringtone.

I grabbed it and hit accept . The screen flickered to life, and there she was, my mom, her head resting against Cinder’s neck, her fingers trembling as she stroked her black silken coat.

Mom’s face was something I hadn’t seen before. Her sharp, proud features, always so composed, were undone by something deeper than surprise. Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but the words didn’t come. Her eyes—clear and unyielding all my life—were shining now, tears spilling down her cheeks in trails that glistened against her flushed skin.

She smiled, wide and unguarded, the kind of smile I hadn’t seen since before Dad’s misdeeds were discovered and life got so fucking hard for her. Her hand slid down Cinder’s neck, steadying herself as much as comforting the mare.

“You …” she began, her voice catching and breaking as she turned back to the screen. She laughed, a broken, shaky sound that was as much a sob as it was joy. She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, disappearing from view for just a moment when the tears refused to stop. “You didn’t …” she whispered, her voice thick with disbelief and overwhelming gratitude. She turned back to Cinder, who nudged her gently, as if to remind her she was real.

“I did,” I said softly, my throat tight. “She’s home, Mom. She’s yours again.”

Her laugh broke fully then, the kind of laugh that comes with tears you can’t hold back. She ran her hand along Cinder’s jaw, her forehead touching her nose. Cinder, calm and wise as ever, leaned into her.

“I thought I’d never see her again,” my mom said, her voice trembling with emotion. She turned back to the screen, her tear-streaked face glowing with something more than joy, something like relief or maybe even healing. “You brought her back to me.”

“You gave her up for me,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “It was time I gave her back to you.”

She stared at me for a moment, her eyes holding everything she couldn’t say—pride, love, and gratitude so deep it broke me a little. Then she smiled again, wiping at her cheeks but not bothering to stop the tears.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said, her voice soft and steady now, the way it always got when she meant every word. “More than you’ll ever know.”

And in that moment, standing there in my cleats and uniform with the noise of the locker room fading to nothing, I felt like we’d already won the whole damn season.

In two years, I’ve added more horses, and the pasture is full again, the way it used to be when I was a kid and Mom would stand at the fence and name each new horse like they were family, even the ones that were just boarded here and had names already. But these ten were more than just replacements; they’re a symbol of what we lost and what we fought to get back.

I lean against the fence, the wood rough under my palm, and watch them move, feeling that tension start to release even more. The land isn’t empty anymore, and neither are we as a family. Every hoofbeat, every flick of a tail, every snort and stomp—this is proof that rebuilding isn’t just a hope. Our lives are moving forward, step by step.

My brothers are all in college, all playing ball, and there will never be another day when hunting isn’t for sport but to put meat in the freezer. Mom won’t have to spend endless hours in the massive garden because, without it, we wouldn’t eat—she’ll do it because she loves it. She won’t take care of others’ horses but her own again, too, and she won’t do it alone because we’re all away at school or living the dream. She built the foundation sturdy enough for us to build upon; she’s got help coming … which is sure to piss her off.

There’s only one thing missing …

It’s time to lawyer up in a big fucking way, which means talking to Ava, who is in charge of the law team for the New York Knights and fighting for scraps of times like now when I’m back in North Carolina for a couple weeks at a time. For time during the season when we play at home and my little girl can be in the stands when I play, and chilling with me when I’m not. Holidays, too, or at least every other or some shit—whatever is best for Lily, as long as they know I am part of that equation, and not just because I’m her father but because I’m a good fucking man.

I step back from the fence and head to the driveway as Mom pulls down the dirt road toward me in her old truck.

She rolls down her window. “I’m fixin’ to head into town to grab some barbeque from Ed’s place. Sound good?”

Ed’s barbeque is legendary and second best to any of Mom’s signature comfort foods when I’m in my feels. “Sounds damn good.”

She looks me up and down. “Go shower off the day, and I’ll be back.”

Smiling, I answer back, “Yes, ma’am.”

After grabbing the envelope off the desk, I lock up the office and head to the house. We’re the fifth generation on Mom’s side of the family to live in the house and the tenth generation to live and work the land here.

