Chapter 7 - Nate
The world keeps spinning even when you tank. It doesn’t even wobble.
We didn’t just lose. We got swept. Four games, four funerals, and every sports show running the same clips like they were daring us to argue. Golden Boy Goes Cold. Captain Crumbles. Is Captain Carson Cursed?
After Brielle, I told myself I was fine. I was fine with every picture of her and the suit. The happily ever after story they were spinning for 'likes'. Fine with them painting me out to be the bad guy in the story.
Fine looks a lot like empty bottles, new faces, and too much noise.
It looks like me laughing when nothing’s funny and clapping guys on the back, I don’t trust with my car keys.
It looks like leaning into the only thing people seem to agree on about me anymore, that I’m better as a headline than as a person.
You want a show? I’ll give you a show.
New girl every week. New dress, new perfume, new PR angle. Turn my face to the light and let it burn. If all they want is the playboy, I can do that in my sleep.
My agent called it a “rebrand.”
Coach called it a “goddamn embarrassment.”
He was right.
After the sweep, we all needed to blow off steam.
A few of the guys hit the bars too hard, and I was right there with them, matching rounds, laughing too loud.
The next morning, photos splashed across every news outlet.
Half the city saw me with someone I didn’t even remember meeting.
And I definitely don't remember doing what they pictured us doing in the hallway to the club bathrooms.
Then came the call.
His voice had an edge to it that I rarely heard from Coach, not with me.
“You clean up your act, Carson, or someone else wears the C.” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “And if you think the front office won’t ship your ass out of Summit City to save face, you haven’t been paying attention.”
The line clicked dead like a door slamming. That was a little over a week ago and I haven’t slept right since.
Canada Day means red flags on every porch and people coming together to celebrate. My phone won’t stop lighting up, teammates, hanger-oners, a few women whose names I never learned, asking if the lake house is happening.
It’s happening.
If I can’t fix a season, I can at least fill the empty ache that I don't understand.
We leave the city in a convoy. My Bronco is out front, the top off.
Two more SUVs behind us are full of guys and girls yelling along to whatever song is trending.
A BMW convertible brings up the rear, hair and scarves and cell phones raised high.
The highway breathes us toward the ridge.
Every kilometre closer, my chest gets tighter, and I tell myself it’s just the stress of the season.
We roll into my parents’ lane like a road show, tires kicking up powder-dry dust. The yard looks the same as it always does, grass cut even, flags clipped to the porch rail, Mom’s planters exploding with geraniums and something white I should know the name of but don’t.
The air smells like sun on old wood and cut hay and the faint metallic tang of the creek running hard from a late snowmelt.
I kill the engine, and for a second, it’s quiet enough to hear the bees in the clover.
Then doors slam and the noise pours out.
Laughter, bass thudding from somebody’s portable speaker, the high whine of a girl’s voice asking where the bathroom is, like we’ve crossed three hours of prairie, and she held it the whole way for this moment.
I tell myself I’m just here to grab a few things, steaks, ground beef, a case of Mom’s pickles if I can find them.
That’s the story I’m going with. The truth is, I haven’t set foot on this land since Christmas, and that was a hit-and-run.
A bag of gifts I didn’t wrap myself and five minutes of pretending I wasn’t already late to wherever I was going next.
Because Brielle wanted a picture-perfect Christmas, and the aesthetic of mismatched furniture didn't fit her brand.
Dad’s truck sits with its hood up like it’s taking a deep breath. A wrench lies on the fender in a way that says someone got interrupted. The sun glints off chrome and blinds me for half a second.
Eli steps out of the barn, wiping his hands on a rag.
He looks the way hard work looks when it’s honest. Forearms nicked up.
Shirt dark at the collar. Calm like a weathered fence post that’s not going anywhere just because the wind’s having a day.
He takes in the caravan and the girls and the guys and me, then shakes his head once.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he says, voice flat enough to skate on.
“Missed you too,” I say, forcing something like a grin as my crew fans out behind me for a backdrop. “Wanted to grab a few things for the party. You got any steaks? Chuck? I’ll make it worth...”
“You throwing another circus up there?” he asks without looking at me, like the answer’s already got his jaw tight.
