4. Griffin
Chapter four
Griffin
W e keep our fingers linked all the way down 2nd Street.
The sun has tucked in for the night, the twilight sky deep shades of blue and purple above the brick buildings of downtown. The street grows more crowded the closer we get to Beale, but I keep my head down and lead Brynn to one of my favorite restaurants, hoping like hell no one stops us. On our trek, I allow myself one look back. She’s doing her best to keep up with my brisk pace. Her head is down, focused on her steps, but her brow is furrowed.
She’s probably thinking about that asswipe Jack.
I kept my eyes peeled for those brunette waves from the minute Tyrell pointed her out, but still. What were the odds that I’d approach her at the exact moment she discovered her boyfriend cozying up to another woman? I hadn’t seen them when I stepped beside her, ready with a line that was sure to get a laugh. But the devastation on her face made it vital that I find the issue that put it there.
The guys call him Cockburn . What an apt moniker.
The second she flashed those big brown eyes my way, I knew I’d do anything to remove her from that situation, even if only for a short time .
Throughout our entire jaunt down the sidewalk, one thought cycles through my head: Griffin, you will not hit on this gorgeous woman tonight.
Because that’s my default when a beauty like Brynn crosses my path. Sure, I could probably charm her into my bed for one night; she’s vulnerable and might be down for a revenge fuck. But in the harsh light of day, she’d regret it. And for some ridiculous reason, I don’t want to be a regret for this woman.
No, I want to be a safe shelter for her. For now, at least. Which fucking boggles my mind.
I’ve never experienced this. This pull to provide comfort to a woman who isn’t related to me. It’s the same urge that hit me after our traffic mishap, but it’s magnified tonight. Like some force out of my control is drawing me to her. Like my body has been taken over by a well-adjusted, mature male zombie. But without the appetite for brains and the oozing guts.
Shit, I spent too much time this summer playing Resident Evil with Tuck.
Am I attracted to Brynn? Fuck, yeah. Is my desire to be a listening ear for her winning out over my dick’s desires? Yep, for the first time in my life.
Damn. Maybe Racy Lacey is losing his mojo.
The foot traffic picks up as we near the corner of Beale Street. Our steps slow to accommodate, and our bodies instinctively draw closer.
Still holding my hand, Brynn tips her head back and considers the sign above our destination. “I’ve never been here before.”
I can’t stop my mouth from dropping. “You’re for real?”
Nodding, she bites her bottom lip.
That’s all it takes for my head to have a serious discussion with his downstairs counterpart. “How long have you lived in Memphis?”
I hold the door open for her, and her fingers fall from my grasp .
She steps past me, peering at me sheepishly through her lashes. “Four years.”
I sigh. “We’re tabling this travesty until we get a table.”
She smirks at my bad joke but steps closer as she takes in the diner. It isn’t too crowded, thank fuck. We’re in the sweet spot between the dinnertime rush and the late-night crowds who gather after they leave the bars, so we get a table right away.
A waitress takes our drink orders as soon as we slide into the booth, and I point to Brynn to confirm. “Sausage and cheese plate?”
“I’m sorry?” Her dark brows knit together. “That’s a thing?”
Head tilted, I study her, and she mimics me, even narrowing her eyes like mine. But she twists her lips to keep a smile at bay.
Gah, she’s fucking adorable.
She’s also another man’s woman , the little goody-two-shoes voice I usually ignore reminds me. I’d like to throat punch that guy.
“That’s a thing,” I turn to our patient waitress. “A thing we’d like to order.”
“Sure thing .” She smirks. “And I’ll try to keep the vultures away the best I can.”
I don’t need to sneak a glance, because I feel them. All the eyeballs pointed in our direction.
I’m used to it. But Brynn is not. So I’d give this gruff waitress the keys to Seth’s new car if it meant keeping this dining experience from becoming a fan frenzy.
In Nashville, I rarely attempted a sit-down restaurant without taking several preliminary steps—calls to management, rooms blocked off, renting out private spaces, bodyguards. That our table hasn’t been swarmed confirms that Memphis is exactly where I need to be. In my periphery, I spy a lone cell phone lift to snap a picture, but other than that, the diners gawk for a moment, then return to their plates .
