Chapter Two
CHARLES
Retiring at thirty-six is not what I had expected when I started my career in the National Football League.
I’d expected to play a few more years, go out with grace, not have a catastrophic knee blowout that ended my career in seconds.
At least I didn’t blow all my money like some of my former colleagues.
I guess most guys move home to restart their lives using their college degree, but I’m not too interested in computer science now.
I also wasn’t too interested in going home to Nebraska, considering my family disowned me pretty soon after they found out I was gay.
So, I did the only logical thing a man could do.
I’d pointed at a map and moved where my finger landed.
How I picked Hope Island is beyond me, but it’s been nice so far.
I’ve been here a year now, and I’ve settled into some sort of depressive, aimless routine.
I made friends with some people in town, go to physical therapy, and spend time with my elderly Saint Bernard, Cupcake, but I need something more to fill my time.
I start the day like I do every day, a jog.
Early morning basically guarantees me an empty beach considering the vacationers don’t seem too interested in our small island.
But the beach wasn’t empty last weekend.
There’d been a curly-haired blond sitting and staring at the horizon like it contained every secret of the universe.
He had a dusting of freckles on his round cheeks, bright green eyes, and brightly colored flower tattoos covering his left arm.
He was beautiful. He also happens to be the son of two of the friends I’ve made in this weird town so far.
Ugh.
I really need to find a hobby.
I’m going a little stir-crazy without the consistency of football.
The problem is that my entire life since middle school has been football, so I don’t know how to disentangle that routine from my life.
I’m looking at another couple of decades with just me, myself, and I, so I have to figure something out.
My agent keeps trying to get me to do some sort of broadcasting shit, but I’m not remotely interested.
I don’t want another day job, and I don’t have to figure that out anytime soon since I invested my salary so well over the past fifteen years.
It’s ten in the morning on a Wednesday and I’m sitting on my veranda, sipping a cup of coffee, with no plans for the day.
My phone buzzes again with my agent’s name flashing on the screen.
Yikes. No, thank you. I flip the phone over, lean back in my chair, and take a deep, long sip of my caramel-flavored coffee.
Maybe there will be something I can do downtown, something new to find.
Anything that’ll get me out of my own hair for a few hours.
I’m sure there’s an activity Ms. Marcia can drum up for me.
Ms. Marcia is the sweet elderly woman who seems to run the town, the de-facto mayor, much to the chagrin of the actual mayor.
With my mind made up, I finish my coffee and head back inside to find my keys.
Summer on Hope Island means most days are warm, but with a cool ocean breeze, it’s definitely not sweltering hot like farther south.
Cupcake pays little attention to me as I get ready; she only perks up when I grab the keys and give a whistle.
Such a good girl, she can join me for the ride into town.
Cupcake trots toward me with no care in the world.
In her world, time doesn’t exist. Her large brown eyes blink up at me as I open the door for her, and I can’t help but chuckle as my ancient Saint Bernard sways toward the truck in the driveway.
I got her as a puppy a few years into my contract in San Diego.
Cupcake is my girl for life, and this is proven when I easily lift her into the passenger seat and buckle her in.
She gives me a grateful lick that only makes me smile in return.
My house is on the quiet side of the island, and it takes about twenty or so minutes to get to the downtown touristy side.
Previously, I’d only ever lived in Nebraska and California, but Hope Island is probably one of my favorite places.
Quiet and peaceful, always smelling like briny marsh with a wisp of jasmine downtown.
People don’t pay me much mind despite being one of the most well-known quarterbacks of the past two decades.
The roads are lined with moss-laced oaks the farther I get from the shore, but they disappear the closer I get to downtown on the opposite coast of the island.
Being a weekday morning, downtown is still pretty quiet and finding a parking spot isn’t difficult.
My natural inclination is still to hide away from everyone after years of being in the spotlight, years of being hounded, but I’m trying to push myself out of my comfort zone since Hope Island has proven there’s nothing to be scared of here. At least not yet.
