2. Wildcard Watch Party at Brooks Brewery
Chapter 2
Wildcard Watch Party at Brooks Brewery
Lo
T he damn tap handle’s stuck again.
I mutter a curse, give it the kind of twist that says, “ I dare you to keep misbehaving ,” before I finally get it to pour … Straight foam, naturally. Because nothing in this place ever does what it’s supposed to when it’s busy—not the taps, not my life, and definitely not the six-foot-four, two hundred and forty pound headache currently leaning against the back wall, talking to some of the team and surrounded by the slew of single women who flock here when word spread our playoff bound Knights are having a party to celebrate.
I line up another row of glasses to polish, not because they need it, but because I need something to do that doesn’t involve watching Kolby Grimes get pawed at like he’s the last puppy available at our annual adoption drive.
Back to the mystery of the night: Who the hell spilled the beans that the guys would be here tonight?
Could’ve been anyone, honestly. Maybe Darlene from the Kwiky Fill station let something slip. Wouldn’t be shocking—she’s forgetful as hell. Or maybe that girl by the pool table, the one with the chin mole that looks suspiciously like Marge’s niece from the diner, decided tonight is her chance. Lord knows Marge’s been trying to marry that girl off for years; said she didn’t want her ending up with five cats, four dogs, and a cooter full of cobwebs, like herself. I about lost my mind when she said that. But even funnier than that? It’s Jackson she has been trying to get to ask her niece out. And those words? She said them to him.
Small-town matchmaking? It’s practically a blood sport when someone unrelated stumbles into Blue Valley, an arena of sorts that they didn’t even know they were entering.
Speaking of …
I roll my eyes as Mom and Dad wave from the pub table, watching me like a hawk, no doubt trying to figure out if I’ll be next to couple up. Maybe lose my V-card. Well, Mom knows it’s still unpunched at twenty … something. I hope to hell Dad doesn’t. I mean … ew …
Never mind. I don’t want to know.
I glance back over and narrow my eyes at the group gathered around Kolby. One girl has her hand on his arm like she thinks she’s going home with him tonight. Another laughs way too hard at something he probably said that wasn’t even meant to be funny, because he’s not funny.
Kolby Grimes is a dick. The grumpy-to-nobody’s sunshine kind of guy. The kind of guy who will have a V permanently etched between his brows before he’s thirty from all the scowling he does.
No V tonight, though he doesn’t look interested. But he also doesn’t look miserable, either.
I wipe the bar a little harder than necessary and force myself to keep my head down. Just another night. Just another man who won’t be breaking the Covid curse.
Yep, I blame Covid on the fact I didn’t get to sow my wild oats. My first two years of college, I lived at home. Then, when I finally decided that I would make the move, everything shut down and the thought of even kissing freaked me out.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my cousin, Maggie, sliding onto a barstool, propping her elbows up, and tilting her head like she’s watching a soap opera.
“You look like you’re about two seconds from yeeting a pint glass across the brewery,” she says casually, picking at the edge of a coaster.
“I’m not,” I mutter.
“You are.”
I shoot her a look and slide her a soda. “Can I help you with anything else?”
“Nope. Just here to admire the slow, agonizing unraveling of a woman who insists she’s not into the brick wall in cleats over there.” She sips her soda like it’s tea, eyes twinkling. “And to tell you that the girl in the purple dress definitely just licked her lip at him like he was a chocolate fountain.”
I grit my teeth and focus on the glass in my hand. “He’s a grown man—he can flirt with whoever he wants.”
Maggie leans in, voice low and smug. “Sure. But I don’t want you dying a virgin with a dog, a shelf of mommy porn collecting dust, a wine subscription, and an unlived fantasy about someone who lives ten minutes away.”
I choke. “Jesus Christ.”
She shrugs. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
I decide to play two truths and a lie but not tell her. “I don’t have time for a dog.” Sort of true. “I have a brewery, so I don’t need a wine subscription.” Also truth. “And I am not a virgin.” Big. Fat. Lie.
“Emotionally? You might as well be,” she whispers.
I whip the bar towel at her head. She ducks and keeps right on grinning, smug as hell.
“You’re the worst.”
“I’m your worst,” she sings, sliding off the stool. “Just saying … if you want me to fake a fire drill to clear the girls off him, I’ve got a smoke bomb in my purse.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
Izzy—eighteen, full of sass, and high on her third Mountain Dew—slides onto the empty stool beside Mags, who plants her ass back in it.
