Chapter 9
Grayson
By the time I finish helping Maddox run drills at CU, my shoulders feel like concrete and my patience is hanging by a thread.
It would be manageable if the problem was just the workout, but it isn’t. The problem is that my life has become a series of increasingly terrible ideas stitched together by scheduling and sheer force of will.
The NFL deal is looming. My house is about to gain a new occupant. My daughter is now obsessed with a woman I should absolutely not be attracted to, and I have spent the entire damn afternoon trying to focus on literally anything else, like that’s going to keep me from giving in to temptation.
But every time I get a second to think, my brain serves up another image of her.
Carly crouched in the grass while Penelope handed her dead leaves like presents.
Carly laughing, pushing my daughter on the swings.
Carly in those fucking jeans.
Jesus Christ.
I drag a hand over the back of my neck and head for my truck while Maddox yells something at one of the receivers about lazy footwork.
The late evening air is cold enough to bite even through my quarter-zip, the stadium lights glaring over everything in that way that makes the whole place feel half sacred, half hostile.
Usually, an evening out here clears my head. Tonight, it just leaves more room for the problem.
I should go home.
Penelope is with Dana for a few hours, and technically, I could use the quiet to get ahead on work, answer emails, look over preliminary numbers, or do any one of the fifty things currently trying to kill me.
Instead, all I can think about is having a drink, which is how I end up pulling into the lot behind Pearson Beers twenty minutes later.
The brewery sits warm and golden against the dark, all exposed brick, black steel, and the kind of quiet confidence that comes from money used properly.
It suits Cole. He built it after clawing his way back from the kind of mess that would have buried a weaker man, and there are still nights when I walk in here and remember exactly how close he came to losing everything.
Cole Pearson is one of my closest friends and has been for years, which is unfortunate for me, because although friendship with Cole comes with perks — loyalty, honesty, a willingness to show up no matter how ugly things get — it also has one very, very specific downside: the bastard sees too much. He always has.
I head inside and get hit with the usual wall of sound: music low enough for conversation, glasses clinking, people laughing, the steady hum of a place doing exactly what it was built to do. A couple of people notice me before I make it halfway to the bar.
That part of my life never really went away.
Football did enough damage to my joints and enough favors for my face that I can’t grab a drink in public without somebody deciding they need a photo for their cousin, their boyfriend, or their dad who still talks about the Broncos like it’s a religion.
So I stop, smile, shake hands, sign a receipt, then a napkin, then the front of somebody’s credit card because apparently we’re all just improvising now.
By the time I finally reach the bar, I’m already more tired than I was ten minutes ago.
Cole is behind it, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a dark henley stretching across his shoulders.
He looks exactly like he always does—put together, unreadable, and like he’s already three steps ahead, like if you didn’t know him you might assume he’s a bastard, and if you do know him you understand that the bastard part is selective.
He looks up, takes one glance at me, and reaches under the bar for a pint glass. “Rough day?”
I pull out a stool. “That obvious?”
“To me? Yeah.” He sets the glass down. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re about to annoy me with a personal problem and pretend it’s not personal.”
I sit and brace one forearm on the bar. “Beer.”
He sets down the glass. “Bad enough for a beer, huh?”
“Bad enough for five, if I’m honest.”
He eyes me for a second, hesitating, as if maybe he needs to worry about me falling down the same hole he barely crawled his way out of.
“I’m fine. Pour the damn drink, Cole.”
He reluctantly does, sliding a pint toward me before leaning both hands on the bar. “Dana texted. Said you dropped Penny off with her.”
I nod. “Yeah, just for a few hours. Sorry to stress out your wife a little more.”
“I’m sure I’ll get an earful at home. Speaking of which, how’s Pen doing? I know she’s good at ours, but we don’t see everything.” The question is casual. The look he gives me, though, isn’t.
“She’s okay,” I sigh, taking a sip before dropping it back down on the coaster. “I had to fire her nanny.”
Cole’s expression sharpens. “What happened?”
