Chapter 9 #2
“Remember, listen to your coaches. And your parents. And eat your vegetables.” I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Though I’ll be honest, nobody ever got to the NFL by eating peas.
And that’s scientifically proven.” I pretend to vomit and shake my head in disgust. “Nasty little green balls.”
Their laughter is worth the extra minutes in the tunnel. I signal Micah, who tosses over three footballs. After Orry, Boone, and I sign them, the smallest brother hugs his ball against his chest like it might float away.
“Dad,” the youngest whispers loudly, tugging at his father’s sleeve. “Ask him.”
The father looks embarrassed. “It’s nothing, really.”
“What’s up?” I ask, still crouched at kid-level.
“My son wanted to know if—” The father hesitates. “Well, if you’d mind doing the thing. You know, the…” He mimes a throwing motion.
I grin. “You want to see how far I can throw it?”
The kids erupt in cheers, and I stand, stretching my arm. It’s tired from four quarters of work, but this isn’t about showing off. It’s about three brothers who’ll remember this moment long after they’ve forgotten the score.
“How about this,” I say, pointing to the far end of the emptying field. “You guys run as far as you can, and I’ll see if I can get the ball to you.”
They take off like rockets, sprinting across the turf, each trying to outpace the others.
The oldest looks back over his shoulder every few steps, afraid I might throw it before he’s ready.
I wait until they’re good and far—probably sixty yards out—before I launch a perfect throw that lands right into the arms of the oldest kid.
Of course, that means his brothers are going to tackle him, which makes his parents laugh.
“Thanks for doing that,” the dad says quietly. “They’ve been talking about meeting you for weeks.”
“It’s no trouble,” I tell him. “I was these guys once.”
And I was. Three brothers sharing everything, fighting over whose turn it was to wear the good jersey. The memory hits me like a linebacker, warm and painful at the same time.
“This is the best day of my entire life,” the oldest boy says, eyes wide with reverence as he and his brothers jog back to me and their dad.
“Until tomorrow,” I tell him, ruffling his hair. “Always gotta be looking ahead. Nice catch, by the way.”
As I walk down the tunnel, the controlled chaos of post-game surrounds me.
There’s the usual mix of back slaps, equipment managers collecting gear, and media waiting for soundbites.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar ache settling in.
Sunday away games always feel longer, the travel stretching everything out like taffy.
My phone buzzes in my locker. I’m expecting more heckling from my brothers, but instead, I see Sutton’s name. Something flips in my chest. Not nerves exactly, but awareness. Sharp and immediate and even a little bit warm.
Sutton
Nice game. Those pants still look ridiculous though.
I laugh out loud, earning a curious look from Bennett who’s peeling tape from his wrists nearby.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I type back.
Me
So you were actually watching? I’m flattered.
Her reply comes faster than I expect.
Sutton
The bar has TVs.
I grin at my phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. So, she was watching.
Me
Just admit you’re becoming a fan.
Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear.
Sutton
Of football? Absolutely not. Of watching grown men in tight pants tackle each other? I mean Omaha has some sexy looking players.
I laugh again, louder this time. Jake glances over with raised eyebrows. “What’s got you all smiley after nearly getting your head taken off by that linebacker in the third quarter?” he asks, towel draped around his neck.
“Nothing,” I say, but my smile doesn’t fade.
Me
You wound me.
Sutton
Sometimes the truth hurts…
Me
We’re flying back tonight. I’ll be at the bar tomorrow if you’re working.
The three dots appear immediately.
Sutton
Monday night? Don’t you football types need recovery days or whatever?
Me
I recover better with a tasty beer and pretty woman to talk to while I drink it. Plus I need someone to tell me if I’m limping too dramatically for sympathy.
I hesitate before hitting send, wondering if it’s too much.
Too forward. But something about Sutton makes me want to push the boundaries a little, so I send it.
Those pesky three drama dots appear and disappear several times.
My stomach tightens with each appearance and disappearance. Finally, her reply appears.
Sutton
I work tomorrow. But there’s nothing pretty about me. And I’ll only tell you if you’re not limping enough.
I grin so wide my face hurts.
Me
Challenge accepted. I’ll practice my wounded warrior hobble all night for you.
“Haynes!” Coach’s voice cuts through the locker room chatter. “Media’s waiting.”
I quickly type one more message.
Me
Gotta go. See you tomorrow.
I slide my phone into my bag and head toward the press room, still smiling.
The familiar post-game questions blur together.
Yes, we executed our game plan; no, the crowd noise wasn’t a factor; yes, we’re taking it one game at a time.
I give the press what they need without giving them anything real because my mind is already on tomorrow.
On the Alley Tap.
On Sutton Price, the world’s prettiest bartender.
By the time we board the team plane, exhaustion has settled deep into my muscles.
Most of the guys are already half-asleep, headphones on, hoodies pulled low.
