Fourth and Falling (The Next Play #1)

Chapter 1

SHEPHERD

Please be patient with the bartender…even a toilet can only serve one asshole at a time.

That’s what the sign says that hangs inside our favorite hideaway bar a few blocks from the stadium. There are very few places left where my brothers and I can go for a good cold beer and food that will have us regretting every decision we make for the next twelve hours.

The Alley Tap is one of those places.

The customers who frequent this bar usually know who we are, but they understand why we’re here. Just like them, we want to be left alone so we can enjoy a little down time.

At least, that’s how it used to be.

I shoulder the door open with Killian on my heels and Bishop right behind him, Sebastian lagging a step back like he’s still mentally at work.

The bar smells the same, fried food, beer, and wood that’s soaked up decades of bad decisions and more spilled drinks than anyone can count.

But it’s comfortable, familiar, and our favorite place to go after a hard day’s work.

We haven’t been here in a while though.

It’s been a long season for me and we’re less than halfway through. Of course, baseball off-season means Killian and Bishop are irritatingly well-rested and enjoying their time off.

Lucky bastards.

“God,” Killian says, stretching his arms overhead and inhaling deeply. “I missed this place.”

“How can you have missed this place?” Bishop asks, gesturing around the room. “There’s nobody here screaming your name.”

Bro’s not wrong. If any of the four of us crave attention, it’s Killian, especially from the female population.

Killian chuckles. “So, I know how to schmooze the ladies from time to time. Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”

“Dude.” Bishop nudges Killian in his side. “If you’re beautiful, then so am I. And so is Shep.”

“Negative.” Kill shakes his head with a smirk. “The three of us might have come out of mom’s shiny womb looking alike, but there are enough differences now to set us apart.”

Bishop crosses his arms over his chest as I slide into a booth along the far wall. “Name three.”

Killian freezes beside the table and holds up one finger. “My tats for one, bro.” He raises finger number two. “My dick for another…or did you get yourself a Jacob’s ladder since the last time we were in the locker room together?”

I snort in laughter because I know for a fact, Bishop Haynes would never pierce his dick the way Killian has.

“Shall I go on?” Killian teases, much to my amusement.

Bishop slides into the booth next to me so he doesn’t have to sit by Killian. “Fuck you, bro. Let’s drink.”

I grin and tug the hood of my sweatshirt down. Practice wrecked me today. It was one of those days that leaves my brain buzzing even after my body’s done. I just want a beer and some wings and downtime with my brothers with zero expectations, but a voice near the bar grabs our attention.

“I don’t care how much they get paid,” a woman states loudly from behind the bar as she speaks to the patrons she serves, “professional athletes are just grown men playing tag in expensive pants.” Her voice rings out, sharp and unapologetic, and for a second I wonder what spawned the comment, but the television overhead’s got a football game on.

Carolina Sharks versus the Boston Pirates.

Sharks will win in a landslide.

I’d bet my next paycheck on it.

“Did that woman just say something about us wearing expensive pants?” Bishop asks, head tilted in confusion.

I nod, trying to listen in. The woman gestures to the television.

“They’re paid millions to play a stupid game,” she tells them. “For the entertainment of rich people who can afford two-hundred-dollar tickets while everyone else is working three jobs to survive.”

Killian freezes. “Ouch.”

Bishop’s brows shoot up. “Fuck.”

Sebastian actually groans.

But me?

My eyes are glued to the opinionated girl doing all the talking. She’s laughing now, full, unrestrained, eyes bright as she gestures at the TV.

“I’m serious,” she says, pouring a drink. “Doctors, teachers, utility workers—those people actually matter. But sure, let’s give some guy a private jet because he can throw a ball.”

“Well,” Killian murmurs, “that feels personal.”

I should be offended, but I’m not.

Instead, I’m smiling.

Because she’s not wrong. And because, I’m going to guess, she has no idea who just walked into her bar.

It’s been long enough since we’ve been here that the management has changed.

She’s new to me, so I clock her mid-rant.

She’s slim but not fragile and she stands like someone who learned early not to give ground to anyone, her weight balanced, shoulders back, feet planted like she’s ready to move if she has to.

There’s strength there, the kind that doesn’t flex or advertise itself.

That’s what I notice right away.

Then there’s her hair. It’s dark and thick and pulled into one of those messy knots on top of her head like she did it without a mirror and didn’t care how it turned out.

Not that it looks bad. On the contrary, it suits her.