“Trish,” I say, reading the name tag pinned on the woman’s shirt, “we might be in the clear. But thank you for looking out.”
Once Trish whisks off to get our drinks, I lay my palms on the table. “Now,” I say to Brynn. “Please tell me how you’ve lived here for four years and have never eaten at Blues City Cafe. This is a Memphis institution.”
Brynn shrugs and fiddles with the napkin-wrapped silverware. “There are lots of Memphis institutions I’ve never been to.”
“Graceland?”
Her eyes dart to mine. “Check.”
“The Pyramid?”
“It’s a Bass Pro Shop,” she hedges.
“It’s an adventure,” I argue, though I’m smiling. Can’t help it when she studies me with those serious brown eyes.
Her lips twist to the side again. She wants to give in, but she’s not quite allowing herself. Is this a common theme in her life? If so, then I’m hella surprised she accepted my invitation to leave the Peabody.
“What’s with the sausage and cheese thing?”
Now it’s my turn to shrug. “A sausage and cheese plate.”
She crosses her arms and cants her head, waiting.
I deserve a fucking gold medal in restraint for not checking out her tits right now.
“It’s a staple in Memphis. When you eat at a barbecue joint, you gotta start with a sausage and cheese plate.”
“Like a charcuterie board?” She arches her brow.
“Like a sausage and cheese plate,” I laugh, my chest expanding at our banter. “You’ll see.”
She doesn’t question me further. Damn, maybe she meant it when she said she trusts me. Yet another reason to keep this strictly platonic. My gut, along with the wariness swimming in her eyes, tells me she doesn’t bestow that gift upon many people in her life. And tonight the one person she should trust the most let her down in a big way.
“You have siblings?” I ask as Trish sets a platter in the middle of the table.
Brynn studies the tray, then gives her head a shake. “None,” she confirms. “What about you?”
“Two brothers. One older, one younger.”
“Ah, middle child. That explains a lot.” Before I can question that statement, she tips her chin to the plate of deliciousness between us. “So. Literally sausage and cheese on a plate. With a pickle bonus I wasn’t expecting.”
I bite back a chuckle. “Those pickles are fucking tasty. You don’t like ’em?”
She shakes her head. “Not a gherkin fan.”
“Noted.” Before I dig into the savory smoked sausage that’s making my mouth water, I pull up the notes app on my phone. I title a new note with her first and last name, then list only child and hates pickles underneath.
She squints, curious, but doesn’t question me.
Don’t ask me why I’m compelled to do this. Just feels fucking important to keep track of this shit in case I need it later.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Every now and then, I study her, the way her eyes close when she first bites into the hickory-smoked sausage or how her tongue darts out to lick barbecue sauce off her lips. How she kind of smiles right before she pulls another cube of cheese off the toothpick with her perfect white teeth. When she catches me, my hand freezes over the tray. Her cheeks pinken, and she gives me a shy smile.
That look sends heat rolling through me. Fuck, I’m in trouble.
It’s doused quickly, though, when an image of her devastated expression from earlier hits me.
You can’t go there, Lacey .
I close my eyes for a beat, hoping like hell that when I open them, I’ll see her through different lenses. Lenses that frame the woman across from me as a friend, not a potential lover.
It’s a struggle, but I force my brain to come up with get-to-know-her-as-a-friend questions. Not get-into-her-pants questions.
“So, Brynn Nelson, not a gherkin fan, what do you do with your days?”
She swallows before she answers. “I teach English lit at Townes.”
I’m impressed and intimidated. Townes is a small, private university here in Memphis. Very prestigious. This woman is an academic, and no doubt a helluva lot smarter than me. “Whoa.” I lean in closer, elbows on the table. “So can I call you professor ?”
One corner of her mouth inches up. “No. I don’t have my PhD. Yet.”
“Yet? So you’re working on it?”
She presses a napkin to her lips and nods. “I’ve been working on it since I moved here. Started working on my dissertation this semester.”
