Chapter Two – Crew
The sunrise cracks open, and the horizon spills light across Otter Creek Farm. The barns catch it first—rust-red and gold—then the pastures, then the porch where I’m standing with a cup of coffee that tastes like regret and a shoulder that feels like it belongs to somebody older.
The Wright family doesn’t sleep in. Never has. Even after I left for the pros, even after I told myself I was done with all this—dawn still finds me.
The air smells like hay, salt, and diesel from the tractor idling somewhere out of sight. Birds start their music. The farm is alive again, same as always.
“Let’s get moving,” Marcus, the team-approved physical rehabilitator, calls from inside the barn gym, his voice cutting through the quiet like a whistle.
Right. No point standing around pretending I’m part of the scenery.
I drain what’s left of my coffee and step inside. This barn’s been converted into half gym, half storage. One side has hay bales stacked to the rafters. The other is filled with equipment that looks like it was ordered off a “Rehab or Die” subscription box.
Marcus is already setting up resistance bands, his clipboard tucked under one arm. He’s built like a linebacker and patient like a monk—which makes him the only person on earth qualified to deal with me right now.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I’m three minutes early.”
“Late for a guy with nothing else to do.”
I grunt, grab the nearest band, and start the warm-up. The stretch burns all the way down my arm. The muscle still trembles, still protests like it doesn’t believe me when I say we’re getting better.
“How’s it feel today?” he asks.
“Like betrayal.” Every time I think about the blindside hit that took me out, resulting in a torn labrum, my stomach drops, and I have to work to keep my mood above water.
He smirks. “That’s progress. Yesterday, it was murder.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get nostalgic in a second.”
Without rising to the bait, he just checks my form, adjusts the band tension, and makes a note. The quiet between us is easy—the kind that only happens when a man has seen you at your lowest and doesn’t hold it against you.
I keep moving through the drills. The farm hums outside—tractor engines and distant laughter from the chicken coop where my dad’s probably wrangling Mom’s newest batch of “emotional support hens.”
By the time we finish, sweat runs down my neck, and my shoulder is on fire. Marcus tosses me a towel.
“Good work,” he says. “Don’t push past the threshold.”
“Define ‘threshold’.”
“The part right before you do something stupid.”
“So Tuesday.”
He chuckles. “Exactly.”
We clean up, and he heads out, probably to terrorize another client in town. I’m left with the echo of my own breathing and the faint creak of the barn settling around me.
The silence used to feel like home. Now it just feels like an echo I can’t shake off.
I wander to the open doors, towel slung over my neck, and watch the morning unfold.
My brother Rowan’s truck pulls into the drive, and my sister Hadley’s voice drifts in from the porch.
The smell of bacon sneaks through the breeze, and my stomach growls loud enough to make a cow in the pasture look over.
“Come eat before Mom declares you malnourished,” Hadley calls, hands cupped around her mouth. She’s standing on the porch steps, messy bun, leggings, coffee mug that says Good Moms Say Bad Words.
“Already did rehab,” I say.
“Rehab doesn’t count as food.”
“Tell that to my protein shake.”
She rolls her eyes and disappears inside.
I grab my hoodie from the bench and follow, flexing my hand to keep the joint loose. Every motion’s a reminder of the hit that ended everything—the way my arm twisted wrong, the pop, the crowd’s gasp that swallowed the world.
Some days, I hear it in my sleep.
Inside, the kitchen smells like cinnamon and butter. Mom stands at the stove, flipping pancakes like she’s feeding an army. She looks up when I walk in, smile bright and knowing.
“There he is,” she says.
“Morning, Ma.”
“Sit. Eat. Don’t argue.”
I sit. I eat. I don’t argue. It’s the Wright family way.
Hadley drops into the chair across from me, already scrolling through her phone. “So Bailey’s roof is leaking.”
I freeze halfway through a bite.
“Lila says Bailey’s been patching it herself.”
“She shouldn’t be on a roof. That woman is so stubborn. She should hire someone to do it.”
Her eyebrow arches. “Why do you sound personally offended?”
“I’m not. I just—roofs are dangerous.”
“Uh-huh.” She sips her coffee. “Maybe you should go help her. You know. Be useful while you’re pretending to be retired.”
Mom sets a plate in front of me, pancakes stacked high. “She’s a good girl, that Bailey,” she says, as if that’s relevant. “I don’t know why you two don’t talk.”
“Because we’re adults with separate lives,” I say, stabbing at the pancakes.
“Separate zip codes don’t mean separate lives,” Hadley singsongs.
I give her my best big-brother glare, which works on everyone but her.
