40. Jake
JAKE
Ididn’t sleep.
Just lay there all night, staring into the dark and thinking about every sign I didn’t want to see.
I reach over and pick up my phone again, swearing this is the last time I’m going to check.
Nothing.
No missed call.
No text.
No miracle.
Just my own reflection in the black glass, looking like a man who ought to know better than to keep checking for something that isn’t coming.
I’m not reaching out to her. She made her choice. I’m not chasing her. I’m not talking her into something she can’t choose on her own.
I want love without having to beg for it.
I laid myself all the way open once. Gave her the whole truth of me and stood there while she handed it back.
I’m not doing that again.
But I can do the one thing I know how to do when the hurt gets bad enough that I need something louder than it.
The same thing I did after she left the first time.
I unlock my phone, scroll to the number, and hit call. It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Good morning, Jake. What can I do for you?”
I lean forward, forearms on my knees. “Morning,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Is the offer still available?”
There’s a pause long enough to tell me he didn’t expect me to call back.
“We’ve got some calls out,” he says, “but you’re our first choice, Jake.”
Some of the tension leaves my shoulders.
Through the windows, the bay sits quiet and blue-gray in the morning light. The kind of view that usually settles me.
Not today.
“I can be there later today,” I say. “Ready to go.”
“I’ll let Coach and the team know.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Hey, Jake.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Welcome home.”
The call ends.
I sit there with the phone still in my hand after he hangs up, hoping if I give it one more second, the screen will light up with her name. A call. A text. Anything at all that tells me to stop. To think again. To stay.
It doesn’t.
All I hear is Hank snoring and a gull outside raising hell over something that probably doesn’t matter.
I toss the phone onto the cushion beside me.
Tampa.
Back to heat rising off pavement. Film study until midnight. Playbooks spread across meeting tables. Cannons firing in Raymond James.
Back to noise loud enough to drown some things out.
Maybe not all of them.
But enough.
I pick up my phone again and tap open THE HUDDLE group chat.
Wayne sent a gif sometime during the night. I ignore it.
I’ll see you guys this afternoon.
Ryan: For a visit or this official?
Official. Just hung up with the GM.
Wayne: Sorry Jake really
That one hits harder than I expect.
Because Wayne only drops the act when something matters.
Thanks, man. Me too.
I set the phone back down and finally take a drink of the coffee Walt or someone left at my door this morning. It’s gone lukewarm, but I drink it anyway because it’s here and because doing something with my hands feels better than doing nothing.
When I lean over to put the cup on the end table, Walt’s thick black handwriting stares back at me.
NOT EVERYTHING LOST IS GONE
“Bullshit.”
Hank lifts his head off my thigh and squints up at me, tongue hanging off to one side, bottom teeth showing.
“What’d you think about joining the Bucs Krewe?”
He looks at me like he’s willing to hear more if I’ve got it. Then he sighs and drops his head back into my lap.
I rub the loose rolls of skin at the back of his neck, slow and absentminded.
I unlock my phone again.
Need to see you ASAP.
Kevin: On my way.
I stare at the name assigned to her contact.
Kevin.
Kevin Costner. The Bodyguard.
I never changed it.
This decision affects Bethany too. Going back means she either comes with me and steps back into a life she chose to leave, or she stays here and keeps The Knuckle running until I figure out what the hell my life looks like now.
Neither one is small.
A few minutes later, the screen door slams. Then her shoes hit the floor.
“Hey.”
“You got here fast,” I say as she walks into the living room.
“You need me. I’m here.”
That’s Bethany. No drama. No speech. Just there.
“I do need you.” I turn the coffee cup so I don’t have to keep looking at Walt’s message. “And I need an answer fast, which I know isn’t fair. So I’m sorry for that.”
She comes farther in, takes one look at my face, and sits. “What’s up?”
“I was offered the QB spot with the Bucs. I turned it down a few days ago, but now…” I let the sentence die there.
“Are you thinking about going back because you want to?”
I look past her to the water. “I never stopped thinking about a return. You know that.”
