The Final Faceoff (The Crawford Family Playbook #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Hailey

How to Switch Lines Without Losing Your Mind

If I had a dollar for every bad decision I’ve made, I’d have enough to bribe my way out of this one. But it’s impossible. I have to be there for my grandmother’s thirtieth birthday.

Okay, technically, it’s her seventy-eighth, but she insists she’s celebrating her “thirtieth”—again. She claims thirty is the perfect age: old enough to know better, young enough to pretend you don’t. I don’t question it. I love her dearly, quirks and all, and if she wants to keep turning thirty until the end of time, who am I to argue?

Usually, I never visit my family or friends when I’m working. When I’m deep in a project, the rest of the world fades out, and I convince myself that answering texts and sending the occasional “miss you” counts as keeping in touch. But the whole, “ this might be my last birthday,” thing seemed important. Major guilt trip, sure, but important.

So, I’m here. Just for a week. Then it’s back to Greece, where I’m knee-deep in unraveling the world of Greek superstitions, curses, and the infamous evil eye.

It started as a curiosity—a lighthearted look into ancient folklore—but the more I dig, the more I realize how deeply these beliefs still shape everyday life. Fishermen won’t sail without their blue glass charms. Shopkeepers spit—discreetly but deliberately—after receiving a compliment. And I’ve met a yia-yia who swears she cured a neighbor’s back pain with nothing but olive oil and a whispered prayer. Some people laugh it off. Others won’t even speak about it out loud, just in case.

After that, Aspen—my best friend—and I will turn our focus to The Women of Santorini, documenting the widows, grandmothers, and independent women who have spent their lives fighting to keep their homes and way of life intact. It’s a project I’m passionate about, one that feels deeply human and necessary. But before that, I’m here—for a week, for a birthday, for a brief pause before diving back into work.

Maybe that’s why New York smells different this time. Or maybe it’s just the airport. Not the usual mix of espresso-fueled ambition and car fumes, or even that undeniable, electric pulse of the city that hums beneath your skin. It’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on as I make my way through the arrivals hall, dodging travelers clutching suitcases and bleary-eyed families reuniting. My duffel slips lower on my shoulder as I grip a half-full bottle of overpriced airport water that’s warming in my grip.

I know, I know—I should be carrying a reusable one. But mine got lost somewhere along the way, swallowed by one of the many airports I passed through in the last thirty-six hours. That’s the trade-off with booking the cheapest flight possible: multiple layovers and misplaced belongings.

Still, the scent is . . . I can’t pinpoint it yet, but I will figure it out soon enough.

Leif would say I’m romanticizing things again, the way I do whenever I land somewhere new and convince myself the air holds possibility. But this isn’t new. This is New York—as close to home as I get.

Not that I actually have a home.

For the past few years, I’ve been a professional nomad. My belongings live in a storage unit in Queens, waiting for me to figure out where I belong. For now, I’ll stay at my grandparents’ house. Maybe visit Leif while he’s playing at . . . Speaking of Leif, I better check in with him before he has a coronary.

I wrestle my duffel higher on my shoulder, the weight threatening to slide it right back down. With my other hand, I dig into my backpack, fingers fumbling past tangled cords and a crumpled boarding pass until I find my wireless headphones. The strap slips again as I try to pop them in, forcing me to hitch the bag up with my elbow while dodging a businessman charging past with his roller suitcase. JFK is a blur of bodies and overhead announcements.

Still, I manage to tap my phone screen and call him, exhaling as the line starts ringing. Honestly, it’s a miracle I haven’t taken out a small person or face-planted into someone’s luggage yet. Coordination has never been my strong suit—especially not when I’m juggling half my body weight in baggage and sleep deprived.

“Hey,” he answers immediately, like he was already waiting for me to check in.

“So, I made a new friend,” I say, weaving through the crowd.

On the other end, Leif exhales. It’s partly amusement and frustration but mainly concern. “Ugh, Hailey.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course not,” he groans. “You’re just too . . . chatty.”

“Listen, I was minding my own business at one of the airport’s coffee shop when this adorable older woman asked if I wanted to split a blueberry scone. And obviously, I said yes. I mean, I had to do it. What kind of monster says no to a grandma?”

A low, knowing sound rumbles through the phone. He already sees where this is going, but he lets me tell him anyway.

“She told me all about her grandson—a doctor in Miami—showed me pictures, and then—get this—asked if I’d consider dating him.”

A pause. Then, flatly he asks, “And?”

I push through the rotating doors and head toward the train. “And I told her that while he looks like a very nice man, I’m not exactly in the market for that kind of thing.”

