5. Silence
Chapter 5
Silence
Kolby
“L isten up, Knights,” Coach Cohen says as he storms into the room. “We’ve had one hell of a season so far.”
“Damn right we have,” Hart hoots.
Coach’s lips twitch up then go straight again. “We’ve also had some near tragedies and a whole lot of haters.”
Boone, who shouldn’t be here—he should be home healing—pipes in, “Hart’s off suspension, a car accident didn’t take out Lily’s mom, and a bullet didn’t stop me from showing up here.” He holds up his hand. “I married my dream girl. Dreams are coming true, men. Haters sure as hell won’t stop the Knights.”
Everyone cheers or hoots. Me? I feel like if I look up, they’ll see it and start firing off questions like, “Where were you last night?” or “You do know you’re not the same caliber of man Boone or Hart are, right? or “Did you have to fuck her hard enough to make her bleed on your dick?”
Okay, the last one, I know the answer. Not the part where I might have hurt her, but that I fucked her hard enough that she was walking a bit funny this morning. She wasn’t in pain; she was falling apart in such a way that got me all tangled up in it.
Lo’s not a screamer; she didn’t close her eyes, she didn’t pose or position herself as if I was gonna whip out my phone and start snapping pictures for the Gram. She responded to every touch, every lick, every damn … thing. She was present. Her breaths, they even shook … like her thighs and trembling hands.
Gonna guess the blood I washed of off my dick wasn’t from a wound. Typically, it would gross me the fuck out thinking I went down on a girl who may have been just getting on or off her period, but if that’s what I’ve been missing all these years, that taste …
Stupid thought. Blood has a metallic taste. She was pure heat and sweetness.
“All right, one last thing before we hit a few drills.” Cohen nods toward the door, where several men, all thick and military-cut, are standing. They are wearing plain black jackets and cargo pants and have unreadable faces. “Most of you have met my stepsons, CJ and Matthew Abraham, and our nephew Remington Ross. Matthew and CJ took over their father’s life’s work of protecting those who can’t protect themselves, and Remington has traveled the world, doing …”
Lucas looks at him and lifts a shoulder.
CJ chuckles. “Let’s just say he can track anything better than any GPS that the public?—”
“Will never know about,” his brother Matthew adds.
CJ continues, “The rest of the Ross boys and Jackson Brooks are just as gifted trackers.”
“Bullshit,” Remington coughs.
Jackson flips him off as he walks in and sits in an empty chair in the front.
“Luke Lane is another security expert,” Lucas says with pride.
“Can’t track worth a shit because he’s been spoiled,” one of them jokes.
“If you call spoiled being guided by the U.S. Army into combat zones to take out the guys so bad your candy asses will never hear of, hand to hand or with a rifle from three thousand meters away,” Jackson states, “then yeah, spoiled rotten.”
“Allegedly,” Reminton states.
“Allegedly,” they all agree.
“All shits and giggles aside”—CJ gets real serious now—“we’re here to do what needs to be done, to make sure you all can also do what needs to be done.”
“And they brought friends,” Lucas adds.
“We’d rather play offense than defense.” Matthew clears his throat. “That being said, we know most of you have people who handle your socials. They’re all connected with the team’s media expert and?—”
“Experts, we’ve added to that team, as well.” Lucas holds up three fingers.
Matthew nods. “Perfect.” And continues, “They’ve been instructed to make sure we know of any threats that come through.”
“Gonna guess a few of you use Snap and WhatsApp for pictures and … whatnot. If you get anything through those types of avenues, even if you don’t think it’s an issue with the team, we need to know about it,” Reminton, who’s leaning against the wall, says. “We need you to do the same if any of you get a threat, even if you think it’s bullshit or personal and not team-related. There are already rumors that the incident with Boone is connected to the issue with Knoxville and Vegas floating around. Not true. It was a jealous ex with a death wish, a screw loose, and a badge.” He nods to Hart and Boone. “Glad you two handled it and got there when you did.” He shakes his head. “Real glad, but we’re all going on lockdown until the season ends. Just waiting on approval from the town to approve surveillance cameras in the places we’ve identified as weak.”
Jackson clears his throat and looks back. “Copycat crimes happen when people with little dicks and bad manners feel they can get attention.”
“I know you’re not looking at me.” Hart chuckles.
“I don’t want to know a damn thing about your dick,” he says as he turns around.
CJ speaks next. “Circling back to the Knights and Legacy family on lockdown. Stay in town. If you have to head out, take a friend and make a call. 711 is our direct line to the command center.”
“They have a board with little pegs with our numbers on them down at the command center. Pretty bad ass,” Boone announces. “Like that game, Battleship.”
