CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cole
I almost don’t go.
After practice, after Hawley digging around in my head, after another day of cameras shoved in my face asking if I’ve “lost the locker room,” the last thing I want is forced socialization.
But the team group chat called me out.
RODNEY COOK: Team BBQ. My house. 6 p.m. Don’t be that guy who doesn’t show.
MASON ELLERBY: Yo. Mandatory attendance. Rodney spent way too much on meat.
RIDGE HANSON: 2nd Annual Rebels BBQ. LET’S GOOOOOO!
LUCAS HALE: Don’t bail on this one, Valor. We’re all watching you.
RODNEY COOK: Show up or don’t ask me for shit on the field on Sunday.
So now I’m here.
Rodney Cook’s house is massive. The kind of place that screams O-line money—huge backyard, outdoor kitchen, oversized furniture built for men north of three hundred pounds, and an enormous pool that would qualify as a public recreation center.
Music plays through outdoor speakers while teammates spread across the patio. Some are in the pool. Others are crowded around cornhole boards with beers in hand.
And for the first time all week, it feels like nobody’s looking at me like a headline.
“Valor!” Rodney bellows from behind the grill, reaching out a fist for me to bump. “You’re late.”
“Dude. Ten minutes doesn’t qualify as late.”
“Then I guess I’ll wait ten minutes to snap the ball next game and see if you consider that being late or not as you get laid out by their D-line.”
“Funny.” I point to the grill. “Pretty sure that fire means you’re burning the burgers.”
“Nah, man.” His big belly laugh fills the space. “That’s called flavor, QB.”
Those of us on the patio all laugh and the tightness in my chest loosens a fraction.
There it is. The first feeling of normalcy I’ve had in days. Just my team. Just their smart-ass jokes. Just . . . this.
Robbins tosses me a beer the second I step toward the pool. “Figured you’d be ghosting us for a hot date.”
“It was one time.” I roll my eyes. “And she was worth it.”
Everyone laughs.
“Well, we’re glad you didn’t ghost us,” he says. “This is needed.”
Simple. Nonjudgmental.
I crack open the beer and glance around the backyard. “All this from one contract extension?”
Rodney points his spatula at me. “Don’t hate because the center’s the backbone of this organization.”
“Pretty sure you meant quarterback,” I joke.
“Without me snapping the ball, pretty boy, you’re just an overpaid guy standing around in spandex.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s fair.”
“Damn straight it is.”
A rookie receiver on the third string team—Tyler, I think his name is—appears awkwardly beside me.
“Hey, man,” he says.
“Hey.”
He shifts nervously on his feet before blurting out. “For what it’s worth, nobody on our team thinks you did it.”
His comment catches me off guard. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Just figured you should know. That’s all.”
I nod once. “Appreciate it.” And then because the guy looks nervous as hell, I add, “I’m hearing great things about you. Keep it up.”
His smile lights up his whole face. “Really? Thanks, man.”
I wander farther into the backyard as conversations overlap all around me. Football. Family. Fantasy leagues. Somebody arguing that Rodney’s music choice could be considered psychological warfare for the younger generation.
“Valor!” someone yells.
I turn just in time to catch the football coming at me with one hand.
“Looks like maybe you should’ve been a receiver,” another player says.
“That’d put you out of a job then,” I tease.
A chorus of bullshit follows instantly, and the sound is a relief. The guys are treating me normally and that matters more than I realized it would.
“You look less miserable than earlier,” Lucas Hale says as I step near where he’s standing in the pool, elbows propped on the side with a beer in one hand.
“Don’t sound too excited about it,” I say.
He smirks. “Misery loves company, brother.”
I take a seat on the chair near him. “When you had your shoulder thing, did you get tired of everybody asking if you were okay?”
“Every second of every day but the key is to never answer honestly and eventually they stop asking.”
“Sounds healthy,” I joke.
“Have you seen the sport we play?”
I huff out a laugh.
Lucas glances at me sideways. “You holding up?”
Honest answer? Not really. But this, being here and the guys talking shit, is helping.
“A little better today,” I finally say.
He nods once, like that’s enough. I take it.
Movement near the patio catches my eye as Camden Wolfe finally shows up through the side gate. Late. Of course.
“Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Haberman yells.
Camden flips him off without breaking stride.
The man looks like he walked straight out of a cologne commercial. Tall. T-shirt stretched across tattooed arms. Hair that looks perfect even after pulling his helmet off.
Women love him. By the comments he gets on his social media, men do too.
“Wolfe,” Rodney shouts. “You missed the speech.”
“There was a speech?” he asks. My thoughts exactly.
“About brotherhood,” Rodney says.
“Sounds horrific,” Camden deadpans causing laughter to ripple through the yard.
But even while he’s chirping back at everyone, there’s something slightly removed about him. Like he’s here physically but part of him stayed somewhere else entirely.
“Pretty sure Wolfe’s allergic to joy,” someone mutters.
“Not allergic,” Camden says, flashing a fuck-you grin. “Just selective.”
“Translation,” Rodney says. “He’s emotionally unavailable.”
“And yet somehow, I’m still all your favorites,” Camden says and sips his beer.
Annoying thing is, he’s probably right.
“Eat up, motherfuckers,” Rodney shouts.
“So much for brotherhood,” someone says loudly.
“Sorry. I’ll correct,” Rodney grins. “Eat up, my brotherly motherfuckers.”
And we all laugh. And keep laughing well beyond the time the sun sets. The backyard grows louder, my teammates get slightly drunker, and the trash talk gets bolder.
Yet somehow, I feel . . . lighter.
Needed this. Needed them.