“It’s a party.” I keep my tone light. “You know... fun. For Canada Day.”
“Right.” He tosses the rag over his shoulder like he’s throwing the whole conversation in the wash. “And I’m guessing Summit City’s nightlife scene is invited.”
Before I can come up with a line that deflects without admitting anything, I hear Kenzie. Even from here, her laugh is sunshine, bright and loud and incapable of missing its mark. There’s another laugh braided with it, lower, warmer. I turn, and the yard tilts a degree.
She isn’t trying to be seen; that’s the first difference.
Holy shit.
Red hair braided loose over one shoulder, little flyaway’s lit up like copper wire.
Freckles, real ones, the kind you only get from sunlight and time.
Rubber boots, not heels, scuffed at the toes and covered in layers of dirt and dust. Jeans that have actual wear on them from actual work, rips earned instead of bought.
A plain navy tee worn from time, where you’d only notice if you were staring.
Apparently, I’m staring.
“Who’s that?” I ask, trying to make it sound casual and hearing the wrong hunger in it anyway.
Eli doesn’t even glance. “Stay the fuck away from her.”
I huff something that’s supposed to be a laugh.
“Why? Is she yours?” As I ask the question, my stomach drops.
I continue to watch her. The familiarity of how she interacts with my baby sister.
Kenzie is talking animatedly with the redhead, wearing ripped jean shorts, old white sneakers that have seen better days and a white tank.
Her mess of blonde curls is up on top of her head.
“She's not a possession, asshole.” He finally cuts me a look that smarts like a shovel blade. “She’s Mike Lane's daughter. She just moved back and is too good for whatever you’ve turned yourself into.” He nods toward my SUV, where two girls in tiny skirts are taking turns pouting for selfies.
“And you already brought enough mistakes for one day.”
It hits where it’s supposed to. I swallow it down and smile like none of this bothers me.
“Jesus is that your sister?” one of the guys behind me mutters. I don’t have to turn to know which one, newest call-up with hands soft from city living and a mouth that runs faster than his feet, McKenna.
I keep my eyes on Eli and say, “Watch it. She's off limits.”
"What about the hot piece of ass with her?" Colby asks.
Eli growls and looks about ready to get the shotgun.
Kenzie spots me then. She lights up like she’s still twelve and I just got back from a road trip, no hesitation, no audit, just love.
She jogs across the yard and crashes into me, arms tight around my waist. I breathe her in.
Citrus and sunshine and something that smells like line-dried cotton.
“I thought you were a myth, like I imagined having two brothers,” she says into my chest.
“Rude,” I manage, voice thick with more than dust. “I am extremely real. See?” I hold my arms out. “Flesh.”
She snorts and leans back to really take me in. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that when you’re not.”
“Are you analyzing me now? Did you take a psych class or something?”
“Nate.” She softens it with a grin. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I say, and almost believe it.
The noise shifts behind me. All the guys have now discovered the redhead. Something gets said, low, testing. The kind of line a man throws out when he thinks he can catch someone who isn’t looking.
She doesn’t bite. She turns and takes them in with one glance that isn’t cruel but isn’t kind either.
It’s… clean. Sorting. She lands on me last and almost takes my breath away.
Kenzie chuckles as I suck in a breath. Up close, she is even more stunning, eyes so blue the colour almost seems fake.
She is looking at me like she can see everything I am struggling with just below the surface.
I shoot her a deflecting grin, "Like what you see, red?"
“Red? That’s your best?” she says, voice even, mouth holding something that might be a smile if you earned it.
“It fits,” I offer, and hate how flat it sounds.
“Sure,” she lets the word fall like a door closing gently.
Anders walks up beside me with a shit eating grin on his face, "You gonna invite the pretty ladies to the party?"
I can feel Kenzie perk up beside me. But my eyes are still on the woman in front of me, like she is gravity and I can't pull my attention away.
"You are more than welcome to join. We will be at my lake house just outside of Millstream on Eagle View Lake."
Eli walks closer to her, "You can't miss his place, it's the one that screams I'm trying too hard."
Her eyes flick past me to the woman draped across my hood. “Thanks for the invite, but I’ll pass on your frat party.”