I find a window seat near the back, hoping for a little peace and quiet.
The victory feels good, but there’s a restlessness beneath my skin that has nothing to do with football.
I check my phone one more time before takeoff, but there’s no new message from Sutton.
It’s fine.
She’s working.
She’s busy.
I lean my head against the window, watching ground crew scurry around the plane in the darkening evening.
Something about Sutton has gotten under my skin in a way I didn’t expect.
Maybe it’s her honesty, or the way she doesn’t care who I am, or the fact that she sees through the bullshit that usually surrounds me.
“You look like you’re thinking deep thoughts,” Sebastian says, dropping into the seat beside me. “Game film already?”
I shake my head. “Just tired.”
“Bullshit.” He pulls out his tablet but doesn’t turn it on. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re overthinking something that should be simple.”
“Like what?”
He studies me for a moment. “The bartender?”
I sigh. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s known you since before you were a grower, not a shower.”
I flip him off for the dick joke but laugh regardless. “Asshole.”
“So how did things really go when you took her out?”
“I didn’t really take her out. It was just Food Truck Alley. Nothing fancy.”
“Well, no shock there,” my brother says with a shrug of his shoulder. “You’re not a fancy guy. I’d have been shocked had you taken her to Alberto’s.”
My mouth waters at the thought of one of Portland’s priciest restaurants. I don’t go there often, but they have some of the best steaks in town. “Nah, she doesn’t like that what I do makes me so much money.”
Sebastian snorts, finally turning on his tablet. “What did she call it?”
“Tag,” I answer, shaking my head amused. “Though I made sure she understood it’s definitely full contact tag.”
“Right.” He laughs. “I mean she’s not wrong, I guess.”
“I just don’t feel right flaunting money in front of her when I know it’s a huge bone of contention for her.”
“Well then how do you plan to win her over when overpaid tag-players seem to be a hard limit for her.”
“Thoughts and prayers?” I ask with an uneasy cringe.
“Good luck with that, Shep. I hope that works out for you.”
I let out a sigh, leaning my head back against my seat as the plane takes off down the runway.
“I don’t know, honestly. She’s fiercely independent so anything that resembles saving or taking care of her, she can’t stand.
She didn’t even want my sweatshirt the other night even though I could tell she was cold.
I had to basically force her to take it when I saw her shiver. ”
“Ah, so she’s stubborn,” Sebastian says with a knowing smile. “But that’s exactly your type, isn’t it?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t have a type.”
“Sure, you do. Smart, sharp-tongued women who don’t take your shit and make you work for every inch of ground.” He taps something on his tablet, not even looking up. “Remember Vanessa from college?
“That was different.”
“Was it though?” Sebastian glances at me, his expression annoyingly perceptive. “You’ve always been drawn to women who challenge you.”
I stare out the window at the darkening sky, watching the city lights shrink beneath us. He’s not wrong, but I’m not about to admit it.
“I like that she sees me,” I say finally. “Not the jersey. Not the contract. Just…me.”
Sebastian’s eyes soften slightly. “I’ll admit, that’s rare for people like you and Kill and Hop.”
“Yeah,” I agree quietly. “It is.”
The plane levels, and the seatbelt sign dings off. Around us, guys shift in their seats, some heading to the bathroom, others stretching sore muscles.
“But if I had to guess, she’s equally grateful that you see her for the strong-willed independent woman that she is. You don’t try to change her way of life, and you don’t downplay or dismiss her feelings. Even when she harbors strong negative feelings for your career choice.”
“Yeah, I suppose you may be right. I might tease her a little from time to time but I respect her for the woman she is.”
He turns more toward me, his tablet against his chest. “Tell me something about her that I don’t know.”
A smile immediately appears on my face as I recall our conversation a few nights ago. “She collects teacups.”
“Teacups?” Seb’s brows furrow.
“Chipped teacups to be exact. From thrift stores or antique stores. Places like that. She doesn’t buy new.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “She says they may be a little broken but they still serve a purpose.”
Sebastian nods silently, his eyes narrowing as he considers what I told him about Sutton.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell him with a slight shake of my head. “I already know what you’re thinking.”
She’s a little bit broken.
And hasn’t quite found her purpose yet.
“Just be careful, Shep. She might have a rough exterior but—”
“I know,” I interrupt, suddenly feeling protective of Sutton in a way I can’t quite explain. “I know she’s guarded. I can see it.”
Sebastian studies me with that clinical gaze he uses on injured players. “I’m only making sure you’re going in with your eyes open. She’s not going to make it easy for you.”
“When have I ever wanted easy?”
He smiles, shaking his head. “Us Haynes boys never can resist a challenge.”
“There’s something about her, Seb. The way she talks about those chipped cups like they’re treasures instead of castoffs…”
“You’ve got it bad,” he says, his brows raised. “Worse than I thought.”
I don’t deny it because what would be the point? I know I barely know her, but…he’s right.