13. Lennon
CHAPTER 13
LENNON
Now
San Francisco, California
"Move to California, they said. It'll be warm and sunny all the time, they said," I mutter to myself as I crank the heat in my truck up even further. I need to call someone and demand a refund on this bullshit weather. I know it's November and all, but I didn't expect it to be colder than a witch's tit here. I thought moving to California was a guaranteed escape from frigid winters.
Too bad no one told me about the anomaly that is the Bay Area microclimates.
Fifty-five degree weather has never felt so cold.
It's a bye week for the Redwoods and the new team owner invited the entire team and coaching staff to a sort of Friendsgiving, sort of holiday party at his home in San Francisco. I've yet to meet Mr. Adler beyond a quick introduction to the entire team, so I did some googling in case we end up in conversation so that I could prevent coming off as an idiot. He apparently used to be some tech CEO — an industry I know jack shit about — and is now a fitness instructor for the Spin Sync streaming company. Another flop, since I avoid cardio outside of games and practice like the plague.
I did find out his wife is a writer, so I downloaded an audiobook to listen to on the drive, thinking maybe it would give me some common ground with the man.
Big mistake, seeing as fifteen minutes into the story two hockey players were going at it in a locker room and my pants started to tighten uncomfortably. I switched over to Noah Kahan after that, my nerves still firing on all cylinders.
"God, this place is ridiculous," I say as I pull my truck up to the valet stand outside the walled and gated structure of the mansion perched on a cliffside. Just west of the Golden Gate Bridge, the mansion sits high over the place where the Pacific Ocean meets the bay. The house resembles something I could envision sitting on an Italian hillside, except it's fucking enormous. Made of light and whitewashed brick, it's something I might describe as charming if it didn't look like it could fit thirty of my own apartments inside of it. Even from the end of the driveway, I can see the intricate carvings over the entryway and most windowsills. The lawn isn't perfectly manicured like you would expect, which I appreciate, because 'good looking' lawns are typically terrible for the environment. Instead, it's a jungle of different grass types, weeds, stray flowers, wild trees and discarded children's toys. "People actually live here?" I say under my breath and someone speaks up behind me.
"Yup. This isn't even the Adler's only place in the city. They have a massive penthouse in Pacific Heights as well. Cannon told me they also have residences littered around Europe, not to mention the South Pacific island Adler bought his wife as a wedding present." Breaker says as I slide out of the car and I hand my key FOB to the waiting attendant. It's been three weeks since the game in Knoxville, and Breaker has been different towards me. Friendly even. Not buddy-buddy like we once were, but he's not actively avoiding me or yelling at me in deserted hallways, so I'll take my wins where I can get them.
Unfortunately, Kasper's leg took a beating in that game and he's out for the foreseeable future. Fortunately, Breaker has stepped the hell up as quarterback. We've played three times, twice at home and once away. We won both times on our own field, and even though we lost the away game in Denver by one field goal it was still a solid game. Breaker threw for three touchdowns, the other team just edged us out at the buzzer.
Not to mention all of the positive press surrounding what the internet has dubbed 'The Brotherly Shove'. Breaker, the O-line and I have gotten it down to an art at this point. I've never had so many fourth down scenarios where a coach has told us to go for it instead of punting, but The Shove is unstoppable. I've yet to unsuccessfully carry Breaker over that line of scrimmage, and the high I get every time we get that fresh set of downs is unmatched.
It just proves what I've always known; when Breaker and I connect, magic happens.
And of course, there's the thrill of the hugs I get from him every time we successfully execute the play. They might be one-armed man hugs that barely count because of all the padding from our protective gear between us, but it's the closest I get to feeling like the old us again.
"Fuck," I say, running a hand over my beard as I stare up at the castle on the sea. "I thought I was rolling in the dough when I got my first paycheck in the pros. This is…Jesus. This is straight up 'fuck you' money. Do you think I'm underdressed?" I'm suddenly hyper aware of how not fancy my chinos and dark blue button up are. Breaker at least had the decency to throw on a sports jacket. Fuck. I look like a slob. The person who cleans the toilets here is probably dressed fancier than I am right now.
