This Guy (Wood Hollow Stories #1)

Chapter 1

SILAS

“When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.” — Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

The play was at the forty-yard line. A mad sprint to the goal with a hitch route at the center of the field might have seemed like a long shot, but it was doable. Speed was the key. And precision.

All the rookie QB had to do was pass me the ball. I settled into place next to our offensive tackle, Bukowski, a three-hundred-and-ten pound beast of a dude. I chewed the shit out of my mouthpiece, my knee bouncing, my cleats digging into the AstroTurf, ready to bolt into action.

I might have been older than the average tight end, but I was still fast. And if Kronig’s pass was accurate, we could come from behind and steal this one from Tennessee.

Not that it mattered. Both teams had losing records, so neither of us was playoff bound.

However, this was my last fucking game in the pros.

It was bad enough to fizzle into obscurity on a roster of aging fossils, but after the year I’d had, I really didn’t think it was unreasonable to hope for one fucking win.

Kronig’s play-call technique sucked, if you asked me. It was easy to tell the kid had watched too many old tapes of Manning in his prime and couldn’t wait to say, “Omaha, Omaha” like his idol. I wished I could make eye contact with Vally and share an eye roll, but it was showtime, baby.

I ran my route, shoving a Tennessee blocker out of my way before racing for the goal line. There wasn’t a blue jersey in sight. I was open.

Open.

I held my arm out like a firefighter ready to catch a falling baby from a five-story building at the five-yard line. I was there. Step, step, score.

Seconds were ticking by… One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.

Where was the fucking ball?

Where was the—

Boom!

I slammed into the ground hard, crushed like a soda can under the wheel of a Mack truck by a Tennessee linebacker. He’d appeared out of nowhere, knocked the wind out of me, and…damn it, I was bleeding.

I sat on my haunches for a beat, wincing at the blood dripping from my nose as pain ricocheted through my body and echoed in my ears.

Along with the sound of raucous cheering.

A hand shot in front of me. “Yo, you all right, old man?”

“Fuck off,” I growled, taking the assistance and squinting at the celebration in the goal. “We scored?”

Vally nodded. “Marius got the TD.”

“I was fucking open.”

Vally smacked my ass. “I know. We don’t do anything the easy way. But on the bright side, we’re about to win this motherfucker.”

I sat on the bench, gulping water with gauze stuffed in my nose as our kicker drove the extra point through the post.

Score: 17-16. We won.

The final whistle blew, signaling the end of my fifteen-year career in the pros. Yep, this was what fizzling into obscurity felt like in real time.

I was numb.

Just…numb.

I scanned the field, bracing against a wave of nostalgia that never came. It would probably hit me in the locker room or the shower or at the obligatory press conference. Or maybe on the drive home.

It didn’t. Still numb.

And the night wasn’t over.

I had to get through a private party later that evening too.

The Sky Lounge was one of those swanky rooftop bars in a high-end hotel with views of the glittering lights of Los Angeles and the dark expanse of the Pacific Ocean beyond.

One could count on loud music, eye candy, nose candy, secret corners, and discreet waiters.

I’d been here dozens of times and while I wouldn’t say it was my favorite bar, being with my teammates after our last game was the right move.

I’d buy a round of shots, replay highlights with my buddies, and flirt with whoever happened to be nearby. And then go home.

I wasn’t in the mood tonight, though. In fact, hanging out with a bunch of testosterone-laden, pumped-up jocks with a season-ending hall pass to make all kinds of bad choices felt like work.

“I don’t want to be here.”

Vally waved at the crowd congregated at the bar. “Tough shit. We can make old-guy excuses or just fade in an hour. Naomi is home with the baby, and I don’t want to be out late, anyway.”

Lawrence Valenz, a.k.a. Vally, was an inch shorter than my six four but outweighed me by at least forty pounds.

He had curly black hair, olive skin, green eyes, and killer dimples.

Vally had been casually demolishing our opponents’ defense with wicked moves that left sportscasters speechless for years, but off the field, he was the nicest guy I’d ever met.

My badass glare only made him laugh. “One hour.”

He winked and steered us to the glitzy bar with a glass ceiling and fairy lights. Someone slapped me on the back, handed me a drink, and we were off to the races—reliving the game, commiserating about our lackluster season, griping about teams we didn’t like, coaches who were assholes…the usual.

I nursed my vodka tonic, a plastic grin in place just like half the posers and vipers with vacant stares lurking in my periphery.

