The Wild Card (Love Stories in Sheet Cake #4)

Chapter 1

Collin

As it turns out, you can deep-fry just about anything. But maybe some things shouldn’t be deep-fried.

“What is this?” I ask as my younger brother, Pat, shoves a paper plate in my face.

He speaks around a mouthful. “Fried butter,” he says.

At least, that’s what I think he said. But I must have heard him wrong. I stare down at the UFO—unidentifiable fried object—on the paper plate.

Surely it’s not …

“Butter?”

Pat’s eyes roll back in his head like he’s in culinary heaven. When what he’s actually doing is eating deep-fried fat while standing in what’s normally an empty field in the Texas countryside that has now been transformed into the Sheet Cake Festival.

“Mm-hm—butter. Try it, man.”

I have so many questions. First and foremost—why? Why would anyone think to fry butter? But also—HOW?

Butter melts at even warm temperatures. How did it remain solid while submerged in hot oil? And if I decide to satisfy my curiosity, am I going to scald the inside of my mouth with boiling butter when I bite into it?

IF.

If I bite into it. And at this point, it’s a very big if.

Although … Pat does seem unscalded and very content with his. Maybe there’s something to this fried butter thing.

“Eat up, bro. After this, we’ll get fried Nutella,” Pat says.

“And, of course, the fried sheet cake. As the owners of the town of Sheet Cake, it’s basically an obligation.

And is it even a Sheet Cake Festival until you’ve had deep-fried Texas Sheet Cake?

Scratch that.” Pat swallows and pauses dramatically, then licks powdered sugar from his lips.

“Have you even lived if you haven’t had deep-fried Texas Sheet Cake? ”

Debatable.

I mean, don’t get me wrong—both butter and Nutella are top-tier foods. I could eat my weight in Texas Sheet Cake—if I were ignoring things like my heart health. To take these foods, batter them, and drop them into a deep fryer—I can sense my arteries clogging just hearing about it.

“What is that … thing?” My older brother, James, appears, scowling down at the lump on my plate.

“It’s fried butter,” I tell him. “Allegedly.”

Pat has shoved some other kind of UFO into his mouth and mumbles what sounds like It’s delicious; you should try it.

Or possibly It’s suspicious; don’t try it, which is my current sentiment.

“No.” James crosses his arms and glares at the fried butter on my plate like it’s personally offended him.

Pat swallows, then glares at James. “Buzzkill.”

“Voice of reason,” James corrects, then grabs my plate and tosses it in the nearest garbage can.

“Hey!” both Pat and I say at the same time.

“I was gonna eat that,” I say.

Maybe, I don’t add.

Now that my older brother has thrown it away, the effect is instant. I need to eat the fried butter.

Ah, the plight of the middle child: if the youngest says yes, don’t agree too quickly. If the oldest says no, it’s an absolute must.

James raises one dark brow. “Quick reminder, Collin—you run a gym for elite athletes.”

I arch an eyebrow right back at James because he doesn’t have the monopoly on eyebrow arches. “I do own a gym for elite athletes.”

For now.

But my brothers don’t know that I’m trying to sell the place, so I don’t say that. Instead, I run a hand over the beard I’m still getting used to on my face. It’s still in the itchy phase. Do beards ever stop being itchy? “And your point is?” I ask James.

“My point is that you should know better than to eat fried butter,” he continues.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say.

Pat puts his hands on his hips and narrows his eyes at our older brother. “It’s a festival, Jamie. One day a year. Live a little. If you dare.”

But James isn’t the one who responds to dares. That’s Pat. Or sometimes, if the mood hits just right, me.

All my life, I’ve vacillated on a spectrum somewhere between two opposite poles of my brothers—the serious and responsible (and mostly grumpy) James and the carefree and charming (and often reckless) Pat.

Not that either of them is only those things. But if you had to list the sum of their parts, these descriptions work.

I love them both and wouldn’t change a thing, even if they get on my last nerve most days. It’s just that their extremes leave no space for me to be … me. Whoever me is.

I’m always the “other” brother. The Goldilocks of the Grahams—not too hot and not too cold.

But I’m not just right either.

What I am is restless. I don’t like being caught between two opposites, who are currently arguing right in front of me about seed oils and saturated fats while I zone out.