Pushing back against the booth, I whistle. “I’m guessing it’s not about sports.”
The laugh that leaves her is a pleasing tinkling of notes that makes my smile grow wider. “No sports involved. More like nineteenth-century female novelists.” She waves a hand like it’s no big deal.
“Damn it,” I grouse, wearing a mock frown. “Guess that means you won’t need my expertise after all.”
She barks out one single “ha” but quickly sobers. “You never know.”
I pop another piece of sausage into my mouth and chew as I assess her. “Where’d you grow up?”
“Florida. Cocoa Beach. My dad worked for NASA. ”
Fuck. This woman is going to bowl me over by the end of the night. “No shit?”
“No shit. He was an electrical engineer there. Retired about five years ago. My mom…” She sighs, then clears her throat. “She’s a small-business owner.”
That sigh piques my interest. “What kind of business?”
“Uh, it’s a little beach shop.” She picks up her water glass, takes a swig. Stalling. Her cheeks flush again, and she won’t meet my eye.
My imagination runs rampant. What kind of “little beach shop” would embarrass her?
“Brynn?”
Her gaze finally settles back on me. “Yes?”
Fighting a smile, I straighten. “Does your mom own a sex shop on the beach?”
“What? No ,” she sputters so loudly that when she snaps her mouth shut, she peeks around to see if she caught the attention of anyone nearby. “No,” she repeats, softer, her chin lowered. “It’s nothing like that. It’s…”
I splay my hands on the table in front of me and tilt closer. “I’m dying here, professor.”
“Not a professor.” Her eye roll and bossy tone only make me want to call her that more. “It’s just that my parents are a little…unconventional.”
“Nature enthusiasts,” I recall. “That’s what you said, right?”
Her thick, dark lashes fly open. “Yes.” Shoulders bunched, she studies her water glass as if she’s never seen one before. “They definitely love nature. They’re—they’re wonderful. I love them dearly. But…” She sucks in a deep breath, fixes her gaze back on me, and whispers, “They’re hippies.”
Head tilted back, I laugh, the sound bursting from deep inside my chest. This woman is so goddamn captivating. When I manage to contain my amusement, I lower my chin and find her gaping at me, a mixture of fascination and disbelief on her face .
“You’re hilarious.”
Her responding scowl is so damn cute. “I’m not.”
“Here I was worried you were going to confess that your parents are wanted criminals or doomsday preppers, but then you hit me with the truth: they’re a couple of free-spirited beach hippies. Please tell me they have a Volkswagen bus.”
She shakes her head. “Sorry to disappoint. They drive hybrids.”
Fuck. I haven’t laughed this much in months. “Damn. What a wasted opportunity.”
That earns me another eye roll.
“I want to meet these beach hippies one day.”
She snort-laughs. “If that ever happens, prepare for my mom to ask for details about your sex life.” The instant the words leave her lips, her face turns a shade of pink that would rival the hue of my mom’s beloved azaleas. She slaps a palm over her mouth, her eyes as round as the now-empty plate between us.
I know it’s a bad idea, but I say it anyway: “I’m an open book in that department. She can ask away.”
In response, her lips part, and I swear her eyes darken.
Shit. I shouldn’t say things like that to a woman I have no intention of being more than friends with. Shouldn’t be wishing she’d ask me about my sex life herself so I could describe in detail all the ways I’d love to make her—
Nope. Keep it in the fucking friend zone, Lacey.
Chest heaving slightly, Brynn takes a drink of water. Sets her glass on the table only to snatch it up again for a second swallow. With one hand, she gathers her wavy hair at her nape and drapes it over her shoulder. I’m attuned to reading the nuances of a defenseman’s body language, so it’s second nature to collect a list of Brynn’s physical tells and catalog them for later.
She’s nervous. That’s clear. So I steer the conversation back on track. “You never did tell me what kind of shop your mom has. ”
She exhales a sigh, and her skin returns to its natural ivory shade. “I didn’t. It’s a hippie beach shop called Celestial. Seashells, incense, postcards, hemp jewelry, all-natural soaps. But the big draw is the crystals.”
