Chapter 1 #2
She boops me on the nose with zero fear for her own life, the only person on Earth who can do that. “Guess you’ll have to show back up to find out.”
And like that was an answer at all, she spins on her heel and skips, literally skips, back to the house, leaving me feeling like I just ran a marathon when all I did was walk from the kitchen to the driveway.
On second thought, good for Luke. If he can handle all that, good for him.
Less for me and my brothers to have to deal with.
I try to convince myself that’s true and remind myself that I like Luke, that I was the one who knew Shay was sneaking out to go meet him long before anyone else did and even helped her cover her late-night proclivities. It works, a little bit.
I take two more trips back and forth from the kitchen to the truck, stepping over Murphy and listening to Shayanne and Mama Louise chattering away, though about what I have no idea, and for now, I don’t care.
That’s unlike me. I’m usually the silent sleeper who people somehow forget about, even though I’m the size of a barn and I listen intently to just about everything that goes on.
I watch people, I listen to them, and I analyze them.
I’m not particularly smart book-wise, but I’m observant, and sometimes, that’s even more important.
But right now, I just want to check these deliveries off my to-do list, eat some dinner, and crash into bed.
“Bye, ladies. I’ll be back for dinner,” I tell them with my last load, and they both toss an easy smile my way.
Shay’s happy, and that makes me happy. Way deep down in my heart, beneath all the mud and muck this farm boy is known for these days.
I slam the door of my truck, damn near peeling out of the driveway of my last stop.
Even though I’m ready to get the hell outta dodge, I glance up at Millicent Jenkinson, who’s standing in her doorway waving at me.
She’s a nice old lady, but I really don’t need another grandma trying to set me up with her granddaughter, and she was the third just today.
I don’t know why they think subjecting their beloved daughters and granddaughters to a bastard like me is a good idea.
Maybe they’re just desperate and figure beggars can’t be choosers.
Because nobody’s choosing me willingly. Too big, too gruff, too quiet.
Little do they know, those are my best qualities.
But I’m not a complete asshole, so I toss a two-fingered wave to Mrs. Jenkinson from the steering wheel and drive away without revving my engine. Much.
The Chris Stapleton song on the radio is a good one, not as good as Bobby’s, but it’ll do for the drive back home.
I’m in town but on the far west side from home, and with all the booming growth Great Falls has had the last few years, traffic will be piled up until I reach the city limits.
We’re still not big by any stretch, but the roads haven’t quite caught up yet.
This could take a while, but a look at the clock tells me I can still make dinner.
Music and dinner are all that’s on my mind as I sit at the stoplight until I see a group of boys running around a field at the park beside me. In the three rounds of green, yellow, red, I haven’t even made it to the light’s white line, but my heart’s already beating just a little too hard.
It looks like a football practice, or what’s supposed to be one. There are probably twelve boys out there, around eight or nine years old, I’d guess, not that I’m good at judging kids’ ages. But they’re goofing around with a pigskin, playing more keep-away than running plays.
I remember being that small, just learning the ropes and enjoying every minute of it.
Coaches yelling advice, Dad proudly clapping me on the back when I did well, and Mom cheering from the sidelines.
We were so little, there weren’t even bleachers, just foldable camping chairs the parents would set out to watch us play.
It was picturesque and easy, and the bulk of my childhood centers around those happy memories.
I learned a lot on those fields in the early days, lessons that carried me through puberty and later, through high school in ways both good and bad. Football gave me a focus, a drive, and made me who I am. I hope for the same for those random boys.
A sentimental smile crosses my face, two in one day, which is probably a record for me.
But it’s premature because in the next instant, I see two of the bigger boys tackle one of the smaller guys.
He goes down hard, and it was definitely not a clean hit or a good fall.
To add insult to injury, I see one of the tackling boys, a blonde-haired lanky kid, dig a toe into the other kid’s side.
Not just dirty but mean.
