13. Two Days Gone
Chapter 13
Two Days Gone
Kolby
“Well, shit, it wasn’t just a rumor.” Skinner chuckles as they hit the turf like they’ve got something to prove.
Helmets strapped, jerseys stretched tight over muscle, and some a little more, the so-called “practice squad” isn’t made up of rookies today—it’s made up of legends, lifers, and yeah, lunatics who apparently never outgrew the high, since everyone is dressed in Blue Valley High gear.
Hudson chuckles. “There’s no way those still fit.”
“Let them live their best lives.” I smirk.
Lucas is first out, visor down like he’s walking into a war zone. Logan’s beside him, tossing a ball back and forth like he’s already bored. Coach Cohen looks like he has a point to prove, Coach Moore’s grinning like this is Christmas morning, and the oldest Coach Cox, he’s stretching like he’s about to tear something and wouldn’t give a damn if he did. They’re pumped.
Behind them, Luke, Ryan, and Jackson all look like they’re about to throw down in a bar fight, not a scrimmage. Next is Alex, Liam, Jake, and Brody, followed by Maddox Hines, who comes last in that group, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
The things they’ve been through … I have a new respect for them, and as fucked up as it is, I have hope that Lo doesn’t look at me like filth.
The commandos are next. CJ, Matthew, and Remington all geared up, all quiet, all deadly, like the game is just another mission they’ve accepted. They don’t say a word, just fall into formation.
I shift my helmet under one arm, trying not to smile, but damn … this? This is gonna be fun.
Then I see Boone jogging out of the tunnel with a plastic whistle in his mouth and a gym bag swinging from one hand like he’s bringing snacks. When he gets closer, I see it’s full of flags. Neon ones.
He drops the bag with a dramatic thud and pulls out a pair of bright yellow flag belts and holds them up. “All right, gentlemen!” he calls, already grinning, “In accordance with the League of Angry Wives, Fiancées, Girlfriends, and Small Children Who Don’t Want to Watch You Limp, we’re playing flag football today.”
A few groans, a few laughs, and one “What?” from Coach Moore.
Boone lifts a finger. “These rules were personally drafted by Tessa Links, and signed off by Jade Brooks, and approved by a majority vote of women who want their men walking off the field, not rolled into the ER.”
He starts tossing belts like he’s playing Santa at a holiday party. “Flag belts on. No lowering shoulders. No full tackles. Trash talk is encouraged but keep it PG—there are kids in the stands and a pregnant lady who could go into labor if you try any dumb shit.”
CJ catches his with one hand. “So … maiming’s off the table.”
Boone points at him. “No maiming. And no diving at legs, Remington—I know how you think. ”
Remington just grins.
Coach Cohen glares at his belt like it might be contagious. “This is an insult to the game.”
“Yeah,” Boone says cheerfully, “but it’s an homage to surviving the game. ”
The girls are in hysterics as they move down to the sidelines. Jade’s standing with her arms crossed lips twitching. Sydney and Lily are holding up a sign that reads, “ Coach Boone! ” in glitter.
I adjust my gloves, watching Lo out of the corner of my eye. She’s not laughing, but she is smiling. Just barely. I’m pissed I laid all that out on her lap. Hate that I did that to her.
Focus.
Let the old dogs bark. Let the girls watch. Let Lo watch me do what I do best.
Boone holds the whistle to his lips, holds up a single hand like he’s about to lead us into battle, and declares, “Flag belts on, pride off, game on!” Then he blows the whistle, and the chaos begins.
* * *
By the end of the game, there’s not one of us on this field with dignity intact.
Coach Cox pulled a hamstring five minutes in and refused to come off the field, limping up and down the sideline, yelling, “I’m fine! I’m fine!”
“You’re not fine; you’re old!” Logan laughed.
Coach M got flagged—twice—for “excessive celebration” after scoring a single touchdown.
Lucas told him he looked like a drunk goose trying to moonwalk.
Logan tripped over CJ’s foot mid-route, blamed the turf, and then tried to challenge the play, even though there’s no review system in flag football.
Boone made a dramatic show of denying the nonexistent challenge with a thumbs-down and a “Back to the huddle, son.”
Ryan had his flags all but super glued on, and Alex pulled so hard his pants went down, and he made a touchdown with his ass half-exposed.
Jade was screaming something about making number five, and Jackson tackled him, anyway. “That’s for stealing my fantasy league win three years ago.”
The security team was actually smiling, mostly Matthew, who every time he pulled someone’s flag, he yelled “Gotcha!”
Liam tried to block Brody and got steamrolled by the old man. Jake called him a pancake, and Liam tackled him out of pure pride. Flags went flying. So did a shoe.