Leif hums, the sound vibrating in a way that makes it clear he’s holding back judgment. “And by ‘that kind of thing,’ you mean a relationship with someone who is functional and emotionally available?”

A slow smirk tugs at my lips. “Exactly.”

“But you still exchanged numbers with her, didn’t you?”

“Of course. I mean, if I’m ever in Miami, I wouldn’t say no to dinner.”

The sigh he lets out is pure exasperation. “You’re a menace.”

“I prefer the term ‘opportunistic.’ See, I’m taking advantage of the situation,” I correct, sidestepping a man who is aggressively texting while walking, like he has a personal vendetta against spatial awareness.

“Someone opportunistic would’ve taken her number for future emotional blackmail, not for dinner with her professionally stable grandson.”

“Damn. Missed opportunity.”

His chuckle rolls through the phone, and the sound relaxes me. Sure, I was in multiple airports for almost thirty-six hours. But a call with Leif feels like . . . well, like I’m home.

I shift my bag again, clearing my throat. “Anyway, I’m officially in New York.”

There’s a pause—just long enough for me to glance at my screen and check if the call dropped. Then?—

“Finally. May I suggest taking a direct flight next time? How many stops did you have?”

I groan. “Ugh, don’t ask. I lost my water bottle and my carryon during one of the layovers.”

“Again?”

“You’re judging me,” I singsong.

“No, I’m impressed you still manage to arrive at your destination,” he says. “One day, I fully expect a call from Antarctica saying you got on the wrong plane.”

“You’re not funny, Leif.”

“I’m hilarious.” A beat. Then, casually he adds, “I’m in New York too.”

I stop short, blinking at the phone. “Nooooo.”

“Yeah.”

I sigh with sadness for my friend who’d sworn this time it’d be different. “You guys lost already? What was that? Like, only five games?”

Silence. Nothing but silence on the other side. Should I search on the internet to see how bad it was?

“Too soon to discuss it?” I ask.

“Too fucking soon,” he growls.

Oof.

“My agent’s working on a trade,” he mutters. “I’m done with the Arizona Armadillos. Every year, it’s the same shit.”

So, he’s not just upset—he’s done. I shift tactics.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah. Skip your sister’s place and come with me.”

I could argue with him that Jules and I have to be at my grandparents’ in a couple of days. She’s expecting me. We have plans. I don’t have much energy left for any of that so I just ask, “Where?”

“Not sure yet. I’m currently staying at my fathers’ penthouse for the next few weeks. At least until Jacob and I figure out some sponsorships and how to get me the fuck out of Arizona.”

A pause.

“After that, well . . . it depends.”

On where they move him. Or if he just quits and starts coaching because that might be better than counting on a bunch of assholes who like to “sit on their asses”—his words from last year’s flop. Sometimes he’s so much like his older brother, Kaden. They expect too much from everyone, but it’s mostly because everyone expects a lot from them.

I don’t blame him. It’s frustrating having some of the best stats in the league and still not making it past the first round of the playoffs. Of giving everything, only to hit the same wall year after year.

He’s still young. That’s what his father, Mathieu, keeps telling him—goalies have longevity, they peak later. He should have at least ten more years left. But knowing that and feeling it are two different things, and I don’t know what to say to make any of this easier.

“Come on, Hay,” he says. “Come to me.”

The train pulls into the station, the brakes shrieking in protest. I roll my shoulders, shifting my bag higher. I should say no. My sister is expecting me. But who am I kidding? I never say no to Leif. Especially when he barely asks for anything.

“Fine,” I say, stepping onto the train, gripping the pole as the doors slide shut behind me. “But you’re feeding me.”

His breath of laughter is soft. “Let’s meet at?—”

He hesitates just long enough for me to know exactly what he’s about to suggest.

“Oh my God, Leif, you cannot be serious. I’m at the airport.”

“Come on,” he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “It’s tradition.”

When we were in high school, sometimes we played hooky and took a train to the city just to eat there—a tiny hole-in-the-wall Korean BBQ place in the East Village. It’s pretty small, with too few tables and a grill that makes the entire block smell like sizzling beef. The first time he took me there, I swore the ventilation system was broken, but it turned out it was just part of the experience.

“You just want an excuse to make me cook my own food,” I grumble, shifting to lean against the cool metal of the train door.

“Exactly. See you in an hour.”

The call disconnects, leaving me staring at my reflection in the smudged window, the city stretching wide beyond the glass.

New York still feels different.

Maybe I’ll figure out why soon enough.