My jaw tightens uncomfortably. “Just bullshit. Not paying close enough attention to Pen, not playing with her anymore, calling out over and over again at the last minute, meaning I have to rush mid-meeting to pick up my kid from school.”
Cole says nothing, just waits, watching me like he’s expecting more. So I keep going.
“Halsey, of course, has been no help with the whole thing. She’s never any fucking help.
” I scrub my face with my hand, trying to wipe away the irritation, but god knows that isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
“She can disappear for days when it suits her, breeze back in with a toy and a smile, and somehow still act like I’m the difficult one.
Penelope’s old enough to notice now. Old enough to start keeping score. ”
Cole’s jaw ticks once.
“And I had to tell Pen that the nanny wouldn’t be coming back,” I say, quieter now. “And she sobbed over it, because to her, it’s one more person not coming back when she thought they would.”
Penelope gets attached with her whole heart, no padding, no brakes. She loves like she assumes the world is safe. I’d kill to keep it that way. But instead, it feels like I’m patching holes in a ship with my bare hands.
“And then on top of that, the new NFL line is moving fast,” I say. “Faster than I expected.”
“Thought that was the point.”
“It is. Doesn’t mean it’s not a pain in my ass.” I take another drink and silently wish Cole had given me something less hoppy. “I, uh, promoted one of my designers to make sure it all goes right. She’s good.”
“She?”
I ignore that. “Best instincts on the team. Doesn’t overdesign. Doesn’t waste time trying to sound clever in meetings. She actually knows how athletes wear shit instead of how mood boards say they should.”
Cole eyes me warily, which is never a good sign.
I keep talking anyway. “I’m putting her on the NFL deal with me directly.”
“Makes sense,” he says, watching me like he’s egging me on to keep trauma-dumping on him.
“It does.”
He waits like he already knows there’s more coming. I hate that he can clock it.
I stare into my beer to keep myself from giving any tells. “I also hired her as Penelope’s nanny,” I add cautiously.
That lands exactly how I expected it to.
Cole goes still.
He’s not dramatic about it. Just still in that very particular way that means every alarm bell in his head has started ringing at once.
“Explain. Immediately.”
I exhale through my nose. “It’s not ideal.”
“Mhm.”
“My life is on fire.”
“So your solution,” he drawls, “was to promote one employee and move her into your house.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds worse than it is.”
“That’s because it is worse than it is.”
I glare at him. “It makes sense.”
“Sell it to someone dumber.”
I take another drink and set the glass down harder than necessary.
“In my defense, she offered. She overheard me talking about it all with Maddox. She needs a place to live, I need someone I can trust around Penelope, and she’s already working on the NFL line.
This way I don’t lose time commuting between fires. ”
Cole’s stare doesn’t move, just raises a single brow at me. “And?”
“And what?”
“And the part you skipped.”
I blink at him, schooling my features. “There is no part I skipped.”
He actually smiles then, which is a terrible sign. Slow, knowing, deeply annoying. “Grayson. I’ve known you too long for this.”
That is the problem, exactly.
Most people only know the version of me I let them deal with. Cole knows the bones underneath. He knew me back when both of us were rougher around the edges and meaner about it. Back before his life imploded and got rebuilt. Back when we were both better at acting like we didn’t need anyone.
He has seen me lie smoother than this.
“Nothing is going on,” I say.
Cole folds the towel over one shoulder. “Sure.”
“She’s good with Penelope.”
“That’s not helping your case.”
“She’s smart.”
“Still not helping.”
I narrow my eyes. “Do you want me to stop talking?”
He smirks. “Not even a little bit.”
Of course he doesn’t. I drag in a breath, already regretting being here. “I took them to get ice cream today. Then the park.”
Cole’s brows go up a fraction. “You did a trial run?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And Penelope liked her.”
“She’s not the only one who did.”
I say nothing.
Cole lets the silence breathe just long enough to get under my skin. “How bad is it?”
I give him a flat look. “You are profoundly irritating.”
“That bad, then.”
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “She was good with her. Pen was climbing all over her in less than an hour.”
“Kids know.”
“Don’t start.”
“I haven’t even started.”