“I do.”
“But you also know why I couldn’t.”
Hank gets up with a grunt, lumbers over, and leans against her. She scratches his chest automatically, then pats her thigh until he drops his heavy head into her lap.
“Your parents,” she says.
“I’ll never step on a field again and not think about them. Never look at the stands and not think about them.” I drag a hand over my jaw. “But football got me through her leaving the first time. Maybe it gets me through it again.”
Bethany keeps rubbing Hank’s chest. Doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t soften it. Just stays in it with me.
After a minute she says, “You know I’ll support you no matter what you do, Jake.”
I meet her eyes. “I accepted the offer this morning.”
She waits.
“This decision affects you. Do you want to come back to Tampa with me or stay in Blue Crab Bay?”
“I always told you I’d go where you needed me.”
“I know.”
“So what do you need?”
“I need it to be your choice. And I need to know the choice doesn’t make you miserable.”
She looks down at Hank, scratching the deep fold between his eyes. He groans like he’s at a spa. Then she looks back up at me.
“I’d go back into security for you. For you and only you. Everybody else can find somebody else. And it’ll have to be private, not the organization this time, because I won’t go back to the agency. My brothers can carry that family torch. I’m done proving things to people.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That is a yes.”
I exhale. “I’m leaving this afternoon.”
“I’ll need some time to bring Jason up to speed on Knuckle operations, but I can be there tomorrow night.”
“That works.”
We both sit there for a second, letting this soak in.
Then I hold out my fist.
She bumps it.
“Welcome back, Kevin.”
She flips me off. “Shut up, Whitney.”
That gets a laugh out of me. Not a big one but enough to remind me I still can.
By early afternoon, I’ve got one small duffel packed and Hank’s things spread across the couch. He sits in the middle of it all, supervising what goes in his bag.
“Hank, we’re not taking every bandana you own.”
He stomps one paw and snorts. “We don’t have time for temper tantrums. Pick five.”
He flops onto his side with a grunt. “Don’t be so dramatic. We’ll get you more down there.”
I reach for one of the toys near his paw, and he throws his body over it like he’s protecting a treasure. His eyes shift from the toy under his paw to my hand.
“The number of bones and toys you have is going to be a discussion for another day.”
At that, he jumps down, waddles past me, and not so subtly does a drive-by.
“Real mature.”
He doesn’t even look back.
I pack all of the toys he selected, including the treasured lips toy, then zip his duffel and only get it halfway closed.
I leave letters instead of doing goodbyes. I’m not up for pep talks or pity.
One for Maddy, Walt, Miss Hattie, and Willard. There’s even one for Mrs. Kravitz, because she’s going to tell everybody anyway, and I’d rather have one version passed around town than six.
Charlie’s the only one I’ll see. I’ll stop by on my way out.
I clip Hank’s harness on. He does a stubborn little sit until I pick up the leash, and then suddenly he’s ready. “Come on, buddy. We need to get going.”
I sling the toy bag over one shoulder, grab my duffel in the other hand, and stop at the door.
I turn for one last look.
The couch where she sat.
The kitchen where she laughed.
The windows over the bay.
The place my parents built their life inside.
Then I pull the door shut behind me. The screen slams with the same old sound it’s made since I was a kid.
Hank and I head up the dock.
I say goodbye to The Pinch of Tides first, my hand trailing over her side as I pass. Then The Knuckle.
When I cross The Green, Willard’s on his bench, watching the world in that quiet way of his. I lift a hand. He tips his hat.
Miss Hattie isn’t at The Salty Dog. First time I can remember seeing the cart without her attached to it.
Tall Tales is quiet too. Walt’s behind the counter, but I keep walking.
Nobody’s at Lazy Larry’s either. A handmade CLOSED TODAY sign hangs crooked from the patio railing.
When I pass Holey Moley, I can’t bring myself to look at it.
That’s going to take me some time.
I stop by the fire station. Charlie’s on the dock, one foot up on the fire float, a clipboard in his hand and a pen between his teeth. He looks up when he hears us coming.