"You look great, Len, relax. It's just a house. He's just a guy," he says, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. The heat of his palm mixed with the way his voice goes soft when he calls me Len both helps to relax me and causes the knot in my stomach to wind tighter. Goosebumps flare up all over my body, and I'm thankful for the fabric of my shirt that keeps his bare skin from touching mine. There's no hiding the way my traitorous body reacts when Breaker touches me.
For a second I think that he must feel the sparks too, but he quickly pulls his hand away and tucks it into his pocket. The air around us grows thick with awkward tension almost immediately.
"That's easy for you to say," I manage to choke out "You've actually had a conversation with the man."
"I have, and he's chill. It's gonna be casual. C'mon dude, you can't just stand out here and stare at the house like a creep all night. Let's go."
I swallow the lump in my throat and follow him up the driveway and into the wide open front doors, willing myself the entire way to not break into a nervous sweat.
As soon as we pass through the entryway, I expect to be met with butlers in tuxedos carrying champagne and caviar on silver platters, but there seems to be none of that. There's not even someone here to greet us. Not that I need to be greeted, I just thought there would be more formality to an event at a billionaire's mansion than there seems to be. In fact, this is nothing like what I imagined. I was picturing a 'Kim and Kanye's creepy ass white void' situation, but that's not the case at all.
There's a coat rack by the entryway, jackets and handbags slung haphazardly over it and a pile of tiny shoes littered around the bottom. The walls of the long hallway are adorned with kooky, brightly colored pieces of art mixed in with framed pieces of construction paper that seem to be covered in the scribbles of children. There's also a scattering of personal photographs sprinkled in. Wedding pictures, vacations, family portraits. For a hallway, it's incredibly cozy. It reminds me of my childhood home.
Except, you know. Worth about 50 million dollars more.
We follow the sound of music and people talking into a large space that is probably a living room, given the furniture, but there's a long, wide table smack dab in the middle filled to the brim with all kinds of food. From here I can spot charcuterie, fruits, burgers and buns piled high on platters, and what seems like a hundred different appetizers. My mouth waters when the unmistakable scent of pigs in a blanket with mustard hits my nostrils. People sip out of compostable cups branded with the Redwoods logo, not a single Baccarat champagne flute in sight.
I am fully taken aback when I notice the row of coolers packed with ice and an assortment of beverages lining the walls.
Coolers. Actual plastic coolers — all Redwoods red and gold in color — sitting side by side on the floor.
This doesn't feel like a snooty billionaire's dinner party. Nope, this feels like a neighborhood block party, and I am so here for it.
I do a quick scan of the beverage options, and despite the laid back feel, Adler didn't skimp in the alcohol department. The serve yourself bar is stacked a few rows deep with some really expensive liquor, including a few bottles of Macallan scotch that I know is upwards of three thousand dollars at the store. Even if I had planned on drinking liquor tonight, I'm definitely not fancy enough to brave a glass of that stuff.
I peer down at the coolers to check out the beer options and holy shit, one of those coolers is filled with Coors Light. I don't know why a cooler of Coors Light amongst a sea of craft beers is surprising to me, but I don't mind if I do. I beeline to the side of the room and grab two bottles, assuming that Breaker will want one too. I hold it out to him when I get back and he takes it, twisting the top and clinking it against mine. He brings the bottle to his lips and his tongue quickly peaks out before his lips make contact with the dark brown lip of the glass, and for just a moment, I imagine what it might feel like if he ran that tongue over my bottom lip, or my ear, or up and down my?—
My increasingly inappropriate thoughts are broken up by the shrieks of two children, running towards Breaker and I at lightning speed. Shit, if they can catch a ball, they'll make a pair of solid wide receivers some day.
"MR. brEAKER!" They yell as they launch themselves at his legs, hugging his calves like he's a life raft they're clinging to.
"Whaddup, littles?" Breaker smiles down at them, then hands his beer over to me, indicating with his eyes that he'd like me to hold it for him. I take it and he gently removes the baby koala bears from his calves and squats down to meet them. He holds both hands up, and the nearly identical little boy and girl high five him. I have no clue how these kids know Breaker, or vice versa, but whatever. I'm just along for the ride.