I groan and tip my head forward onto my waiting palm. “Fine. Christ. She looked good.”
Cole huffs a laugh that sounds almost surprised. “There it is.”
I immediately regret saying it. “She was good with my daughter, Cole.”
“You already said that.”
I grit my teeth. “I hate you sometimes.”
Cole leans in slightly, voice lowering. “You like her.”
I bark out a humorless laugh. “Don’t.”
“Gray.”
“No.”
He points at me with the bottle opener still in his hand. “You just walked in here looking like you got hit by a truck and started listing her qualifications like you were trying to convince a board, then admitted she looked good in the park. You like her.”
“I’m attracted to her,” I snap. “There’s a difference.”
Cole watches me, studying me, and I know damn well he’s peeling back layers and layers with that stare alone. His voice is too calm when he speaks again. “That wasn’t exactly a denial—”
I close my eyes for one second. “Jesus Christ. She works for me. She’s moving into my house to help with my daughter. End of story.”
“Then why do you look like you need an exorcism?”
Because Carly in fucking jeans, laughing in the sun with Penelope on her hip, is apparently enough to make my internal warning system light up like a Christmas tree.
Because every logical reason this arrangement makes sense is being chased around by one deeply inconvenient truth.
Because I know exactly what the problem is, and the problem has soft brown eyes and a mouth I am making a concerted effort not to think about.
“Because,” I grit out, “I need this to not be a problem.”
Cole’s expression shifts then, some of the amusement draining out of it. “I get that. You’ve got too much going on already. Penny, work, Halsey being Halsey. But don’t make your own life harder because you think temptation is wrong. It’s not the end of the world if you give in a little.”
I stare at him. “Imagine if I’d said that last part to you while you were trying to get sober.”
“Oh, I’m sorry — I must have missed the part where you said you were cripplingly addicted to her. Should I take you to a detox clinic? Maybe rehab? I know I great group I go to on Sundays that you’re welcome to come along to.”
“Okay, yeah, I’ll shut up, I get it, I’m sorry.”
Cole tips his head, not convinced. “You’d better be.”
I finish the rest of my beer in one long glug and set the empty glass down. “For the record, you’re a terrible drinking companion.”
He snorts. “You gonna leave a Google review?"
“Absolutely. One-star. Bartender told me that I look like I need an exorcism and then read me too well.”
He reaches for my glass, that smug almost-smile back in place. “Do it, and I’ll leak all those photos from Maddox’s fortieth.”
I shoot him a glare and slide off the stool, readjusting my coat.
“In all seriousness, though, if you need someone to watch Penny last-minute with the swap or meetings or whatever, Dana and I can cover you.”
I slide off the stool and readjust my coat. “Thanks, man. And sorry about the comment. It’s been a day.”
“No worries, Gray.”
* * *
The night air hits cool against my face. It should make me feel steadier. But instead, I feel worse.
Now the thing has... shape.
Before, it was just aggravation. Attraction. A bad idea I could keep contained by pretending it wasn’t worth naming. But Cole made me give it a name.
I like her.
Or something close enough to it that the distinction doesn’t matter.
I head for my car, my jaw tight. I tell myself that it’s manageable, that it has to be, that Carly is moving into my house because Penelope needs stability and I need help. That’s it. End of story. No room for confusion.
I can want a woman and still keep my hands to myself.
I can be attracted to her and still act like a professional.
I can absolutely keep my thoughts in a place that won’t get me struck by lightning.
But my traitorous brain offers up an imagined image of Carly in my kitchen after Penelope’s gone to bed, barefoot and tired, hair falling over one shoulder, glass of wine in her hand while she leans against the counter in one of my shirts and nothing else.
I stop at my truck and shut my eyes.
Nope.
Not that.
Anything but that.
The image shifts, and I think I’ve batted it off well enough, but it’s morphing — the same scene, but she’s not holding a wine glass anymore, and she’s on her knees at my feet, batting those pretty eyelashes up at me with my cock shoved halfway down her throat and I—
God. I’m fucked. I’m so, so fucked.