Izzy leans her head over the bar like she’s about to deliver a prophecy. “You know the story of the Silo Virgin, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t even?—”
“Oh, I have to. It’s local lore. My aunt used to run the Blue Valley paper, and she wrote a whole piece on it for Halloween back in, like, ’06. I’ve got the PDF.”
Maggie snorts. “Please tell me this is the one about the sexless ghost.”
“The very one! ” Izzy beams. “Okay, so, once upon a time, before Brooks Brewery was cool, there was this girl named Melba?—”
“Why is it always Melba?” I mutter, knowing I’ve heard this before.
“Because she sounds like someone who died waiting for a man who didn’t deserve her,” Izzy shoots back. “Anyway, Melba was hot. Like, weirdly hot for a milkmaid or a hay baler—or whatever they did back then. Long, dark hair, green eyes, stunning figure, tragic dating standards.” She arches a brow. “You get it?”
“She wanted love,” Maggie says, mock-dreamy.
“She wanted a guy with a job ,” Izzy corrects. “But all she got were farm boys and drunken hunters. So, she waited. And waited. Turned down every suitor in town until— gasp —she turned thirty.”
“She withered?” I deadpan.
“Worse.” Izzy’s eyes widen. “She disappeared. Into the silo. And legend says, on quiet winter nights, you can still hear her ghost whispering about her ‘strict standards’ and asking anyone in earshot if they know anyone over six feet with emotional availability and a solid retirement plan.”
Maggie grins. “She still haunts the property?”
“Oh, totally,” Izzy says. “Especially when single women live in the silos. You should be careful, Lo. Melba’s curse is real.”
“She lived in Ry’s old place, the one you two are moving into.” I arch a brow. “Your silo, not mine.”
Izzy rolls her eyes. “Whatever. But admit it; you do spend a lot of time watching a man you refuse to admit you want.”
“I hate you both.”
“I’m just saying”—Izzy hops down and grabs her coat—“maybe you should let the sexy football player in before you become the ghost of Tinder regrets.” She winks and heads out the door.
“Drive carefully,” I call after her.
I glanced back toward Kolby.
He isn’t paying attention to the groupies anymore. He’s not even looking at them.
He’s watching me.
Like he felt the heat I’m trying to stuff down.
Like he knows.
And that’s what pisses me off the most.
Because maybe … he does.
“Subtle, Lo,” Maggie whispers, still perched on her stool, swinging her legs like a kid and smirking like the gremlin she is.
“Don’t you have tables to clear?” I ask, wiping foam off my wrist.
“I’m on break. Also, this? This is better than talking to these fools. You’re flustered.”
I don’t look at her. “I’m not flustered.”
“You never get flustered. Not even when a bachelorette puked in the tasting room sink and Jackson tried to mop it with a cocktail napkin.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re so fine,” she says in that tone that means she’s about to say something deeply unhinged. “Like, about-to-make-a-mistake-with-an-NFL-playa fine.”
My eyes flick toward him—Kolby Grimes. Broody, unsmiling, and built like every poor decision I’ve ever avoided making on purpose. He’s on the move, girls gawking after him, beer forgotten on the ledge behind him.
Maggie lets out a low whistle. “Tell me again how you don’t want to lick tequila off his abs.”
I drop the bar towel. “Jesus, Mags?—”
“Girl, you are staring. Like, full-on, thigh-clenching, want-to-punch-him-or-make-out-with-him staring.”
“Jackson is literally five feet away,” I whisper-hiss.
“Yeah, and he’s slicing citrus like he’s auditioning for Top Chef: Bartender Edition. He doesn’t notice jack shit unless it sets off the fire alarm.”
Sure enough, Jackson’s muttering to himself while hacking a lime into oblivion.
From the kitchen, Mickey shouts, “I swear to God, if one more linebacker asks for more ranch, I’m throwing myself into the deep fryer!”
Welcome to playoff season at Brooks Brewery, one-part local pride, one part Knights team lockdown, all wrapped in low-level panic that something might go sideways. Again.
I risk one more glance toward where Grimes is heading.
Kolby looks at me. Not just looks— sees me. Like he’s been waiting for me to look back.
My breath catches. And I hate that it does.
“Nope,” I say, turning hard on my heel.
