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CHAPTER ONE

ATLAS

If there was one thing I hated more than people, it was talking to people.

And talking to people while my oversized frame was stuffed into a monkey suit was seventh circle of hell territory.

Didn’t have much of a choice, though.

The sooner I made my appearance at the annual charity gala my former team held, the sooner I could make the rounds, and the sooner I’d be back here in my hotel room.

My empty hotel room.

I could shower off the stench of jersey chasers, jerk off to a faceless woman in peace, and fall into a restless sleep.

Then I’d head back home in the morning.

This was my least favorite way to spend an evening, but even though I’d been out of the league for five years, I hadn’t missed one of these events.

And despite my disdain for the attire—and events in general—I didn’t plan to start anytime soon.

I tugged on my dress shirt, buttoning it up with as much care as I could manage.

Which wasn’t much. After a glance in the mirror verifying I hadn’t misaligned the buttons, I grabbed my cuff links engraved with my number—a retirement gift from the team owner—and slipped them through the holes before securing them into place.

I’d tied enough bow ties in my life that I could do it without thought.

The problem was, if I didn’t have anything occupying my mind, it tended to wander to places I’d rather leave in the rearview mirror.

Halfway through tying the bow, my phone buzzed from its place on the nightstand.

I abandoned the knot and strode over to glance at the screen.

My youngest brother’s name flashed, along with a string of call notifications I’d missed while in the shower.

I pressed the button to accept the call.

“Yeah.”

“Nice of you to finally answer, dickhead,” Lincoln said.

“I’m a little busy, Linc. What’s up?”

“We’ve got a Mom Situation,” he said without preamble.

The clinking of glasses and the loud hum of voices carried over the line, telling me he was at One Night Stan’s.

“And since I can’t be both there and covering the bar, we’ve gotta tag team.”

I froze on my path back to the mirror, my steps halting as a dozen different scenarios flew through my mind, each one worse than the last. “What kind of Mom Situation?”

“Nope. I’m not gonna spill so you can pick and choose. Just tell me which one you can take care of—Mom or the bar. And hurry the fuck up. Who knows what she’s gotten into while I waited for your ass to answer.”

“I didn’t answer because I’m a little busy here. Why didn’t you call Declan?”

“Uh, because I actually wanted someone to show up?”

Fair enough.

Dec wasn’t exactly reliable.

And Xander was a plane ride away, so he couldn’t just swing by the family bar to lend a hand.

“Well, I can’t show up. I’m out of town.” I scrubbed a hand across my mouth.

“Jesus Christ, does no one look at the family calendar?”

Lincoln snorted.

“What am I, a soccer mom? No, I don’t look at the fucking calendar.”

“Well, if you had, you’d know I’m in Portland.”

“Maine or Oregon?”

“Maine.”

Not that it mattered.

Even though I was in the same state, it might as well have been another country for all the good it did me.

This was the first time I’d left our small town all year—since the last time I’d come to this exact event, actually.

But of course, shit would hit the fan on the singular day I wasn’t in Starlight Cove.

How bad would it really be if I missed the charity gala?

And how quickly could I charter a private jet?

“I don’t buy it,” Lincoln said.

“You never leave this place. Barely leave your house unless you’re here, at the school, or at an away game for the team. So stop fucking around, quit giving me excuses, and help me handle this.”

With a muttered curse, I hung up on him and navigated to the camera app.

Group text with Atlas, Xander, Declan, and Lincoln

7:27 p.m.

Lincoln:

Why did you hang up on me, asshole?

I sent him the picture of myself glaring at him in reply.

Atlas:

Team charity thing in Portland.

Just like last year.

Just like next year.

Just like I put in the fucking calendar.

Declan:

Am I supposed to be impressed that you jetted off somewhere in your $10k tux?

Atlas:

Linc needs you at the bar or to check on Mom.

Your pick.

Declan:

I’m busy

I ground my molars, biting back the string of curses I wanted to release.

How my brothers still acted like fucking children even though they were all in their thirties was a goddamn mystery.

Atlas:

Unbusy yourself, shithead.

I’m four hours away and can’t exactly pop over.

Lincoln:

Guess it’ll forever remain a mystery why I didn’t call Dec first.

Declan:

One of you assholes fill me in on what’s going on.

Lincoln:

Mom Situation

Declan:

Dire or standard?

Lincoln:

Anyone’s guess.

Her faucet’s been dripping.

Instead of waiting for one of us to handle it, she started watching YouTube videos.

She’s attempting to be her own plumber.

“Motherfucker,” I muttered.

I began typing out a reply when another text notification popped up, this time from the woman in question.

I clicked over to the thread with just her and me.

Mom:

I know your brother has sent out the bat signal or whatever, but I’m FINE.

I’m a fully grown, independent woman and don’t need my sons to come to my rescue all the time.

Have fun at your gala!

And send me pictures!

!! I’ll take care of this myself, no need to worry.

These videos are very informative!

Atlas:

Mom. Just leave it alone for now.

Don’t touch anything.

Mom:

I’m perfectly capable of handling things in my own house, Atlas.

Atlas:

I know you are.

But just wait for one of us, will you?

Mom:

Your brothers are welcome to help me once they get here.

Unless I’ve already finished by then.

Group text with Atlas, Xander, Declan, and Lincoln

7:36 p.m.

Atlas:

Jesus Christ, one of you needs to get over there right fucking now.

She’s diving in without waiting for us.

Lincoln:

I’ve got the bar to handle, and we’re two deep because Mabel’s offering half off a sex toy if people buy her a drink.

I’m going to have to roll her out of here by last call.

Atlas:

Dec. That means you’re up.

Declan:

Goddammit.

You fuckers have no idea what I’m passing up for you.

Lincoln:

Not for us, douchebag.

For Mom.

Declan:

Yeah, yeah.

I’m on my way.

Xander:

Sorry for the late reply.

Looks like you got it handled, but lmk if otherwise.

Lincoln:

Convenient, Xan.

Xander:

I can’t do shit when I’m 1k miles away, dickweed.

Atlas:

Someone keep me up to date.

Lincoln:

Enjoy the fancy party.

Word on the street is there are a whole lot of thirsty women ready to pounce.

Atlas:

What’s that supposed to mean?

Lincoln:

When’s the last time you looked at your Instagram?

Atlas:

I have an Instagram?

Lincoln:

Yes, idiot.

You got tagged in a bunch of promo pics for the event.

The ladies are going feral.

Including Cara Preston.

She’s happy to be your date or—and I quote—whatever you need, anytime.

So your next game should be fun.

“Fuck me,” I groaned to my empty hotel room and scrubbed a hand down my face.

I tossed my phone on the bed and finished tying my bow tie, my mind properly occupied this time.

That woman might as well have taken out a billboard for how subtle she’d been in her interest since I’d moved back home.

Problem was, I didn’t date my players’ moms. Or women who lived in Starlight Cove.

Or in general.

I’d come to realize that returning home—or to my hotel room—alone and jacking off to a faceless woman held a lot fewer headaches for me.

God knew my family proved enough of a challenge that I didn’t need to add any more to my list.