Page 13

Chapter thirteen

Riley: All In

T he bells above the door jingled as I stepped into Mae’s Diner, the scent of burnt coffee and maple syrup clinging to the air as usual. I hadn’t planned to stop in, but the rescue was fully staffed for the morning shift, and I needed a minute. Just one quiet minute.

I didn’t get it.

"Figures," someone muttered behind a raised newspaper, not even bothering to lower their voice. I caught the headline in black ink as the paper shifted—Colton’s name, bold and blunt, right under a quote that wasn’t as neutral as he probably thought.

Another table chuckled. It wasn’t cruel, just careless. That kind of laughter people use to distance themselves from someone else's mess.

I clenched the edge of the counter as I passed, the metal cold under my palm. A hot flush crept up my neck. My instinct was to spin on my heel and say something—anything—but I bit it back. What would it change?

I kept walking. Kept my face still. But my insides were twisting. Not because they were talking about him, but because they didn’t know him. Not the version I was starting to see.

"…I’m just saying, it’s convenient, isn’t it? First, he shows up at the rescue looking all humble, and now he’s trashing his own dad in the press?"

The voice came from a booth near the window. I didn’t turn to look, but I knew it belonged to Mr. Henson, who taught eighth-grade social studies and treated the diner like his personal podium.

"He didn’t trash anyone," another voice said—Marla, who ran the church bake sales and knew everyone’s birthday by heart. "He said the town deserves to be protected. That’s not the same as going after his father."

"Oh, please," Henson muttered. "You know exactly how it reads. That quote’s a Molotov cocktail in a headline."

I moved to the counter and took the stool farthest from them, keeping my eyes down. I folded the napkin once, then again—tight corners, perfect creases.

Mae gave me a once-over and then slid a mug in front of me without asking. "You look like you need it, and be careful; it’s hot."

“Thanks Mae. Can you get me a cinnamon roll with extra icing and two black coffees to go?”

My phone buzzed .

Figures. Tessa never missed a beat.

Just saw the headline. You okay?

Henson is probably holding a town hall in booth three.

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t yet.

The mug warmed my palms, but I couldn’t feel anything but static. I stirred the coffee twice, even though I hadn’t added sugar. My fingers wouldn’t stop tapping against the ceramic mug. The voices in the diner blended together—some skeptical, some defensive, all loud.

They kept talking like they had the full picture. Like one headline and a few quotes added up to the whole story. But they didn’t know him. Not even close.

Another buzz. This time, Ryan.

Call me. Before I go over there and make things worse.

I stared at the message, then slowly turned my phone facedown. I knew what I had to do. But first, I needed to stop shaking.

Because whatever happened next—I wasn’t walking in angry. I was walking in ready.

I responded quickly.

I’ll handle it. I’ll call you after I talk with Colton. OK?

The scrape of a fork on a plate made me flinch. The room had become itchy and grating. I tossed a few bills on the counter, grabbed the bag and the tray with two coffees, and headed for the door.

I sat in Mae’s parking lot for a solid minute before unlocking my phone. The diner windows glowed with warmth behind me, but my hands were cold. I opened his thread and stared at the blinking cursor. It wasn’t hesitation, not exactly. Just weight. What I said next was important.

On my way over. Coffee + your favorite cinnamon bun. No pitchforks, I promise.

I turn the ignition on. "Not exactly Shakespeare." Hopefully, I had set the right tone.

I stood in front of his apartment door, the scent of coffee rising from the cardboard tray in one hand and a paper bag warm against my palm in the other.

The cinnamon bun inside had a little too much icing—just the way he liked it. I wasn’t sure if this counted as a peace offering, interrogation, or something in between.

I knocked twice.

I wasn’t sure what I expected—an apology? A mess? Nothing at all?

My stomach was tight, my fingers cold despite the tray in my hand. I wasn’t walking in as someone who ran Timberline or the person assigned to be his handler.

I was walking in as someone who had a choice.

And I was about to make it.

I heard footsteps on the squeaky floor coming closer.

Deep breath. Here goes nothing.

The door creaked open.

He looked like he hadn’t slept. Hoodie, sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower or maybe from running his hands through it one too many times.

Crap. I forgot how good-looking he is. Only Colton could go through the ringer and still show up looking this damn good.

He blinked at the coffee tray, then at me. "That for me?"