It shouldn’t be like that. Not at that age, not ever. If you’re not good enough to earn the win, take the L and do the work to deserve it next time.
I blink, and I’m pulling into the parking lot of the park, marching across the field. “Hey! You! What the hell are you doing?”
Who said that?
Well, shit. Guess that was my grumbling voice calling out Mr. Kicks-A-Lot. The kid looks like he’s about to piss himself, which would serve him right.
I lean over and set the smaller kid back on his feet. He’s got dark hair, which he shoves out of his face revealing big, frosty blue eyes that’ll serve him well with the ladies later in life.
“You all right, kid?” His lower lip trembles, and I realize belatedly that it might be partially from the tackle and partially because I’m a scary looking motherfucker. Especially to someone his size.
I bend down, taking a knee and pulling my shoulders in to round them. It’s as small and unimposing as I can get. I even smile to soften the fear factor I cause.
“It’s okay, you ain’t in trouble. But those shits might be.”
I throw an arched eyebrow to the other kid, who’s standing with his buddy-slash-partner in crime. While my attention was focused on the little guy, Kicks-A-Lot is digging down and finding his attitude, judging by the sneer on his face. He kinda reminds me of Brody in a four-foot-tall sort of way.
Little Guy sniffles once, but it turns into a sort of laugh. “You can’t say that.” I look at him questioningly. He shakes his head, the laughter blooming a little louder. “You can’t say the S word.”
I do honestly grin at that. Out of everything that just went down, getting tackled, kicked, and having some random guy step in to save his ass, he’s worried about my language.
Mama Louise would like this kid, I think to myself.
“Uh, sorry. Just wanted to make sure you were all right. Saw what happened, and that’s not all right.” I say the last bit over my shoulder, accompanying it with a glare at Kicks-A-Lot.
Little Guy nods like a bobblehead. “I’m good. Johnathan’s just mad that I can actually create a play, not just go where I’m told like a dog. Woof, woof!”
He smirks at Kicks-A-Lot, I mean Johnathan, like a badass.
Little Guy’s got big brass ones, I’ll give him that.
Something tells me it’s not because he’s got me for backup, either.
If I had to guess, judging by the prepubescent testosterone floating through the air, Little Guy might’ve earned that tackle. Just a little bit.
And don’t that just change the whole situation.
“I’m Bruce. What’s your name?” I ask him, not sure what I plan to do with the information, but it seems like the proper thing to do.
“Cooper, but most folks call me Coop.” He shrugs like he kinda wishes he hadn’t said that part.
Johnathan’s buddy pipes up, “Because you’re a chicken, Coop. Bok, bok, bok.” Several of the kids laugh at that and Coop flushes. No, not Coop, because that ain’t right if they’re nicknaming him to be cruel.
I turn my full attention to the gaggle of boys, stroking my beard like I’m thinking mighty hard about something.
“Seems to me that the only chickens here are you bunch. Cooper,” I say his full name with a bit of extra emphasis, “took a hit and got up swinging, verbally, at least. Took the whole lot of you to mob up on one little guy. That don’t seem much like the chicken you’re talking about. ”
They look suitably chastised, a couple of them even rubbing their toes in the dirt. But I’m not done. “Besides, you wanna know a secret?”
Twelve sets of eyes look at me with curiosity and I swear a couple of them lean in. I lower my voice like I’m imparting great knowledge, rumbling, “Chickens are mean as hell. They’ll peck your hands even as you’re feeding them. Yep, mean little things.”
I nod sagely, pointing at some of the rough scars on my working hands. None of them are really from chickens, but these kids don’t know that.
“My brother’s got a whole flock of them, and a rooster too. He’ll wake you up long before the sun even peeks over the horizon, and his girls lay enough eggs that she can feed our whole family breakfast every day. All the while pecking the sh-stuffing outta ya.”
I correct my language at the last second, thinking Mama Louise would be proud.
Somewhere from my left, a voice cracks out, “How many eggs is that? You got a big family or a small one?”