Phoebe, who’s usually the sweetest of all of them, yelled, “ Put your big girl panties on and stop playing like pussies! ”
That’s when I stopped even pretending to play.
Izzy kept holding up injury reports on the board. The end of the game, it read:
“CURRENT INJURIES: 2 PULLED MUSCLES, 23 brUISED EGOS, 17 LOST FLAGS.
ALL OF YOU ARE A DISGRACE TO THE GAME.”
The real highlight? Coach Cohen.
Final play. Down by one. He went long— real long. Lucas lobbed him a perfect spiral. The man leapt like he was auditioning for a Monday Night Football throwback segment, fingertips just brushing glory …
And then he fell flat on his ass.
The ball bounced off the frozen turf. Game over. No one even checked the score. Didn’t matter. We all won.
Every man out here grinned through sore knees and bruised pride, even the ones who carried the heaviest weight.
The stands erupted. Clapping. Cheering. A few too-loud cat calls.
I glance up and catch Lo’s slow clap, one brow raised like she’s still trying to decide if this whole thing was a bad dream. Then she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and scans the crowd like she’s calculating the quickest way out. I don’t blame her.
I keep my eyes on her too long. Not because I’m worried about the contract—I’ve got options—but because I’d miss the hell out of seeing her. Even like it used to be.
She walks straight toward me.
I brace for it. For the “You’re a good time, but …” followed by a polite pat on the chest and a graceful exit.
Instead, she stops in front of me and says, “You should laugh more, Grimes.” She brushes her fingers along the space between my eyes. “You’re gonna have lines.”
“All that I laid on your lap last night, and you’re worried I’ll have wrinkles?”
She crosses her arms. “All that’s behind you now.” Then she stretches her arms out wide. “Little birdie told me you’ve got a whole world of choices ahead of you. Seems like something to smile about.”
I nod, arms crossed, guard up.
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” she asks, tone sharper now.
My jaw tightens. “ Avoiding you ? I’m giving you space. Time to?—”
“Well, I don’t want it.” She scowls.
“You do, Lo.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Because I can survive like I always have. But if you give me more—just a little more—and then realize you deserve better …” I shake my head. “I’ll grieve losing you more than anything I’ve ever lost.”
She steps in. I step back.
“You think I’ve ever looked at anyone else?” she snaps. “From day one, it’s been you.”
“What about the guy at the bar? The security guy?—”
“I was trying to make you jealous, you damn fool!”
From behind me, Skinner calls out, “You two aware you have an audience?”
“Leave them alone,” Hart adds. “This has been a long time coming.”
“I don’t win unless it’s after the game,” Riley mutters, not looking up.
Lo smiles. Big, real, glowing. Then she grabs my face, rises on her toes, and kisses me.
Lucas’s voice drifts across the field, “Gonna guess he’s signing with us.”
She starts to pull back, but I catch her hip, tug her forward, and press my forehead to hers. “If they send me packing for that, you’re coming with me. Or I’m going to jail for attempted abduction.”
She laughs, breathless. “That’s the least confident thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“You’ve seen the security detail around here?”
She brushes her thumb across my jaw. “Don’t get comfortable. You’re not stepping foot back in my house until after the game.”
I nod. “Fair.”
We finally trade numbers, and then she walks off toward the rest of the girls, hair bouncing, head held high.
I head back to the huddle.
Coach Cohen’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Red zone run sets! Let’s go! Earn your keep!”
No more fluff. No more flag football.
Time to prove I belong.
* * *
The field’s emptying fast—guys laughing, grabbing their bags, yelling about takeout and controller batteries like they didn’t just spend the afternoon crashing into each other in subzero winds.
I hate to make them wait, but I have something I need to do.
Scanning the area, I spot Ryan across the field, still talking with one of the assistant coaches. I adjust my grip on my helmet and make my way over.
“Ryan,” I say, not loud but not soft, either.
He turns and looks at me. Calm. Always calm.
“You got a second?”
He nods and dismisses the coach with a clap on the back. Then he turns fully to me, arms crossed over his chest, like he already knows what’s coming.
I clear my throat, eyes locked on his. “I just want you to know I never went looking for her.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“I came here to earn a spot on your line, and that’s what I’ve done. But somewhere between then and now … she became”—I run my hand through my hair—“everything. I’m not taking this lightly. I’m not trying to disrespect you. Or your family. I know what she’s worth.” I pause, the words sticking in my throat, but I push them out. “I’ve been falling for her for so long that anything before that doesn’t matter. And I’ll protect her, cherish her—all of it.”