"Daddy said you were gonna be here! We waited all day to see you!" the boy says, and his sister nods enthusiastically.
"No way! Your dad told me that you two were going to be here. I waited all day to see you ! Where are your twin kittens?" he exclaims, matching their energy.
"Our big cat is babysitting Luna and Bella at our other house," the little girl answers, and Breaker doesn't even skip a beat at this pint sized human casually dropping that she already has more than once house to speak of.
Shit, he's a natural, so damn good with kids. He's gonna make an amazing dad someday.
Great, now I'm picturing Breaker shirtless with a baby sleeping on his chest. I rub the spot on my sternum where my heart has started to ache underneath. That image is just too cute.
"Sorry about that." James Adler half jogs his way over to us from where I hadn't noticed him standing across the room. He's in jeans and a vintage Redwoods tee. All of my fears of being underdressed go right out the window. Even with his casual demeanor, it's unsettling standing so close to him. I'm wider for sure, but the dude is built like a brick wall. I never meet anyone in my same height range, and I think Adler might even have half an inch or so on me. "I had my eyes on the kids but they sprinted over as soon as they saw you, Lawson. I really need to keep them on a leash like little puppies."
The kids start to woof and bark like dogs up at their dad, and I can't stop the laugh that escapes me. They're freaking adorable.
"Ah Griffith, glad you can make it. It's good to finally meet you in a less official capacity." The Head Man In Charge holds out a hand for me to shake, and I awkwardly shuffle both beer bottles into my left hand so that I can take it.
"Double fisting? That's my kind of man." He laughs as he pulls me into a half hug and pats my back.
"That's not something I would normally put past myself, but I like to take it easy during the season. One of these belongs to that guy." I gesture down to where Breaker is squatting, listening intently to the kids rattle on about something or another.
"You've been looking great out there so far this season. Your pass block game is insane, you're seriously vigilant on the field."
"Thank you sir, I appreciate you noticing my…vigilante shit," I sputter like a moron.
Vigilante shit? Really? Who the fuck do I think I am, Taylor Swift? James — or should I call him Mr. Adler? Maybe I should just stick with sir .
Whatever I'm supposed to call him, he thankfully blows right past my idiocy.
"Ew, nope. Not sir, anything but sir. Chasing after my four year olds around makes me feel old enough as it is, just call me James. You've met the gremlins?" He asks, looking down to where his daughter appears to be whispering into Breaker's ear. And that answers that question. James it is.
"Not officially, they've been glued to Breaker since they noticed him."
"SECRETS SECRETS ARE NO FUN UNLESS THEY'RE SHARED WITH EVERYONE!" The little boy shrieks, and his sister huffs.
"Inside voices, please," James says sternly. "Taylor, Ethan, say hello to Mr. Lennon. He's the Redwood's center. He's the one that snaps the football."
"Hi Mr. Lennon," the kids say with roughly seventeen percent of the energy with which they greeted Breaker, not that I'm jealous or anything.
"Tell me the secret!" Ethan sulks, stomping his foot. Taylor opens her mouth and Breaker stands, muttering something like please don't . His cheeks are flushed bright red.
"It's not a secret, Efan. It's a question. Mr. Lennon, are you and Mr. Breaker daddies?" Taylor singsongs up to me. I choke on the beer I was in the middle of sipping.
"Uhhh…" I stammer like an idiot. "Why would you think that?" Wrong thing to say. I have no idea what this little kid is talking about, but I get the feeling that I shouldn't feed into it.
"Because you kiss his head when you win. Only mommies and daddies kiss, but you're both boys. So that means you're daddy and daddy, right?" The tot shrugs, and I open my mouth, then close it again. Damn. This would be the perfect opportunity to tell Breaker what I've been feeling, how I think of him all the time. Except for, you know.
The party.
The fact that Breaker looks like he wants to crawl in on himself and die.
The two snot-nosed kids staring up at me, waiting for me to tell them if Breaker and I are fucking daddies and their own Dad standing nearby, holding my professional career in the palm of his hands.
I realize I've been silent for a beat too long, so I force a chuckle and wrap an arm around Breaker's shoulders.