A few strands have escaped and brush her neck when she moves.

It’s not styled, or polished. It looks like it does whatever the hell it wants, but something about that feels deliberate.

Her face isn’t soft, but that’s not a bad thing. She’s got high cheekbones, sharp brows, and a mouth that looks like it learned a long time ago not to smile unless it means it. Her eyes are dark and steady, the kind that miss nothing and probably forgive less.

When she steps out from behind the bar she’s dressed in a pair of tight ripped jeans and a cropped Alley Tap T-shirt, she’s got this punky-I-give-zero-fucks vibe going on and it totally works for her.

Hell, she’s…she’s really pretty.

But probably not approachable.

She comes across as the kind of woman who would cut you at the knees if you underestimated her. Though staring at her while she’s loudly dismantling my entire profession, all I can think is—

“Nice rack.”

“What?” I turn to Killian who is also ogling the boisterous bartender.

He smirks and repeats himself as she comes from behind the bar and heads toward us. “I said she has a nice rack,” he whispers. “She’s hot. I’d tap—”

I lift my hand. “I swear to God, if you say you’d tap that, I’m going to punch you in your fucking face.”

Kill’s brows raise in surprise. “Whoa…I think our big brother is in love.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m older by about four minutes, loser, and I’m not in love. It’s called being respectful. You can look that word up in the dictionary.”

Killian teasingly repeats the word back to me slowly as if he’s trying to remember how it sounds. “Re-spect-ful…”

“What can I get you guys?”

The girl from the bar stands in front of us now. She doesn’t greet us, nor does she look at us. Not once. And I kind of like that more than I should, because if she saw who she was talking to, she might feel bad about her rant a few moments ago.

Sebastian orders first, polite as always. “IPA please.”

Killian flashes his grin. “Meh, I’ll take whatever’s cold.”

She deadpans. “That narrows it down.”

He shrugs. “Surprise me.”

Bishop huffs a laugh and orders the same.

She lifts her head from the notepad in her hand and meets my eyes. Hers are a deep shade of brown, steady and alert. She’s definitely in control, there’s no doubt about that. Something flickers in her gaze when she looks at me, but it’s not recognition. It’s more like…assessment.

Hmm. I wonder if she likes what she sees because I think she’s beautiful.

“And you?” she says like she has no idea who I am.

“Whatever’s on tap is fine, thank you,” I say.

She nods and walks away without another glance.

Killian leans back against the booth and blows out a breath. “Wow. She hates us.”

“Nah,” Sebastian says quietly as we watch her move around the bar. “She just has no idea who you guys are.”

“You think?” Bishop asks.

“She wouldn’t be bashing your careers right in front of you if she knew who you were,” Sebastian explains. “She doesn’t seem the type.”

“Tell that to my expensive pants,” Killian jokes.

In tandem Hop, Kill, and I glance down at what we’re wearing.

Kill and Hop are wearing designer jeans but having come straight from practice, I’m sporting a comfortable pair of track pants.

The idea of my pants being even the least bit expensive makes me chuckle.

We spend the next few minutes laughing about her clothing commentary but then our attention turns to what’s happening a few tables over.

A couple guys have been getting kind of unruly and razz the feisty bartender when she delivers their drinks.

They’re loud and sloppy, which tells me this isn’t their first round.

One of them leans a little too close for my liking, and he must say something she doesn’t like because she freezes.

Her shoulders tense.

Her smile disappears like it never existed.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she says, her voice tight.

The guy laughs. “Relax, babe. You work in a bar. Comes with the job.”

Something cold settles in my chest and I don’t like it.

She straightens, her eyes flashing with irritation. “You can close your tab. Now.”

He scoffs. “Touchy. Guess most girls like it when—”

“Stop.” Her word is sharp and final, but he doesn’t stop.

I feel the shift in the room immediately. Bishop does too, I can tell by the way his posture changes. Sebastian goes rigid, and even Killian swears under his breath, which is never a good sign. I’m on my feet before I realize it.

“Hey. That’s enough.” My voice is calm but demanding. “She told you to stop.”

The guy turns his head, eyeing me from where he’s seated. I tower over him in this situation and he knows it. His eyes suddenly flash with recognition.

“No fuckin’ way,” he breathes. “Holy shit. You’re—”

“Yeah. Leave,” I say, gesturing with nod toward the door.

The bar goes quiet and then another guy at a different table laughs. “Dude, you just got told off by Shepherd Haynes.”