He watches me for a long moment, not judging, just weighing. Finally, he speaks.
“One day,” he says, voice steady, “you might have a daughter.”
That stings a little more than I expected.
“When you do,” he continues, “and you love her the way Jade and I love ours … you’ll know. You’ll see her fall, or cry, or chase after something you can’t protect her from, and your whole world will freeze.” He steps forward, hand gripping my shoulder. “And then, one day, a man will walk into her life, and you’ll know if he’s worth a damn by how he looks at her when she doesn’t see it, by how he stands when she’s storming away, by what he says when there’s no one to impress.”
His grip tightens slightly. “I’ve seen the way you look at my daughter, Kolby. I’ve seen the way you fight for your place in this world. I’m not angry.”
Relief claws its way up my chest, but I don’t move. Don’t breathe. This is too easy.
“You’re a good man,” he says. “And I think, if you stay that way, you’ll do right by her.”
I nod, jaw tight, throat tighter. “I will,” I tell him. “I swear it.”
He offers a small smile, claps my shoulder once more, and then walks off toward the tunnel.
Not approval. Not permission. Respect. And damn if that doesn’t mean more than anything I’ve earned on a football field.
I’m still standing there, staring down the tunnel, trying to get my head right again, when a sharp whistle cracks through the air.
I turn toward the sound.
Jackson’s posted near the edge of the building, shoulder hitched against the wall, a smug-ass grin spreading across his face. “You’re riding with me, Grimes!”
I lift a brow. “Is that an invitation or a threat?”
He shrugs. “Depends. You planning on doing anything that’ll get you murdered before playoffs?”
“Not today.”
He jerks his chin toward the lot. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Once in his truck, he asks, “You vested in this tourney, or you wanna take a break from Hart’s man cave and sleep in a real bed?”
“I’m good wherever.” Good? An understatement. I’m better than I’ve ever been.
He throws his vehicle in drive, and we head out, past security, heading in the same direction Ryan and I did last night.
The first thing he says to me is, “Saw your boots by the door that night of the storm.”
I bite back a laugh.
“Thought about calling ‘olly olly oxen free,’ but figured I’d spare Lo for feeling called out.” He chuckles. “Watched you sneak out, squeeze your giant ass in the back of that Jeep.”
“It was a bumpy ride,” I admit.
“Hope it’s smoothed out.”
“Yeah, I think it has.”
“Lot of guys thought so.”
I mull that over a second because, not only did she say she was a virgin, I had the evidence of it on my dick. And I’ve known her, watched her for long enough, to know I’d never doubt a word she said.
“She didn’t give any but a minute of time to figure it out. She’s given you years. Took your time, Grimes.”
“Wanted things to be right.” I look out the window. “Wanted to be divorced, wanted to know where I’d be.”
“You think she’s right for you?”
“Think I’m lucky she even saw me.”
“You know where you wanna be now?” he asks.
“I do.”
“Meatloaf said it best: two out of three ain’t bad.”
Less than five minutes later, we turn down a winding gravel road that cuts through a stretch of forest I didn’t even notice the first time I came out this way. The trees are older than the ones by the road, tall enough to block out half the sky. The sun filters through in strips, lighting up frost on the tall grass.
We slow near a wooden post fence that stretches and rolls with the hills, and when the trees open up, I see it.
The house. No, not a house. A home.
I know from the room assignments when they relocated players that it’s a five-bedroom. I think they called it a modern farmhouse. It’s tucked neatly into the base of the ridge, a long front porch wrapping around it. Steel roof, big windows, warm wood beams, the kind of place that looks like it was made for Sunday dinners and barefoot kids chasing each other through the yard.
Jackson nods toward it. “We built it during the shutdown years ago, all of us.”
“It’s a lot of land?”
“Twenty acres. Right between my mom and dad’s property and my dad’s parents. That hill back there?” He points through the windshield. “That was the boundary line of their two childhood homes. Mom grew up right there on the east side. Dad grew up just over that ridge.”
He says it like it’s nothing, but I’m quiet. Because it’s everything. It’s roots, something I’ve never had and didn’t dare dream of.
Jackson pulls around the looped driveway, past a detached garage with a basketball hoop mounted above it, and parks near the back where a mudroom entrance sits lit with soft porch lights.
“Let’s go,” he says, grabbing his bag. “Dinner’s always ready.”
As we walk into the house, the scent hits me—smoke, something roasting, garlic and herbs warming the air. Laughter spills from the other room, bright and unfiltered.
When we walk into the kitchen, Jade and Ryan are dancing to some old song with the line, “ I’m gonna keep on loving you, ’cause it’s the only thing I wanna do … ”