Page 36 of Home Town Advantage (Fourth Quarter Fever #1)

Did this kid just use the word abhorrent?

I’m about to ask when a shorter, attractive blonde woman with the same turquoise eyes as Harper, likely in her late thirties, appears.

She holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Fallon, Harper’s mom and mega-Sulley O’Shea fan.

You’re my number one favorite player,” she giggles before winking at Harper .

I smile as I shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I hear we’re playing ball today. Harper and I are going to take you two to school.” I fist bump Harper, and she jumps up and down excitedly.

We end up playing for an hour. Bailey and Fallon are pretty good.

They both have skills and athleticism. Apparently, Fallon also used to play in high school.

Harper is shockingly good for her age with great hand-eye coordination.

Bailey has a few struggles, but she’s doing well considering her back was broken a few months ago.

I learn Fallon is a professional physical therapist. I suppose Vance mentioned it, but I had forgotten.

Before I leave, I encourage her to consider a job with the Beavers.

She’d be perfect for it. The hours are great, the pay is probably more than what she makes now working at a hospital, and Harper would enjoy becoming a gym rat.

Fallon said she’d consider it. I make a note to mention it to Reagan.

VANCE

“It’s a national holiday,” Daylen declares.

I roll my eyes. “No, it’s not.”

“Suck a Dick Sunday is a weekly holiday I celebrate. Don’t yuck my yum. Please respect my religious beliefs.” He bites back his goofy smile. “You have no idea how many women I’ve convinced that it’s a real holiday.”

I stare at Daylen in disbelief as he does leg presses in our team gym. From the chest press machine, I shake my head. “You’re a fucking idiot, D.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “Or a genius.”

I sigh and point to the large man currently on the other side of the gym lifting hundreds of pounds over his head. “Beau is a genius. I still don’t understand what he was saying about weight distribution the other day at my new house.”

I’ve been back for a few days, finishing my move into the new house.

I had a moving company, but Beau and Daylen, who are bigger and stronger than the professional movers, have been extremely helpful.

Beau put my entire dresser on his shoulder like it weighed ten pounds.

He then put my sofa on his other shoulder and explained to us how the distribution of each lessens the effects, or some shit like that.

Beau shrugs. “I’m not a genius. I applied simple principles of mathematics and equilibrium.”

Daylen nonchalantly says, “Did you know that eighty-five percent of Americans can’t do basic math? It’s a good thing I’m in the other twenty-five percent.”

Everyone starts laughing. I can’t help but smile at my friend. He’s truly one of a kind.

I look over to Champ, who’s doing squats at an obscene weight. “Shit, man, no wonder no one can tackle you. That’s triple what I can do.”

He nods. “We’re going all the way this year. It’s our time, McCaffrey.”

I agree. We’re getting older. We’ll never have a better, stronger team than we’ll have this upcoming season. Management added two more defensive studs so everything doesn’t fall on Beau’s shoulders.

I look over at Reece. “Rook, get me a towel.”

He scowls. “I’m not a rookie anymore. Have one of them get you a towel, McCaffrey.”

Beau is about to go set him straight when I hold up my hand for him to stop. I’ve got this. “You’re a rook until you stop acting like a little bitch. How many passes did you drop last season?”

“Seven,” he mumbles.

“How many did you catch?”

“Six. ”

“Right. So you’re still a fucking rookie until you catch more passes than you drop, butterfingers.

And if you want me to throw you the ball, get my fucking towel, you mouthy little shit.

And get one for Champ too. In fact, wipe down machines for Champ today after he’s done using them. You’re his wiping bitch for the day.”

Put simply, no one likes Reece Sanders. He’s an obvious bigot, always mumbling anti-gay slurs and jokes that only he thinks are funny.

The way he treats Champ makes my blood boil, but Champ never says anything and asks us to leave it be.

He just takes it on the chin, never wanting to be the center of attention.

Daylen, Beau, and I have discussed it. If Reece’s behavior continues this year, we’re going to ask management to trade or release him.

He’s bad news, but, at Champ’s request, we’re chalking up last year to immaturity.

He’s skating on thin ice with us right now.