The house is a two-story farmhouse with white clapboard siding that shows a few signs of age but carries character. The wraparound porch, with a swinging bench and rocking chairs, hold many memories. Climbing roses and honeysuckle vines trail up the posts, a natural landscape that Mom insists on keeping as it’s almost zero maintenance. The house is big, real big; Mom is one of eight kids and the only one who wanted this place. There are six bedrooms, two full baths, and one half. The house is full of furniture passed down through generations. I’m fairly damn certain Mom was conceived on her mattress. She wouldn’t let me replace the furniture but did buckle to new mattresses for the beds. The wooden floors creak just slightly under each step, but it’s more a comfort now than it was when I was sneaking out or in during my teen years.

The kitchen is a blend of old and new. I didn’t ask when it came to having some updates done to it. New quartz countertops, white cabinets, and a farmhouse sink under a new, larger window give a perfect view of one of the pastures. The stainless-steel appliances Mom agreed to, saying they blended well with the open shelves lined with mason jars and a reclaimed wood island that Bishop and Blane made from a tear-down on the property. It gives a little separation from the kitchen and dining room we never used; instead, it was the porch or the living room in front of a game. We now gather to eat and talk around the island when we’re all here.

I didn’t ask permission to renovate the two full bathrooms, either. She loves the master bath, and yeah, we use it, too, on occasion. Not so much the freestanding soaking tub, but the walk-in shower with two heads and jets that spray at different levels, that gets a hell of a lot of use. It’s like driving your naked ass through a human version of a carwash, which is exactly where I’m heading now.

Sitting on the front porch, I fold the letter and place it back in the envelope from McClay Law firm then grab the mason jar of iced sun tea and lean back, considering whether I should switch the tea out for a bottle of bourbon, but then I realize even that won’t take the fact this letter bit deeper than the rest: Sign the papers. Let Scott adopt her. She deserves a “real” father.

The words twist in my gut like barbed wire. I’m not perfect, but I’m not my old man, and I will not walk away from my child. I take issue with the whole bonus parent shit people are shoveling these days, and yeah, I’ve gotten in some trouble stating that fact, but anyone who looks at the stepparent as a bonus to a child’s life and not the reverse—the child being the bonus in the relationship—can suck rocks. No child should be seen as baggage. No person should think that some swine like Scott is a hero for taking on a single mom. That kind of person is shit beneath my shoes.

The day my little flower was born, I made a promise to her that I wouldn’t be the kind of man my father was. No way in hell was I going to be a ghost in her life.

When Lindsey moved back to South Carolina four months after her birth, with just one semester left before graduation, she did it in the worst possible way, and I was fucking irate.

I had no idea she was planning to leave. I learned about it for the first time on the phone when I was heading back from the Combine, enroute to share everything with her, excited and so fucking high on the experience and the belief that it was going to change our lives.

I was tripping over the fact I’d met Trucker Cohen, Jose Cox, Logan, and Lucas Links and had hope that they saw in me what I’d promised them when I basically spammed a dozen NFL teams in hopes of getting that invite when I called her. Then I was fucking devastated, angry, so damn angry.

“We don’t love each other,” is what she said to me.

“I have all the love in the world for you. I?—”

“We aren’t in love, Beau,” she cut me off. “Lily deserves parents who are in love.”

I lost it. “Never said I love you to a girl in my life. Said it to you, Linds. Said it to fucking you!”

“I have love for you,” she said through a sob. “But I’m not in love with you. You love us, you’re not in love with me, and that’s okay.”

“I fall in love with you every time I walk in the door and see you holding our little …” I stopped talking and tried to reword. “I’ve seen a million moms holding babies and never felt like this before. That speaks volumes.”

“Stop, just stop.”

“Never. Do you hear me, Lindsey? Not ever.”

I heard tires screeching, the phone drop, and a muffled, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

After that, she was pissed at me for upsetting her. She wasn’t alone. I was pissed at myself, too, and not for any reason but one—I could have been the cause of them getting in an accident.

When I got back to our apartment, my friend Max was there.

The last couple of years, I’ve done everything I can to make sure I am part of my daughter’s life, and Max and his wife, Lindsey’s best friend in college, have remained friends and play a big role in that. She spends a couple of weeks in Jersey with them, and I get to play Daddy for those couple weeks without her parents’ interference. It’s more time than the judge gave me, using the excuse that Lily’s life was in South Carolina, and her traveling to me when I sometimes spent half the year on the road wasn’t fair to her.

This past Christmas, Lindsey got engaged, and her fiancé, Scott McClay—or as call him, S-twat McDipshit—told her it was inappropriate to spend two weeks with me. I told her to invite him along so he could see just how PG it was. This went over like a lead balloon, which is why I spent the past two months in a rental house in South Carolina, waiting to get whatever time I could with my girl.