“You should go talk to him,” Maggie says from behind me, voice way too gleeful.
“I’d rather walk barefoot across the frozen parking lot.”
“Kinky.”
“I’m ignoring that.”
She hops down, walks around the bar, and grabs a tray, bumping my hip as she passes. “You can’t pretend he’s not into you, Lo. Even if he smells like sweat and unresolved trauma.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and scrub the bar again—harder than necessary.
I’m not flustered. I’m not interested. I’m not staring. Except, maybe, I’m all three. And the worst part? I know how this will play out, just like it did back when he moved here. He’s still separated, not divorced, and even if he was, it was clear after the almost kiss he obviously regrets that he’d go back to looking at me like I have three heads tomorrow.
Move on Lauren Brooks … for real this time.
* * *
The crowd has mellowed into a warm, boozy hum. Laughter now floats in quiet conversation clouds, locals and family taking the players, and anyone who had too much to drink, home.
It felt weird to watch the Wildcard games on the TVs and not be at a game, but tomorrow, watching the National Conference is going to be even more strange, since it’s our league. The good? We’ll know who we’re playing at home next week. I hope it’s not Vegas— fuckers .
Hudson is holding Riley’s coat, helping her slide her arms through the sleeves, all gentle, like he isn’t six-foot-five and built to pancake grown men for a living. She’s glowing—literally glowing, even under the brewery’s low lights—and not just from the baby. The girl is four months pregnant and still the most radiant thing in the room.
“Don’t forget your bag,” I call, pointing to the diaper starter kit Maggie insisted on gifting tonight, like Riley was about to give birth right here.
“God forbid.” Riley laughs, hugging the tote to her chest. “Love you.”
“Love you more,” I say, squeezing her gently before stepping back. “Get some rest. Don’t let Hudson keep you up, watching game tape.”
“I can’t help it if she loves the O-line .” Hudson grins.
“Don’t gas yourself up, Hart,” I mutter. “You’re lucky you’re not the one carrying that baby.”
They wave on their way out, Hudson holding the door, snow flurrying in behind them before it shuts tight. Just like that, another party by the Brooks sister is in the books.
Mickey pops his head out of the kitchen, hair tied up and apron stained like a warzone. “I cleaned the flat top, the fryer’s off, and if any of those boys ask for post-game wings, I will commit an actual felony.”
“You’re a saint,” I say, already halfway to the back bar to do inventory. “Go home before you turn into a headline.”
He salutes me with his spatula and ducks back inside the kitchen before reappearing with his coat and says, “See you tomorrow.”
“Games don’t start until afternoon, Mick—sleep in,” I call to his back.
Maggie finishes stacking chairs on the high-tops, hands on her hips like a woman surveying her kingdom. “You gonna be okay closing alone?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a rhythm.”
She raises an eyebrow. “If your rhythm includes checking on the brooding right guard before you leave, I won’t tell. But I will ask for details tomorrow.”
I glance over and see he’s by the door, talking with Dad, Jackson, and Uncle Lucas.
“Get out of here.” I toss a coaster at her.
She catches it, winks, and pulls her beanie down tight before heading to where her coat hangs then slipping out with Uncle Lucas.
Mom and Dad head over to me. Mom gives me a hug then steps back, looks around, and asks, “Tell me what you need?”
“Honestly, nothing. I’m just going to tinker a bit.”
Dad hugs me. “Unwind time.”
“Always.”
“Dad, Jackson, and I will be here a couple of hours before the game to help set up.”
“Shouldn’t take long. I can handle?—”
“We’ll help.” Dad winks. “Love you, kid. See you tomorrow.”
“Love you both. Go before you’re stuck here.”
When they walk out, I see it’s just Jackson, who has moved to drying glasses.
“I can finish up,” I tell him, flicking off the light over the register.
“You sure?” He dries his hands off, and I toss him the cash bag.
“Yeah. Drop this in your safe?”
He hesitates, ever the older brother. “Text me when you’re in for the night.”
“I always do.”
“Shit’s not the same right now. Lock up behind me.”
“I will. But again, I’m good.”
He walks over, kisses the top of my head, then nods once and heads out, boots thudding heavy across the floor, door thumping closed behind him.
And then it’s just me.
The silence settles in slow, almost like the snowfall has tonight. Everything softer, quieter, still. The barn creaks like it’s exhaling, old wood and long nights.