I take a sip of my own water, reveling in the sound of her voice. “Crystals?”
“Yep.” She nods tentatively. “Crystals for healing. For prosperity. For your chakras.”
With a smile, I set my glass down. “That’s cool.”
She bites the inside of her cheek. Another tell.
“But you don’t believe in all that.” I’m not asking; her skepticism is clear as day.
“I don’t.” She hunches close to the table, shoulders rolled in, a flash of remorse on her face. “It baffles me that my dad, who spent his whole career immersed in math and science, also believes in the healing power of crystals. But he swears by them. They both do. And I just…can’t.”
“Does that upset them?”
“Not much upsets them. They’re the most laid-back people on the planet, and their only daughter is so type-A, it hurts.” She lowers her head, fiddles with her napkin. “They’ve learned to embrace my rule-following tendencies. But we experienced plenty of growing pains to get where we are today, especially when I was a teenager. Most adolescents are embarrassed by their parents, of course, but imagine if your parents rode a tandem bike to your school to attend your academic assemblies or asked your teacher if they could make her pot brownies to celebrate the start of summer.”
I run a hand over my mouth to hide a grin. “Please tell me your teacher took them up on that.”
A breath escapes her, and she deflates. “She did not, thank goodness.”
“I’m not buying all that type-A bullshit, by the way,” I tell her .
Her brows raise.
“Nah. There’s a free spirit lurking in there, Brynn Nelson. You should give yourself permission to set it loose.”
She wrinkles her nose, but before she can dispute my claim, Trish returns to take our order.
I can’t decide between the ribs and the fried catfish, so I ask for the combination platter, even though I’ll regret it during tomorrow’s practice. During the season, I do my best to stick to eating healthy, but I can’t deny the call of this place’s best dishes. Brynn orders the skillet shrimp after Trish and I assure her it’s an excellent choice.
As Trish steps away from the table, a grizzled older gentleman wearing a Blues hat sidles up. “I knew that was you, Racy.” His smile stretches wide and he extends his hand, then pumps mine in a vigorous shake. “Told Pearlene it was you. She said not to bother you and your lady friend. But how can I pass up the chance to meet the man who’s gonna help the Blues reach the big show?”
A few tables over, a woman gives him the evil eye.
He waves at her and points back at me. “It’s him, Pearl,” he bellows across the restaurant.
As a few diners watch our interaction with piqued interest, I glance at my lady friend and brace for the annoyed look I’m used to seeing on my dates’ faces when this happens. Instead, I find her smiling at this exchange.
Not that she’s my date . Definitely a friend. Who happens to be a lady.
“Would you like a picture?” Brynn asks. She gestures to the phone in the man’s hand.
With an excited string of words that are hard to make out, he swipes it open and passes it over. I put my hands on the table, ready to stand, but before I can get my legs under me, the gentleman makes himself at home in the booth beside me and slings an arm over my shoulders .
Brynn takes our picture, and with a smile, she gives the man his phone.
Instead of returning to his table, which good fan etiquette requires, he waxes on about how I’m going to make a difference for the Blues this season. As much as I love his confidence in me, every proclamation makes my collar feel a little tighter. Makes a drop of sweat trail down my back.
Because what if I can’t perform this season? What if Sunday’s game wasn’t a fluke, but a new normal? This could be my last season in the league. The thought of going out with a whimper makes my gut twist into a hard knot.
I can’t let this town—this team—down.
I sign a napkin for him, and, finally, the man thanks both of us profusely before returning to his table.
I sip my water, ready to apologize to Brynn, but she pipes up before I can speak.
“What’s it like?” she asks, her eyes bright but filled with moisture. “To be a source of joy for so many people?”
Her excitement pulls the most honest answer from my chest. “It’s humbling. And terrifying. And fun. Disturbing at times. Intense. Unrelenting. Exhilarating.” I huff a laugh. It still blows me away that this is my life, even after ten seasons. “Like a mash-up of all those things, really.” I shrug and clear my throat of the thickness that’s gathered there.