“Sounds rough,” Logan Links pipes in. “Checking in and shit, but it’s for everyone’s own good. You see a strange car driving around town, take a pic and send it to 711. See a local acting shady, reach out. I see some of you look a little irritated. Don’t be. Smile, Knights. They wouldn’t wanna bring us down if we hadn’t risen to the top.”
“We’ll see you guys at the Barn tonight.” Remington waves a hand over his shoulder as he walks away.
“Effective immediately, you’ll see them at practices, games, travel—everywhere. They answer to the family. You answer to them.” Coach Cohen claps his hands. “All right, Knights, indoor practice field, let’s roll.”
* * *
There are a few I catch grumbling about being stuck in this place as we make our way to the practice field. Me? I don’t say shit. You learn more listening.
Griffon Skinner is beside me. “Wanna be my buddy?”
“Your buddy?”
“Buddy,” he says, like I should know.
“Skinner, what the hell are you?—”
“Coach said we need to buddy up. Be my buddy?”
“Only if you stop saying buddy .”
The morning’s brutal—pads slamming, helmets rattling, steam rising off the line like smoke from a battlefield. Coaches bark orders, but it’s the undercurrent you can feel the most. That buzz. That coil of nerves pulling tighter with every snap. It’s not just playoff pressure. It’s the threats. We all know there’s more. Most of us heard it in the words not spoken.
Legacy Field’s on lockdown, the owners’ families looking over their shoulders like someone’s breathing down their necks. It’s not the cop who shot Boone. That bastard’s rotting in county lockup, awaiting trial, and everyone knows it.
This is bigger. Wider. More patient.
They can be pissed that we’re on lockdown, but I know what everyone’s thinking,
Who the hell would want to take down the Knights?
Answer is: it’s probably not about the team at all. It’s about the people who own it.
The family that dragged the Knights out of Knoxville pissed off half the damn state and rebuilt Legacy Field here from the ground up.
Money moves mountains. It also paints targets.
But that feeling, the one I can’t shake, maybe it isn’t them. I can’t help but wonder if it’s me. If somehow the past I buried six feet deep clawed its way back up, latching on to me like rot on good wood. It’s stupid—I know that—but when you’ve waited for the other shoe to drop, sometimes it doesn’t matter if the boots are yours or not. You still flinch when you hear them hit the floor.
Back inside, Coach breaks down the plan for hosting the playoff game. We’ll face whoever wins tonight’s late game: Outriders vs. Vegas.
Don’t wanna deal with the Vegas shit again, but the Outriders, Caleb Cross plays for them.
We’ve played them, and he makes remarks under his breath. I know Coach D has spoken to him—he assured me that the secret is buried. Still, that’s a part of my past that I don’t want to revisit.
If they pull out a win tonight, we’re gonna square up again, right here on my turf.
Perfect. Give me something I can hit.
The lights flicker across the whiteboard, but nobody’s really paying attention to the film yet. Everyone’s locked in on Coach Trucker at the front, arms crossed, face carved out of stone, voice low but slicing through the room like a blade.
“We’re gonna be thin on the line this week.” His jaw ticks. “Boone’s been the anchor for three seasons.” Coach’s eyes cut straight to me. “And that means you, Grimes. You’re filling that space.”
I nod.
Coach keeps talking—scheme adjustments, protection shifts, extra reps for the rookies to cover gaps—but the blood’s already pounding too loud in my ears.
Step up.
Be better. Be stronger. Be enough. Same song. Different verse.
I’m supposed to be the one holding the damn line.
Good.
I do my best work when the walls are already burning.
The projector flickers, showing old Outriders tape, but I barely watch. My body’s wired too tight, my muscles too hot under my skin, my mind already spinning.
I’m not scared. I’m not worried. I’m pissed. I’m ready.
They want a war? Good. I’m at my best when there’s nothing left to lose.
* * *
The first time I drove into Blue Valley, I barely looked around.
New contract, new number, new expectations, and a point to prove, I was so focused on not fucking it up that I didn’t see the town at all. Now I see too much.
I take Main Street slow. It’s a two-lane road, and you never know when tractors will be taking up both of them.
I pass by Sugar Rush. That’s what it’s called. Sydney owns it. Married to Boone now.
Boone scares defensive men on Sundays and walks around here like some kind of folk hero in flannel, dad sneakers, and his daughter in his arm or in a backpack for kids. He’s good people. Doesn’t ask questions I don’t want to answer.
Across the road is the same firehouse that served the town, that outgrows it from October to … well, whenever the season ends. The firehouse may have moved, but that old building now houses a security force with more training than anyone knows.
Everything here feels like it remembers you, even if you’ve never stepped inside. And I hate that it feels a lot like home should when I could get traded in a snap.