He throws a towel toward Champ and brings me mine.

I grab his wrist and grit out so only he can hear me, “You’re a piece of shit.

Learn some respect. If you can’t manage it, hillbilly, we’re going to have a problem.

It’s not a good idea to piss off the person who decides whether or not to throw you the ball.

This is your last chance, Sanders. Get your act together. Grow the fuck up.”

He visibly swallows as he scurries away like the rat he is. I have no faith that he will change.

Champ walks over to me and we do a little handshake followed by a bro hug. In a low voice, he quietly says, “I appreciate the support, but it only draws more unwanted attention. I’ve dealt with guys like him my whole life. It’s not worth it.”

I squeeze his hand tight and pull our bodies close so we’re nearly nose to nose as I look him in the eye. “You’re my teammate, which makes you my brother. I would never allow my brother to be disrespected in any way, would you?”

He shakes his head.

“Right. So you just sit there and look pretty. I’ll set that prick straight.

I know you put your head down, work hard, and do your job.

You’re not a showboat. You don’t like to be the center of attention.

I dig that about you. It doesn’t make his treatment of you acceptable.

He will treat you with respect, or I will make sure he’s kicked off this team. ”

Champ pinches his lips together, appearing like he might get emotional. “Thanks, man. I appreciate you having my back.”

I nod as we break apart and get back to our respective workouts.

Coach Jeffries walks into the gym wearing athletic clothing.

His joining team workouts has become the norm, especially in the years since his divorce.

I don’t think it’s as much about improving his body as it is about having an outlet for his sadness and frustrations.

I suppose it’s better than sitting at a bar.

He gives me a friendly punch to the arm. “This will finally be our year, son.”

I nod. “The new guys will help.”

“Yep. I pushed hard for them. You can’t be expected to throw five touchdowns a game. At some point, the defense needs to make a stand. And Fudd can’t play eleven positions.”

Coach, who misses nothing, looks Reece’s way. “You set him straight?”

“Yes, sir. It’s under control.”

“Good. Fucking prima donna. He should focus on catching the ball instead of the personal lives of his teammates.”

“Agreed.”

“You make sure Champ knows everyone has his back.”

“I have. He knows.”

We break apart, and he heads over to the stretching area.

I look back toward Champ. “Have you seen Bailey lately?” I went to visit her a small handful of times during our season, but I haven’t been over since I returned from Montana .

He smiles. “Yes, I go over several days a week. Her recovery is remarkable. She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever met. Google says her recovery should have taken way longer than it has. I’m so proud of her.”

Coach scoffs. “Pft. Google. You know what my childhood Google was? A library. If we wanted answers, we had to go to the library and spend hours looking them up. And the lucky few had full sets of Encyclopedia Britannica in their houses. A through Z, each letter a different full book volume. You had to flip through the pages to try to find what you were looking for.”

Daylen nods. “I remember having an older woman babysit me once who talked about those ancient scrolls called Encyclopedias.”

Coach narrows his eyes. “Babysitters? You know who my babysitter was in the eighties? The Gen X babysitter of choice? It was my mother shouting on the way out of the house, ‘Don’t open the motherfucking door for anyone.’”

We all laugh. I love Coach’s Gen X-isms.

My phone pings, and I pull it out of my pocket and look at the screen. It’s a text from Layla to the group that there will be a housewarming party at Sulley’s new house next week.

I’ve texted her a few times since our two perfect days together. She returned with short, one-word responses, not wanting to engage. It hurts, but what can I do? This is a situation of my own creation. I can’t deny that I miss her and what we shared in that cabin.

I pull up our text string and begin to type.

Me: Looking forward to your party. Thanks for including me.

Sulley: It was Layla. She did the guest list.

Ouch.

Me: I miss you.

Sulley: Don’t.

Me: I’m all moved in. Will you come see the house?

I see three dots pop up on the screen multiple times, indicating that she’s writing, but nothing comes through, and then the dots disappear.

Me: Please. I want you to see his creation.

Sulley: Fine. When?

Me: How about tomorrow? Early evening, when the sun is setting? It’s most beautiful at that time of day.

Sulley: See you then.