She nods slowly, understandingly, with a soft smile. “That’s a lot of emotions to experience at once. Most of us live with the burden of keeping a small number of people happy. Family, friends. But to feel like you’re responsible for carrying a whole city’s happiness? That has to be daunting.”
I marvel at her. How is it that, though she’s just met me, she can discern what I haven’t found words for in a decade? With a few succinct sentences, she’s not only summed up the fear nipping at my heels, but she’s also given me peace and assurance that my feelings are valid. I roll my shoulders back, and I swear the pressure glides off them like a marble down a chute.
Peace and validation. Fuck, I need more of those in my life.
Our dinners arrive, and we dig in. Conversation is limited as we chow down, revolving mostly around inquiries about how delicious our choices are.
When she asks me how my fish is, I go full dumbass again, without a thought. I scoop up a forkful of the deep-fried flakiness and hold it over the table for her to sample. She blushes, but she grips my hand and pulls it toward her mouth, never breaking eye contact. And as her lips close around my fork, my pulse goes haywire.
Friends don’t feed each other bites of food, you idiot. I imagine my conscience as a tiny cartoon replica of myself that sits on my shoulder and shakes a fist every time I cross the line. That little dude is pissed as hell at me right now.
I clear my throat and open my mouth, only to stick my foot in it again. “What are you going to do about Cock—” Fuck. “Uh, um, about your boyfriend?”
Awful save, fuckwad. Eyes closed, I berate myself, wishing I could rewind the last few moments. But when I swallow down my mistake and force myself to look at Brynn, she’s got her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed.
Shit. She’s going to ask me about that slip-up. Do I tell her that the guys on the team have given her boyfriend a crass nickname? Will she tell him about it? If so, will he confront my teammates?
I’m still running through scenarios when, like a punctured balloon, Brynn deflates. Her shoulders droop, and she drops her hands to her lap, her chin trembling. “I don’t know what to do about him.”
“He doesn’t deserve you.” I startle myself with the admission. Where the fuck has my filter gone ?
“You don’t know me well enough to say that.” It’s a statement, but there’s no authority in her tone. Only sadness.
I rub a hand over my buzz cut and blow out a breath. “I don’t need to know more than I already do. Any man who doesn’t worship the ground you walk on isn’t worthy of you.”
Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but I forge ahead. Strangely, tiny cartoon Griffin isn’t waving any flags.
“Any man who would act like that with someone else when he’s in a relationship doesn’t deserve the devotion of an amazing woman like you. Being with you is a privilege. He’s gotta earn that shit, and let me tell you, Brynn, he sure as hell didn’t earn it tonight.”
“I moved here for him, you know.” Her voice is so hushed, I have to lean forward to make out the words. “We met in grad school at Vanderbilt. We had mutual friends. My roommate was dating one of his, so we hung out in the same group all the time. We were friends for a while, but eventually, he started making sure that we sat next to each other when we’d go out. That we were on the same team on game nights. One night, he walked me back to my apartment after a trivia night at the bar down the block, and he kissed me. It was easy to slip into a relationship with him.” She shrugs and swipes at an escaped tear. “We did the long-distance thing for a year when he got the job with the team. He begged me to move here. So I applied for the position at Townes and got it. And here we are.”
Her sadness makes my chest ache with an unfamiliar tightness. She’s revealed so much, and what I’m hung up on is the fact that our time in Nashville coincided.
This woman and I have shared the same city twice. That’s gotta mean something, right?
“Can I tell you a secret?” She angles her body closer and peers around the dining area, ensuring no one else is near. “I don’t like living in Memphis.” With a grimace, she straightens against the back of the booth.
Huh. That has my heart sinking a little. I fight the urge to argue, to try and convince her she’s wrong about the city I’ve loved for most of my life, but my words alone won’t change her mind. “Why don’t you like it here?”
She tilts her head one way, then the other, as she contemplates. “It’s more of a me issue, really. I feel like a jerk for telling you that. You obviously have a huge stake here.”