I hop out of the truck and help Cupcake down, hooking her up to her leash and wrapping it around my wrist. Most places downtown are super dog friendly, as is most of the island, but Cupcake’s leash is nonnegotiable because I worry about other dogs more than I worry about her.
The ocean breeze wafts over us as we head to the coffee shop that has the best seasonal coffees I’ve ever tasted.
Of course, it’s a small, locally owned place, so if I ever decide to move away, I’ll never find it again.
I peer in through the glass to make sure the place is empty, since I don’t want to assume everyone will be fine with Cupcake coming inside.
Wait, I recognize that curly head of hair and stocky build.
“Interesting start to the day,” I whisper to Cupcake, who only responds by licking her lips in anticipation of the dog treat the owner, River, keeps behind the counter.
The bell rings over the door as I step inside, and the scent of coffee and pastries fills the air.
I love this little coffee shop full of crystals and plants and pastries that make my mouth water.
The two men standing chatting at the counter turn to look at me at the same time.
River grins widely, but Tucker angles his head away with what appears to be embarrassment flushing his cheeks crimson.
“Hey, Charles! And there’s my real favorite customer.
” River leans over the counter and pats Cupcake’s head.
With a grin, he disappears behind the counter real quick, then returns with a treat that he lovingly holds out to Cupcake.
She scarfs it down with her usual gusto and licks his hand in thanks.
“I gotta upgrade my treats for her. She deserves better bones.”
“She has better ones at home, trust me.”
River winks good-naturedly. “I’m sure of it. Charles, this is Tucker. Have you met?”
“We’ve met,” Tucker says sourly while making big eyes at River.
Well. This is a different Tucker than the one I encountered at sunrise.
He’s holding a stack of papers in his hand and his blond curls are more disheveled today.
My gaze must linger on the papers for too long because he shifts to hide them from me, only making me more curious.
River’s gaze flicks between us, and I shrug subtly because I’m not sure what’s up.
“I’m going to get busy canvassing downtown. I’ll see you later.” Tucker leans forward to kiss River’s cheek, then disappears out the door without a backward glance. The kiss seemed friendly enough, but maybe it’s more than that.
“We’re just friends,” River says, effectively squashing my wayward thoughts. He leans forward on the counter, all twinkling doe eyes. “He was just telling me about your run-in.”
“Why did you ask if we met, then?”
“Because I’m a little shit. Anyway, that’s not the point. Tucker is a sweetheart. We’ve been friends since childhood.” River turns around to make my usual order. When he turns back, his smile looks a little more unsure. “He’s been through a lot. You plan to stay in town for a while, yeah?”
This feels like a setup.
I cannot say I’m averse though.
I never spent any time dating during my career and now I’m almost thirty-seven, single, with a bum knee and no direction in life. I don’t really have a lot to offer someone, especially someone as sparkly eyed and beautiful as Tucker.
“I bought a house, so I’m sticking around,” I reply in answer.
River blows a raspberry. “You know the lantern festival is at the end of October. A couple of months away.”
“Okay?”
“Marcia always needs volunteers.”
Marcia, the eighty-year-old woman I’ve become friends with through gossiping about television and learning to knit.
How she puts together so many events throughout the year that bring large numbers of people to the island seems almost magical to me.
But perhaps there is something magical about this island and the people here.
“Are you volunteering me?”
River winks. “I’m volunteering you. Don’t you need something to fill your time?”
“I need lots of things to fill my time,” I mumble, because it’s true.
River hands over two drinks with a secretive smirk. “Head on over to see Marcia. Give her this decaf mocha.”
I give him a skeptical look, then turn toward the door, but not before pausing at the community corkboard. A new white paper hangs on the board, with tear strips at the bottom, none of them taken yet.
Private guitar lessons by Tucker - call for prices. Ages 5 - 99 (100+ is negotiable).