There’s a bookstore tucked just off the corner—shuttered windows, dust on the glass. But a light’s on in the back. I spot Lauren’s cousin Izzy in there on occasion. I’m not sure what that’s about, but I won’t ask either.
I nod back to a couple of guys in camo vests and ball caps leaning against a pickup, sipping from mismatched to-go mugs like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be. And that’s it. That’s the whole exchange. A language made of looks and silence. Familiar.
I hit the end of Main and hang a right, up past the quarry road, where the pavement evens out and the trees get taller toward The Stables.
As I get closer, I see construction vehicles, and closer yet, I realize they’re putting up fencing.
A man stops me as I turn in, and I roll down the window.
“This thing is going up pretty quickly. I know you all, but some of the guys coming in may not. Might get asked for ID.”
“Appreciate the heads-up,” I say, and he steps back and waves me through.
* * *
I punch in the code and step inside. The lights come on with motion sensors, even though it’s still light out. When I moved in, I hated that. It felt like the house was watching me walk through it, cataloging my movements like I was still being measured for my worth. Doesn’t bother me much now.
I drop my bag by the stairs and stand still for a second. There’s not a single sound in the whole damn place. No creaking pipes. No footsteps overhead. No voices through the walls. Not one thing reminds me of the hellish places we moved to when the landlord evicted us from the last I was raised in or traffic you pretend isn’t there, because the place cost close to two mill.
Nothing but the hum of the fridge and the weight of every decision that got me here.
I don’t hate it.
Having slept for shit last night and not getting even a wink this morning, I decide to take a powernap. Just rest my eyes, ten minutes tops.
The blackout blinds are down, the room’s quiet and, for once, my phone isn’t buzzing. So, I stretch out across the bed—still half-dressed, socks on, shirt off—and let myself fade.
It’s the closest I’ve come to peace since Lo invited me in.
Fucking Lo …
* * *
I jolt upright like I’ve been shot, heart thudding, brain scrambled, body already halfway off the bed before I realize?—
Something’s out there—someone banging on glass. The balcony door. Second damn floor.
I lunge toward it, yanking back the curtain?—
“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap, voice rough with sleep and disbelief.
And there he is, grinning, fucking Skinner.
He’s wearing a hoodie and athletic shorts, slides barely on his bare feet on my second-floor balcony like it’s the front porch of a frat house.
He cups his hands to the glass, peering in with that shit-eating grin growing like he’s proud of himself.
“What a buddy would do,” he shouts through the door, “if his buddy went MIA for two hours and wouldn’t answer his goddamn phone.”
I yank the door open. “You scaled the side of the townhouse?”
He shrugs, dead casual. “Garbage can, tree limb. Light cardio.”
I blink at him. “You could’ve texted.”
“I did.” He points at me. “You didn’t answer, and your truck hasn’t moved. So, unless you were buried under a pile of protein powder, I figured you were either dead or spiraling about taking Boone’s spot for the playoffs.”
I rake a hand through my hair, still groggy, still pissed, but not really. “I was napping, asshole.”
“You nap like you’ve been cursed. That’s not normal.” He eyes me like he’s taking inventory.
“Get off my balcony.”
“Or”—he grins wider—“you let me in, and I make you coffee while you tell me what the hell’s going on in that big, brooding oak tree of a head.”
I stare at him for a long second. Then step back and leave the door open.
He doesn’t hesitate, just breezes past me like he’s not affected by the cold at all.
I follow him down the stairs.
“Jesus, Grimes,” he mutters as he surveys the living room, “this place’s got less personality than my old dorm.”
“Didn’t invite you to critique the decor.”
He opens my fridge. “Water, egg whites, jerky, and one expired mustard packet. The bachelor four-fecta.”
I scrub a hand over my face and lean against the island.
Skinner pulls out a piece of jerky, tosses it to me, and grabs one for himself. “You good?”
I nod.
He just finishes his shake and lets the silence stretch, not awkward, just familiar.
“Cool,” he eventually says, straightening. “Let’s go.”
I squint. “Where?”
He grins. “Brooks.”
I hesitate. He sees it. Fuck.
“Look,” he says, stepping closer, “you can sit in this tomb of quartz and brooding, or we can go somewhere that smells like meat, wood smoke, and beer. And maybe, if we’re lucky, Lauren Brooks will glare at you like she’s still trying to figure out whether to punch you or kiss you.”
My jaw tightens.
“Yeah, that one.” He smirks as he holds his hands up. “I know, I know, that shit’s not something to joke about, especially with you waiting on a contract. Go get changed, put on something pretty. I’ll wait right here, buddy .”
Getting ready, I let the whole weight of it being a contract year sink in. Before, it was about Deb and how much she’d soak me for. Now … it’s more.
Fuck!