"Nah, not dads. Just best friends. Buddies. Bros. Homeboys. Amigos." Jesus, dude, think of a few more ways to say it, why don't you?
I feel Breaker tense under my arm and when I look at him, I see the tight smile plastered on his face. Bless James for being the one to break the tension.
"C'mon kids, let's go find your mom. Maybe she has a friend we can make uncomfortable next," he says as he leans down and scoops a twin into each arm.
"BYE MR. brEAKER!" The kids wave over their dad's shoulder as they retreat. I guess they've got no lost love for me. As soon as they turn their heads, Breaker forcefully shrugs out from under my arm.
"I'm gonna go get some food," he mutters, trudging away from me on heavy feet. Great. First I'm rejected by a couple of ankle biters, and now Breaker is right back to being pissed at me. This is going to be a fun party.
Spoiler alert — it has not been a fun party, save for the incredible food. Seriously, I would bathe in Georgie Adler's buffalo chicken dip if the thought of hot sauce in my nooks and crannies didn't sound so unappealing.
Lucky me, just when I thought tonight might be an opportunity to further smooth things over with Breaker, he's being a broody asshole. I wanted us to hang out. I thought we could finally make progress in our strained friendship off the field, but he's back to keeping me at arm's length. Every time I try to talk to him, he finds someone else to get lost in conversation with. He's purposefully putting himself at the farthest points of any room for me, if not avoiding the room I'm in all together. I follow him like a lost kitten from group to group, conversation to conversation. I'm sure our teammates have noticed the way I trail behind Breaker, and the way he keeps leaving me on my own.
I try to join a lively chat he was having with the wide receiver, Tanner Gunning, and a woman I recognize as the younger sister of Dean McKenna, my old quarterback back in Knoxville. I was going to ask her how her brother is enjoying his retirement—last year was his last season—but as soon as I saddle up next to them, Breaker walks away.
Seriously. He just got up and walked away, mid sentence.
"That was weird," the blonde in front of me says. Thankfully, Tanner has moved on to recapping game stats with some dude from the admin office and is no longer paying us any attention. I don't have it in me to hide that fact that I'm staring after Breaker like a lovesick puppy.
"Ah," she sighs. "Man problems. I remember them all too well. I'm Kira, by the way. I think we met at my brother's retirement blowout at few months ago. Hard to remember. My dad's killer Cosmopolitans had me lost in the sauce that night. Here." She shoves something in to my hand, not caring that I haven't bothered to tear my eyes away from the direction that Breaker left in while she talks.
"To all the boys who have broken our hearts. May they rot in piss," she clinks a glass against the one she handed to me a moment ago, and I look down to see her shooting back the brown liquid without so much as a wince. I'm not sure her toast totally applies here, but I gotta say, I like this woman. She's got some serious big dick energy. I have a feeling she and I are going to be very good friends.
I take the shot, and it goes down smooth as butter. It also ignites a fire in my chest. I don't know if it was the ill-advised bourbon or Breaker's shit attitude, but I'm done with all of it. We're hashing this out, now.
"Kira, it was wonderful to meet you, but can you excuse me for a second?" I ask, handing the empty shot glass back to her and storming off across the room before she has a chance to answer me.
"Can I talk to you?" I say, purposefully invading Breaker's personal space in the kitchen where I found him chatting with some guy wearing a dark grey cardigan, holding hands with a woman dressed in leggings, a crop top and a flannel shirt with a messy bun tied on top of her head. I can tell they're both staring at me, but I'm only looking at Breaker.
“Later, Lennon. Amir and Rachel here were just telling me about their McLaren—” I cut him off before he can finish.
"No. Now." I grip his bicep and pull him towards the closet door, slamming and locking it around us. A bag of tortilla chips falls from a shelf as I realize I've locked us in a pantry. A pantry that's bigger than my entire bedroom, by the way. I don't like to use my size as an advantage over anyone off the gridiron, but I'm fucking pissed, so I crowd Breaker, backing him into a shelf and caging him in with my arms on either side of his head.
"What the fuck is your problem?" I growl in his stupid, beautiful face.