“I saw her yesterday,” Mom continues, undeterred. “Still running that sweet little bookstore. Lighthouse looks beautiful.”
Of course she did. My mother collects small-town updates like souvenirs. I don’t add that I saw her, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hasn’t already sought out that information.
“Good for her,” I mutter.
I finish breakfast, grab a thermos of coffee, and escape before they can orchestrate my social calendar. Outside, the air’s warmer now, sun climbing higher. The fields glow gold and green. Somewhere, a tractor backfires; somewhere else, a horse snorts in protest.
I head toward my truck, keys spinning around my finger. The shoulder aches, the dull kind of pain that says not yet but almost.
The problem is, almost doesn’t pay the bills.
My phone buzzes, and my agent David’s name flashes across the screen.
I sigh and answer. “Yeah.”
“Crew, buddy! How’s the golden arm?”
“Rusty.”
“Don’t say that. Reporters hear you talk like that, they’ll run it as gospel.”
“Maybe they should. At least it’d be accurate.”
He sighs dramatically. “Look, rehab videos perform better than silence. You’ve got sponsors waiting to see proof of progress. Post something. Smile. Pretend you’re optimistic.”
“Pass.”
“You want a career or not?”
“I want to lift my damn arm without it shaking.”
There’s a sigh. “You’ll get there. Just don’t disappear. The public forgets fast.”
I hang up before he can start another pep talk.
Silence again, broken only by the hum of cicadas and the faint echo of the bay. I look toward the road that leads down to town, where the lighthouse stands tall against the horizon.
Bailey’s world.
Mine, once.
The image flashes again—her standing behind the counter, arms crossed, eyes like a storm she’s holding back on purpose. The way her laugh still sounds like summer. The way guilt tastes sour every time I think of that stupid, stolen note.
I open the truck door, set the hammer on the passenger seat, and grab the thermos of coffee from the holder.
I could drive anywhere. Back to Nashville. Richmond. Hell, the next county. But my hands don’t turn the wheel that way.
The road bends toward Coral Bell Cove, and I follow it like I’m in a daze.
The closer I get to town, the more everything starts to look the same and completely different all at once.
The bait shop still leans like it’s had one too many, but the windows are new. Mrs. Hollister’s bakery smells like cinnamon and salt. Even the “Welcome to Coral Bell Cove” sign has been repainted—same pelican, brighter blue.
People wave when they recognize the truck. I wave back out of habit, pretending not to notice the quick double takes.
The fallen quarterback is back on his old turf. Cue the headlines.
If they hadn’t been convinced yesterday that I was back for longer than a weekend, they are now.
I make a quick trip into the bakery to grab the muffins I know are one of Bailey’s favorites. I may stalk her social media page in my downtime, and she’s always posting her favorite books with these particular treats.
By the time I pull into the gravel lot by the lighthouse, the wind off the bay has picked up, bringing the taste of brine and rain.
Yesterday, I was too eager to see Bailey and didn’t pay attention to the building.
The place still looks like something out of a postcard: white stone, black iron rail around the lantern room, and the little attached house that’s now A Page in Time.
The porch light is on even though it’s midmorning, the kind of faint, cozy glow that hits somewhere beneath my ribs.
I sit there longer than I should, engine idling, coffee cooling in the thermos.
Just go knock, Wright. It’s a roof, not a wedding proposal.
The wind slaps the tarp overhead, snapping like it’s impatient. I grab the hammer, step out, and instantly remember how slippery these boards get with sea mist. Perfect conditions for public humiliation.
The door opens before I reach it.
Bailey steps out, sweater sleeves pushed up, hair twisted into a messy knot that’s losing the fight against the breeze. She has a smudge of ink on her cheekbone and a cautious set to her shoulders—like she’s been bracing for me all morning.
“Morning,” I say, aiming for casual. It comes out like gravel.
She blinks, once. “You have impeccable timing. The roof’s about to fly to Norfolk.”
“Guess I picked the right day to remember my handyman phase.”
“I didn’t realize you had one.”
“Briefly. Between Pop Warner football and my first concussion.”
Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Progress. Better than yesterday at least.
I hold up the hammer and the paper bag from the bakery. “Peace offering. Muffins and minimal power-tool use.”
She eyes the bag like it might explode. “Maple pecan?”
“Obviously.”
That earns me a tiny, reluctant laugh. She takes the bag, fingers brushing mine, and every nerve ending I own sits up and pays attention.
“I was going to call a roofer,” she says.
“Hadley told me you’ve been doing it yourself.”
“Of course she did.”