I’ve never liked feeling that, by default, my allotted space is somewhere in the middle. Or like I’m defined in relation to Pat and James.

Even my pro football career, which lasted longer than Pat’s, was pretty unremarkable.

I did my job but wasn’t ever a household name in the sports world.

Any mention I got, whether in commentary or articles or on social media, included a mention of our famous father, Tank, whose legacy still shines as bright as his smile.

I was—and am—Collin Graham, son of Tank Graham, brother to James and Patrick Graham.

Never just … Collin Graham. Full stop.

And though I’ve always felt itchy about this, I also don’t know how I want to be known or where I fit.

My dad is a famous face on Sports Center, the kind of Big Man who does Big Things, like buying and revitalizing the small town of Sheet Cake.

James recently opened Dark Horse, a craft brewery with award-winning beer. A Big Thing in its own right, even if he has a knack for ducking out of the spotlight.

Pat is going for father-and-husband-of-the-year awards and deserves both. To some people, those might not count as big, huge things since there are no actual awards for that kind of thing. But since family is something we Grahams value so highly, these are better than a Heisman trophy.

My sister, Harper, doesn’t partake in the brotherly competition or comparisons.

I’m sure it wasn’t easy growing up as the only woman in the semi-famous Graham family.

But like my brothers, she’s carved out her own spot, first on a journey of self-discovery about her neurodivergence, and then by marrying Chase, a guy every bit as decent and good as my brothers.

She’s found contentment in her own skin, our family, and her life.

And then … there’s me.

I thought the gym might be my place. My Big Thing.

But it’s not. And even if it were, right now, it’s crumbling around me.

The shocking thing is that I’m not all that disappointed to see the flames rising from the dumpster fire.

I’m just embarrassed to be the failure. To be the one person in our family who has no set path, no purpose.

Which is why no one aside from Thayden, our family lawyer, knows what’s going on with me and the gym. And it will stay that way as long as I can keep it under wraps.

With everyone else in my family so clearly certain of who they are, I feel less sure of who I am. Or who I want to be.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask, interrupting their spat while wiping sweat from my forehead. I need to get out of the sun. Jeans and boots, while very Sheet Cake Festival apropos, were a poor choice for May.

Pat grins. He still has powdered sugar in what looks like two days’ worth of dark stubble on his face. “Tank is with Jo. He promised to win her some stuffed animals.”

I’m a little surprised Pat isn’t off winning his daughter prizes himself. Knowing him, he already did and the fried food smorgasbord is his reward.

James frowns. “He does know these games are all rigged, right?”

“He’ll probably charm his way into a prize,” Pat says with a laugh.

At that moment, there’s a clang and then a cheer.

We glance over to see our dad wielding a sledgehammer at one of those test-your-strength games.

He looks all too pleased with himself. And with his short sleeves pulled up over impressive biceps, he looks pretty dang good for a guy in his early fifties.

A handful of women who are gathered around, ogling, seem to agree.

For a brief moment I’m struck with a kind of panic—what if Dad finds someone to marry before me? Now that Pat married Lindy and adopted Jo, Dad’s a legit grandpa. A hot one. Also a good one.

He’s never so much as mentioned dating, but if he wanted to …

I swallow around a sudden knot in my throat and watch as Jo jumps up and down. The guy manning the attraction hands her the biggest purple unicorn I’ve ever seen. She disappears behind it.

“Guess he didn’t need his charm, after all,” I say.

“Just his biceps,” Pat says, laughing. “The old man’s still got it! Come on.”

I follow without even questioning, then stop and second guess myself. What do I—Collin Graham—actually want to do at the Sheet Cake Festival?

Do I want to go hang with my dad and Jo and my brothers? Or do I want to wander? Harper and Chase are here somewhere and I haven’t seen them yet. Maybe I could try something fried that isn’t butter. Maybe win a prize for … someone.

Except there is no someone. And as hard as I’ve tried to find a someone, it’s been a ridiculously fruitless search. Worse than fruitless. More like I’m growing fruit but it’s all rotten, poisoning everything around me.

Sounds extreme. Unless you’ve been on social media lately and seen what’s been said about me. And I’d love to not discuss that.

Now that my siblings are in serious relationships—Pat and Harper both married and James, engaged—my lack of a place in the world seems even more obvious. Because not only am I not sure where I fit between the two of them, but I’m also being left behind. Left out.