I move through the space, flipping off lights, resetting stools, making peace with the mess that tomorrow morning me can deal with.
Outside, the world is all white. Snow coming down in thick sheets, blanketing the parking lot, smoothing out the landscape, covering tire tracks, leaving behind no trace that we had a couple hundred people in and out for the last several hours.
I grab my notebook from under the register and flip to the tab that reads:
Closing Check List
Wipe down bar top—check
Drain, clean, and reset tap lines—check
Restock garnish trays—check
Lock liquor cabinet—check
Count tips and cash drawer—check
Update inventory binder—check
Wipe all tables—check
Push in chairs—check
Sweep the floor—check
Get behind the stage speakers—check
Turn off stage lights, leave solar fairy lights on—check
Confirm Mickey signed off on temp logs—check
Clean flat top, fryer, prep station—check
Empty bins, tie off trash, and walk it all the way out—check
Check walk-in, label anything borderline—check
Refill coffee station—check
Mop bathroom floors—check
Restock TP, soap, and extra feminine products—check
Check mirrors—check
Turn OFF open sign—check
Lock, windows, patio gates and doors—check
All Items have been checked, and now … breathe. Just for a second. Long enough to take my hair out of the braid, run my fingers through it, and roll my neck.
Next, I hit the Brooks Brew Fam messenger:
All clear. Brew closed. Goodnight, fam.
I zip my coat, tighten my scarf, brace for the cold so that I can take my time, soak in the cold fresh air I love so much, but not freeze.
That’s when I hear it.
Rrrrrrrrrgh … click.
A truck engine trying to start.
Once. Twice. And then—nothing.
Not afraid, but that doesn’t mean I’m not on my toes.
I slide my hand in my pocket and grip my taser before I look around and see it.
My heart thuds once, hard. I know that truck.
It’s him.
I pull my hood up against the wind and sigh. Boots crunching into fresh snow that reaches halfway up my calves. The flakes come down fat and fast now, blurring the edges of the world. My silo is maybe fifteen yards away, but it feels like a trek through Narnia.
And then I hear it again.
Rrrrrgh. Click. Rrrrrrrgh. Click.
Kolby’s truck is under the spotlight, hood dusted in snow, windshield wipers half-frozen mid-swipe. I should just wave, shout something sarcastic, and keep walking. But no. I trudged over, breath coming out in white puffs, and rap on the driver’s side window with my knuckles. The glass is cold as hell.
Kolby jumps like he wasn’t expecting company then opens the door just a crack. “You lost?”
“You’re the one stuck in the parking lot with a drama queen of a truck.”
He huffs a laugh, rubbing a gloved hand down his jaw. “It’s not stuck. It’s just thinking about starting.”
“Oh, sure. Totally normal. My oven does that, too. Just sits there, contemplating its life choices before preheating.”
He tilts his head. “You always this mouthy at midnight?”
“You always this helpless when it snows?”
A beat passes, his lips twitching up, no doubt against his will. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“A little.”
He leans toward the steering wheel and gives the ignition another crank. Nothing.
“Battery’s dead,” he mutters.
“Sounds like a you problem.”
“I left my charger at the townhouse.”
I arch a brow. “And your phone?”
He holds it up. Dark screen. “Dead.”
I sigh, already regretting what I know I’m about to say. “You can use my landline.”
His eyes flick to mine, skeptical. “You still have a landline?”
“It came with the silo. Like the warped floorboards and the mystery attic noises in the walls.”
He pauses. “You’re inviting me in?”
I cross my arms. “I’m saying your other options are freezing to death or waiting for a ride you can’t call.” I step back.
A long moment passes before he opens the door with a creak, stepping out into the snow. He’s already dusted in it, from the shoulders of his jacket to the brim of his cap.
“You sure this is a good idea?” he asks, falling into step beside me.
“No.” I trudge through the drifts. “But neither is sitting in a dead truck in a blizzard. So, pick your bad decision.”
He chuckles under his breath. “This Lo after dark?”
“Only when I’m cold, tired, and being annoyed.”
“So … always.”
I glance back at him. “Keep talking like that, and you can sleep in the snow.”
He smirks. “You’d miss me.”
I snort. “Me, no. The team, yes.”
But the truth, I might.
As we reach the stairs to my place, I glance over my shoulder. “Try not to trip over your ego on the way in. This isn’t a fancy townhouse.”
He shrugs. “No promises.”