Not enough time. Not even close.

I look up when I hear the crunch of gravel under tires and see headlights in the distance. It’s far enough away so I don’t know what the hell it is, but close enough to know it’s not Mom. If the height of the lights didn’t give that away, then the fact that Mom wouldn’t have lights on at dusk would.

I push up out of the chair, walk over to one of the posts, and lean against it as I watch the car I recognize, but it can’t be.

But when the white BMW SUV stops at the end of the drive, I realize I am wrong—the vehicle is exactly like the one Lindsey has in South Carolina, but there is no way it’s her.

The sun is positioned in just the right spot that I can’t see beyond the reflection, so I have no idea who it is. After a few seconds, I see the back driver’s door open, and Lindsey slides out, her dark blonde hair that she dyed red in college drapes over one shoulder with our little flower head resting on the other.

“Hey,” Lindsey says softly, her Southern drawl more pronounced every time I see her. She nods toward the table where the envelope lies. “I figured you’d get another one.”

I let out a slow breath, stuffing the letter into my back pocket. “Did they send you here to make sure it was delivered?”

Her face softens, and she shakes her head. “They don’t know I’m here. As far as my parents are concerned, I’m with Mila in Jersey for the weekend.”

I’m unsure if it surprises me or pisses me off after the fight we had over it—her parents and S-twat winning in the end … of course.

I head to the bottom of the stairs.

“Just stay there. You don’t have shoes on,” she whispers.

When she gets close enough, I run my hand over Lily’s back. She stirs a little, blinking her sleepy eyes up at me, and then she smiles. Her tiny fingers flex as she reaches out for me, and I take her. She snuggles in, and I watch as her little eyes begin to close. Within seconds, she’s asleep in my arms.

“She wanted to see her daddy,” Lindsey says, her voice barely above a whisper. “And we need to talk.”

I nod toward the door, and we head into the house.

“You still have a room made up for her like in the pictures you sent?” Lindsey asks quietly.

I nod.

“You mind if we crash here for the night and head out in the morning?”

“Of course I don’t mind.” Well, I don’t like the part about leaving in the morning, but one step at a time, and she didn’t just stop showing up here, going off the grid—she leaped.

Once Lily’s tucked into the crib that she was damn-near too big for already, and I have the monitor situated, Lindsey and I head downstairs.

“Mind if we sit on the porch?” she asks.

“Go ahead on out, and I’ll meet you there in just a minute.”

When I come out, she’s sitting in one of the rockers, looking out at the horses. I hand her a glass of sweet tea, sit down in the one next to her, and do the same thing.

The silence stretching between us until my eyes drift to the envelope. “I’m not going to give her up. I can’t, Linds. I know it’d be easier for you if I did, but …” I shake my head.

“I know,” she says, her voice trembling. “And I don’t want you to. But my parents?—”

“Screw your parents!” I cut in, sharper than intended. “You don’t need them, Linds. I’ll take care of you and Lily like I have always promised I would. Whatever you need, I’ve got it.”

She looks down at her tea, her fingers tracing the rim of the glass. “It’s not about money, Beau. It’s about … security. Stability. Family. I don’t want to take her away from you, but if I stand up to them and Scott?—”

“You think they’ll cut you off?” I tilt my head, studying her. “Let ’em. You’ve got me. And Lily’s got us.” Saying his name without a venomous bite behind it is difficult, but I manage. “Scott loves you. He’ll —”

“It’s not that simple,” she cuts me off, her eyes shimmering with something between fear and hope, something that doesn’t have that tool of a fiancé’s involvement at all, but still,

“It is,” I insist. “Move to New York. Let me be there for her—for both of you. We’ll transfer her to a preschool there, and I’ll help with the day-to-day. You don’t have to fight them alone, Linds.”

She lets out a shaky breath, and for a moment, I think she’s going to tell me no. But then she nods, just barely, and it’s like the world’s weight lifts off my chest.

“I’m not in love with Scott. I, um, I tried but …” She looks down at her lap. “I have to figure that out, but when I do, then yeah, okay,” she says quietly. “We’ll try.”

I take her hand, squeezing it gently. “We’ll make it work, Re—” I pause and correct myself—she’s no longer coloring her hair red; she’s gone back to blonde, “Linds. I promise.”