I tap my temple, winking. “Smart question, kid. I guess it’s a big family, but mostly because we’re all big guys and big eaters.
There’s six of us like me, my sister, two other women, and one of them’s got a baby but she don’t eat much yet, and then Mama Louise.
So we get enough eggs for ten people to eat breakfast, I reckon. ”
Rattling off the attendance roster of breakfast brings home just how much my life has changed in the last few months, because damned if it doesn’t seem like those folks are something to me.
Maybe not family, exactly, not really, but I’d do anything for Mama Louise and most things for the rest of the Bennett boys, which is a far cry from our previous pointless feud that was based on Dad’s whims. I’m glad that’s done and over with, even if it took his passing to make things right.
The same kid whistles. “That is a big family. You say you got brothers the same size as you?”
I can feel those same sets of eyes measuring me, so I go ahead and broaden my shoulders back out but keep my lower profile on my knee. “Well, let’s be real, there’s not a lot of folks as big as me. But my brothers are close enough.”
They laugh like that was funny. I guess it might’ve been.
“Hard to believe that once upon a time, I was as small as you guys.” I hold my arms out wide, showing off my wingspan and the big paws attached to my wrists.
“Eat your veggies, work hard, play right, and you can be a big motherfu— I mean, a big guy like me one day.”
The boys start flexing, working their lungs more than their biceps as they hold their breath and try to show off to one another. And to me, I realize with a hint of humor.
From across the field, a voice calls out. “Hey, guys, I’m here.”
I look up to see a thirty-something-looking guy hustling across the field, eyes locked on me. “Who’s that?” I ask the kids.
Cooper says from beside me, “Coach Mike. He’s Evan’s dad.”
There’s the smallest, tiniest hitch beneath the words, something most folks probably wouldn’t even hear. But I do.
When he gets close, I can see his eyes darting from me to the boys, like he’s checking each one of them over and head counting his ducklings while never taking his attention off the interloper. He’s a good dad, I’d bet.
He holds his hand out. “Mike Kauffman, Evan’s dad. And you are?”
I take his hand, careful to walk the fine line of a solid handshake without breaking his hand accidentally. “Bruce Tannen. I was just happening by and saw some roughhousing. Thought a little intervention was warranted.”
I purposefully don’t say any names, feeling like I’ve handled what happened well enough and hoping it made an impression.
Mike looks behind him to the parking lot and then shakes his head.
“There’s literally six or seven moms sitting over there in their cars or at the playground with little brothers and sisters, and you’re telling me that you just walked up to the boys and no one said a word to you?
Stranger-danger mean nothing these days? ”
Seems like he’s asking that of the boys as much as the universe.
I hold my arms out wide, showing I’m no threat. “Look, man, didn’t mean to cause problems. Just saw a dirty tackle, a bad fall, and some overzealous afterplay. Wanted to make sure everyone was all right because there didn’t seem to be anyone overseeing practice. No worries, I’ll leave you to it.”
Mike’s still watching me carefully, which I can appreciate. At least these kids have proper supervision, though he’s got a point that I’m a scary looking bastard for not a single parent to have said a word. We live in a safe town, but nowhere’s that safe.
I hold a meaty fist out to Cooper, giving the kid a tame half-strength glare. “Watch that mouth.”
He bumps my hand with his own, a smirk curling his lips. “I will, but I can back it up, and that’s what counts, right?”
He says it like someone’s told him that before. I raise a brow, silently telling him to think again.
I offer my fist to Johnathan too, who returns the goodbye with a bit less cockiness. “Words first, then get it out on the field correctly. Head up, shoulders down, feet buzzing, drop into position, and shoot and rip.”
He nods like he took a mental note of everything I just said.
I toss a two-finger wave to Mike. “Have a good practice, Coach.”
I’m halfway across the field, almost home free to the parking lot to head home for dinner when I hear a voice behind me call out.
“Brutal?”