Which leaves me and Dad as the single men. And not much sounds more depressing than being a bachelor alongside my old man.

Or, if Tank finds someone, the only lonely Graham.

“You coming?” James asks, and I realize he’s waiting for me.

With no other good ideas, I join my brothers.

“Daddy!” Jo flings herself at Pat as we approach.

For a moment, I think he’s not going to be able to grab both Jo and the massive unicorn, but James steps in and takes the stuffed animal. Before he can stop me, I pull out my phone and take a picture.

James looks up, scowling, just as I do.

“I’m going to need a copy of that.” Winnie, James’s unquestionably better half, appears beside me and nudges me with her shoulder. She pushes her glasses up her nose while grinning down at my phone screen, displaying a scowling James with the massive purple unicorn clutched to his chest.

“Delete it,” James says.

“Sorry, but no.” Winnie takes the stuffed unicorn from James. It swallows everything but her blond ponytail from sight. “I need it framed on the wall. Poster sized, maybe.”

“No,” James says.

“On it,” I say, uploading the picture to a shared family folder and then also to a photo printing site. I’ll order later, but now, if James gets his hands on my phone, he’s already immortalized in the cloud. I can picture Christmas cards now …

Tank heads our way after he extricates himself from photos with a bunch of strangers. Mostly women. Looks like they got him to sign autographs, too, based on the Sharpie he’s tucking into his jeans pocket.

Wait—did he come prepared with a permanent marker just in case someone stopped him?

I groan and shake my head. Sometimes my family is too much.

“Where’s Lindy?” Pat asks, swinging Jo up on his shoulders with practiced ease.

Jo’s happy squeal and wide smile, complete with a dimple and a missing front tooth, send an ache through my chest.

“She’s doing a shift at the cake walk,” Winnie says. “Eula Martin threatened her with bodily harm if she didn’t stay there for at least two hours. Sitting, of course, given her condition.”

Lindy’s condition is pregnancy. She isn’t all that far along, but everyone is treating her as though she’s going to break any moment.

And Lindy, usually a strong, more-than-capable woman, has been leaning into it.

Pat used to have to argue his way into pampering her, but for now, she’s welcoming any and all offers of help and special treatment.

“I already served my time at the roasted corn stand,” Winnie adds. “I’m free from the committee’s demands.”

“Mmm,” Pat says. “I like the sound of a cake walk.”

James rolls his eyes. “Like you need more sugar.”

“It’s a festival,” Winnie says, patting James on the arm. “Lighten up, big guy.”

“Yeah, Uncle James,” Jo echoes. “Lighten up. Let’s go walk cake!”

“That’s not quite how a cake walk works, little bird,” James says, but already he’s following Pat.

Winnie shoves the purple unicorn at me, then wraps an arm around James’s waist as they trail behind Pat and Jo. Dad joins them as they pass a stand selling turkey legs and sausage on a stick.

And I … just stand here, rooted in place as I watch them all go—the very picture of happiness.

I am feeling far too melancholy for a fair where you can fry just about anything.

When no one in my family realizes I’m gone, my mood goes full-on emo. I hug the purple unicorn—my new best friend.

My only friend?

Here I am, having an existential crisis in Sheet Cake, Texas—which sounds like a line from a country song. A bad one.

Suddenly, a hand comes out of nowhere, fingertips lightly curling around my wrist. I can hardly see the woman touching me—what with my new purple bestie blocking the view.

She’s out of breath like she’s been running.

I get a general sense of glossy brown hair and blue eyes. Long legs and desperation.

“If you’re single,” she says between panting breaths, “can I borrow you for an hour or so?”

Maybe it’s the existential crisis I'm having next to a stand selling turkey legs or maybe it’s the urgency and panic in her voice, but I find myself nodding as I shift the unicorn out of the way. “Sure.”

And that’s when I realize who this woman is—Molly, sister of Chase, my sister’s husband. Took me a minute since her hair is now a chocolatey brown rather than blond, but I know Molly. We met at Chase and Harper’s wedding, then again at Feastivus, Sheet Cake’s version of Thanksgiving.

I wait for her to place me. To remember me. But even after giving her a few moments of blinking her pretty blue eyes a few times, it becomes clear. Molly does not recognize me.

Swell—once more, I’m the invisible and forgettable Graham brother.