I'd nearly forgotten I was holding coffee, so I tried to cover it up with a smart response, "Unless you’ve given up drinking black coffee and stress-eating sugar bombs."

One corner of his mouth lifted. Just barely.

He stepped aside, and I walked in.

For a second, we both stood there in the doorway. Just looking at each other.

I was momentarily distracted by his blue eyes.

Coffee. Sugar rush. Talk. Right.

What would be neutral ground?

I cleared my throat. "Where's the kitchen?"

"Just down the hall."

I set the tray on the counter and peeled the lid off his coffee, mostly to buy myself a second to breathe.

I handed it over without looking up. "I figured you could use caffeine more than a lecture."

He took it, his fingers brushing mine for half a second. "Thanks."

I turned toward him, leaning back against the counter. "So. Want to tell me what happened?"

He braced himself against the counter across from mine and let out a breath—more of a sigh than a groan—and rubbed the back of his neck.

"I thought maybe Vanessa was going for a redemption story.

She was... different this time. Not sweet, exactly, but less sharp. We were having an actual conversation."

I waited.

He glanced at the cinnamon bun, then back at me. "She said people were noticing the change. That I was showing up, doing the work. I guess I wanted to believe it. That maybe she'd give me a shot at a new narrative."

My jaw tightened, but I said nothing.

"She slipped in a question about my dad—something about how complicated it must be. I didn’t even think. I just said what I felt. That the town would be better off without him messing with it."

He looked back down at the cinnamon bun. After a beat, he looked at me. "I swear, Riley, I wasn’t trying to start a fire. I didn’t even think I said anything that bad. I thought... I don’t know. Maybe honesty would count for something."

Of course, he thought that. That stubborn hope. It was endearing. And exactly the kind of thing someone like Vanessa would weaponize.

I took a slow breath, collecting my thoughts before I said the wrong thing. He was trying. That mattered. But trying didn’t make the fallout any less real.

I grabbed my coffee, testing to see if it was cool enough to drink. I also felt the sudden need to keep my hands busy. "What would your PR team have told you to do?"

His shoulders tensed. "I know, okay?" he snapped, sharper than I expected. Then he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "Sorry. I just—yeah. I know. I threw every piece of PR advice I ever got straight out the window."

His voice cracked just slightly on the last word, and he blinked slower than normal, like he needed an extra second to pull himself back together.

Deep breath, Riley.

"Your PR people. When you were in the league, if they were coaching you, and Vanessa cornered you like that—what would they have told you to do?"

He looked down. "They’d tell me not to engage. Not unless I controlled the setting. They’d say to deflect, give a neutral quote, smile, and walk away."

I nodded. "Then that’s what we do next time. You and I—we prep. You learn who to trust and when. I’m not here to rub it in, Colton. I’m here to help you figure out how to be the guy you’re trying to be."

His mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but then he closed it again. He stared at the coffee cup in his hands. "You’re still backing me up?"

"Of course I am," I said, softer now. "I’m not blind, Colton. Sure, you messed up. You handed her a headline. But I see how hard you’ve been trying. That counts. It still counts."

His gaze dropped to the counter, fingers tightening slightly around the cup. He let out another breath. "You don’t know how much I wanted this to be different. I just... I never say the right thing. I’m always a beat too slow or a word too sharp."

I put my coffee down. "Then just work at getting better at it. Think it through. Say what you mean. And that starts with being honest with yourself. What do you really want, Colton? Not just out of this mess. Long-term. Big picture."

He hesitated.

"I want to be someone who shows up. For the team, for the town. I want my teammates to respect me, not because I hit hard or skate fast, but because they trust me. I want to give back to the people who gave me another chance."

He didn’t make promises. He didn’t swear he’d never screw up again. I watched him for another moment, the curve of his shoulders, the way his thumb tapped lightly against the side of the coffee cup like he didn’t know if it would come together for him.

He swallowed hard. "And someday... I want to be someone who knows how to be a good husband. A good dad. I didn’t grow up with great examples, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn."

Husband. Dad. Whoa. I hadn’t expected that.

I reached out and slid my fingers into his. I noticed how much bigger his hands were compared to mine. "Then let’s make it happen"

I should’ve been scared. Maybe I was.

But I was also sure of something else.

I was betting on him.

And this time, I was all in.