He takes one look at the duffel bags, then my face.
And knows.
Hank waddles straight toward him like this is a social call. Charlie bends to rub his head, buying me a second I didn’t ask for but need anyway.
“You heading out?” he asks.
“I am.”
He nods once. No surprise on his face. No big reaction. Just that way he has of taking something in.
“Know where you’re headed?”
“Tampa called. I’m filling in for Daniels.”
Charlie scratches Hank behind the ear, then stands. “You want me to spread the word, or you leaving that honor to Kravitz so the elders can build a better story out of it?”
“I left Mrs. Kravitz a letter.”
He chuckles. “Smart.”
I look past him toward the boat bay, then back at him. “I didn’t want to leave without seeing you.”
“I’m glad you did.”
A siren chirps once inside the bay, somebody testing something. Then it goes quiet again.
“You good with this?” he asks.
I let out a breath and look at the water for a second. “I’m not good with why I’m going. But I’m good with going.”
Charlie nods like that makes sense.
“I’ll keep an eye on things while you’re gone.”
He doesn’t say what things because he doesn’t have to. The house. The town. The people.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’d appreciate that.”
That should probably be enough, but neither of us moves.
Finally he says, “Going back doesn’t mean you failed at staying.”
Charlie steps forward and holds out his hand.
I take it.
He pulls me in fast with the other arm, one hard clap between my shoulders, then lets me go.
“I’m a phone call away, brother.”
“Thanks, Charlie. I’ll call you when I land.”
He jerks his chin toward the lot. “Go on, then. You look like hell.”
“Good talk.”
Hank and I are on the footbridge when I look back.
Charlie’s still standing there. Watching me go.
I lift a hand.
He lifts his hand.
When we get to the lot, Bethany’s there in her car, engine running.
I stop short. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow night.”
“I’m not.” She pops the trunk. “I’m also not letting you drive yourself to the airport looking like that.”
“Looking like what?”
“Like a country song.”
I laugh. “I needed that.”
“I know.”
I load the bags into the trunk and open the back door for Hank. He hops in, circles twice, and plants himself on the seat. I lean in and buckle him.
By the time we pull up to the private terminal, the team jet is waiting.
Bright white on the tarmac. The old logo of Bucco Bruce on the tail.
No turning back once I walk onto it.
Bethany puts the car in park and looks at me. “You’re allowed to want football,” she says. “Even now. Even after everything.”
I nod. That’s all I trust myself to do.
She reaches across the console and squeezes the back of my neck, quick and firm. “Go.”
I get out, open the back for Hank, and grab the bags.
The air smells like jet fuel and hot pavement.
Nothing like salt.
Nothing like home.
A staffer meets us at the gate. Another takes the bags. Somebody crouches to say hello to Hank, who accepts the attention like he’s being welcomed to the Hall of Fame.
Inside, the cabin is cool and low-lit. Leather seats. Bottled water. The same kind of place that used to feel normal.
Now it feels like stepping into a life I set down with both hands and didn’t plan on picking back up.
I push up the armrest and hook Hank’s harness to the seat beside mine. He settles quickly, resting his head on my thigh.
The engines start. The plane begins to move.
I look out the window as the runway rolls by faster and faster until there’s not enough ground left to keep us.
Then we’re up.
Blue Crab Bay falls away beneath the wing.
The Point goes small. The Green turns into a pale curve and a patch of color. The docks flatten into thin lines. Everything that feels so big from inside it looks small the second you leave it.
Home.
It’ll always be home.
No matter where I sleep. No matter what jersey I wear. No matter how far I go.
Those people are my family.
But right now I need distance from the memories.
From the empty space she left behind in every room I walk into.
I wake up my phone, open my messages, then tap Ryan’s photo.
Wheels up.
See you in an hour and ten.
Thanks, Ryan.
Always.
Can’t wait to see my dog.
Get your own.
I look down at Hank.
He’s already asleep, face smashed into my leg.
I rest my hand on his back and look out the window one last time.
Blue Crab Bay is already gone.