“It’s not just because I play for the Blues, though. My hometown is an hour from here. This place was my childhood ideal of a big, exciting city. It was such a thrill for my brothers and me to come here when we were kids.”
“I just…gosh, Griffin, I don’t fit in here. I’m an anomaly. I hardly venture out of our neighborhood or the university campus. We’ve been to the obvious places, like Graceland. Jack and I toured that right after I moved here.”
My heart lifts a little. Not all is lost. “That’s it, then. You haven’t experienced the true Memphis magic yet.”
“I’ve seen some of—”
I cut her off. “No. It’s more than the buildings or landmarks. True Memphis magic comes from the people, too. They’re the soul of this place. You, Brynn Nelson, not a gherkin fan, haven’t experienced this city with the right tour guide.”
She shakes her head, but the ghost of a smile flickers on her lovely face.
Tiny cartoon Griffin waves his arms over his head like he’s signaling a plane on a deserted island. He knows I’m about to be a dumbass again.
“Let me show you my Memphis.”
Her breath catches the tiniest bit as she fiddles with an earring. She’s interested. “What do you mean?”
“What do your Tuesdays look like? ”
She frowns. “Tuesdays?”
“My day off.”
“Oh.” Her skin flushes pink again, but she clears her throat. “I have two morning classes. And then an office hour from ten to eleven.”
Hands laced on the table, I smirk. “So you’re free after eleven on Tuesdays?”
“I—yes.”
“Cool. I can show you what you’ve been missing.”
“The Memphis magic?”
“The Memphis magic.”
She pulls her lower lip between her teeth. “I don’t know…” she hedges. “I mean, Jack…” Her voice trails off, and her eyes dart here and there, avoiding my face.
Her hesitancy is about Cockburn. I can handle this.
“Brynn,” I start, ignoring the way my heart double-times when I say her name.
She drags her attention back to me, blinking, still gnawing on that lip.
I give her the hard sell. “Regardless of what you decide about your boyfriend—whether you kick his ass to the curb or you give him another chance—we can still be friends. We’d be doing cool stuff together on Tuesdays as friends .”
“Just as friends?”
I nod. “Just as friends.”
She gives me a soft smile, but I swear there’s a flash of something in her dark eyes. Disappointment, maybe? Or maybe I imagined it, because in a blink of her lashes, it’s gone.
“He’d be cool with you having a guy as a friend, right?”
She hums, then in a muted tone, says, “I don’t think he’d notice, honestly.”
Not wanting her to sink farther into sadness about that asswipe, I clap my hands so loud, she flinches. I’m not letting her say no to this. “It’s settled then. Tuesdays after eleven. You and me and Memphis magic. Friendship and good vibes. You can call it Tuesdays with Griffie .”
That earns me another eye roll, but there’s a smile, too. One so bright, it’s like she’s been plugged into the sun.
One so brilliantly beautiful, I wonder if I might be the biggest dumbass in the history of dumbasses.
In fact, little cartoon Griffin’s holding up a sparkling trophy that reads World’s Biggest Dumbass .
I brush an imaginary piece of lint off my shoulder, visualizing the motion sending the tiny dude flying off into oblivion.
Fuck him. What does he know?
Friends. I can absolutely be just friends with this woman. She’s still in a relationship, for one thing. But even if she gets rid of his ass, I’ve got to keep my focus on the game. This team, this season. I promised myself from the start that I wouldn’t let any outside forces distract me from giving this season my damn all.
If this is the end of my career, I’m determined to go out on top.
Brynn and I will be friends, and I’ll show her why Memphis is a great place to live, all while I’m kicking ass as the starting tight end for the Blues.
My new friend sizes me up as I conduct these mental gymnastics. But when I extend my hand over the table and say, “We’re gonna come up with a bestie secret handshake,” she slips her hand into mine without hesitation. Then she does her best to copy my attempt at an elaborate bro shake.
She laughs at the awkwardness that comes with neither of us knowing the next move in the made-up-on-the-spot choreography, but the triumphant grin that shines on me when we both end the shake with a fist bump?
Fuck, I’m in so much trouble.