You know, I used to love the fine line separating reality from utter bullshit in LA.

The willowy models, vapid actors, too-cool musicians, smarmy influencers, wily producers mixed in with everyday folks looking for a fun night out, a viral post, or at the very least, a good story.

That shit was entertaining. Until it wasn’t.

Then it felt dirty.

I wasn’t having the worst time, though.

The bartender was a stunning dude with twinkly eyes and a genuine smile.

I was always careful about flirting with men, and I certainly wouldn’t do it here, but he was nice to look at, and so was the blond who’d cornered me next to a tall plant.

Her hair was long and perfectly coiffed, falling over her sun-kissed bare shoulders like honey.

I concentrated on the girl, stealing an occasional peek at Hot Bartender.

She was talking about her roommate’s brush with a raccoon.

It was kind of funny and on top of being pretty, she was genuinely charming.

I didn’t know her name, but she knew mine.

She knew who I was and even commented on my career.

She’d claimed to have been following me for years.

Was she shamelessly lying? Probably. I let it slide and felt myself finally begin to relax.

“Do you want another drink?” she purred, pressing her tits against my biceps.

I cast a furtive glance at the bartender. “Sure. Let me—”

One of my teammates swooped in, plucked my empty glass from my hand, replaced it with a fresh one, and held his hand up for a high five. The girl laughed while I shook my head ruefully.

“I love the Devils! You guys are the best,” she gushed.

“Want this?” I asked, offering her the drink.

She trailed her red nails along the front of my shirt. “No, thanks.”

I grabbed her wrist as she was about to undo a button but didn’t complain when she laced our fingers and swayed into me.

“Hey, what’s your name?”

“Kimber.” More fluttering eyelashes. “Did you forget already?”

I ignored the question and sipped my cocktail. My inhibitions were low, the music was bumping, and there was no harm in letting loose and having some fun. “And let me guess…you’re a model.”

“No, I’m a designer. I made my dress.” She struck a sexy pose, thrusting her hip, and treating me to a smoldering glance. Bar lights twinkled over the sequined form-fitted garment like cascading water.

“Wow. I’m impressed.”

And I was. If my gaze slowed at the curve of her breasts, that couldn’t be helped. She was beautiful, and maybe that was all I needed tonight.

Kimber beamed. “Thank you. My friend Kel is wearing one of my pieces too. See the girl in the emerald dress…right there.”

I twisted dutifully to look at her friend, shaking the ice in my glass. “Pretty.”

“Gorgeous. Kel’s a writer…the glamorous kind. Fashion reporting, mostly. She’s been in Vogue a few times.” Kimber wrinkled her nose and leaned in. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but—no, never mind.”

“Tell me,” I prodded, grinning like an idiot, my thoughts humming in a vodka haze.

Maybe Vally’d been right to drag my ass out. Impending retirement and my shit show of a personal life had been hovering over my head like a dark cloud for months. I needed a break from the gloom, and this felt nice and—

“She knows your ex.”

Screech.

I froze, my brows furrowed. “My ex.”

She nodded, dipping her chin in a sympathetic gesture that grated like a fork scaping dried food from a plate. The hum and buzz in my brain were replaced with sudden icy wariness.

And yet, Kimber barreled on.

“I’m so sorry about what happened. You deserve better.” She splayed a manicured hand on my chest and added, “Let’s make her jealous.”

Kimber lifted her arms to my shoulders as a camera flashed in my face, blinding me for a beat and effectively killing any remnant of interest.

“Yo! I need this guy for a second.” Vally stole my drink and deposited it on the bar, hooking a hand in the crook of my elbow. “You wanna go home?”

“Affirmative.”

Vally’s ride was waiting in front of the hotel lobby. I slipped into the back seat, my head pounding as the neon lights along Wilshire Boulevard whizzed by in a blur.

“Shit. I’m sorry, man. She was giving spider vibes, but you seemed into it…for a while. And a little distraction is a good thing.”

I snorted, scrubbing my jaw. “Yeah.”

Vally punched my biceps. “You okay?”

“Oh, sure. I’m great.” I didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm. “I’ll probably end up on some celebrity blog in the morning, or an influencer’s post in the next ten minutes—and the world will pick apart my sorry-ass life and remind me that I’m officially a has-been now. But hey…it could be worse.”

My friend sighed. “Dude. You need a vacation.”

“Funny enough, I was supposed to take one.”

“With Alli?”