16. Little Talks
Chapter 16
Little Talks
Lo
“Y ou’re out early.” Ava smiles as I set down a large tin of Mickey’s best filets and some grilled chicken breasts, knowing I need to grab groceries, but hoping this works for now.
“Riley’s week to close, but I’ll go back over before nine, or I’ll find her passed out on a table somewhere,” I say as I look from her to Kolby, who looks far less bothered than I expected after I heard Ava’s and his conversation.
“Thought Jackson was stepping in,” Ava says.
“He’s busy with the boys and all that.” I shrug.
“You work too much,” she scolds.
“You never stop,” I point out.
I see Kolby flip a page in the folder, and his face goes rigid.
“What is it?” I ask, toeing off my boots.
He doesn’t answer. He looks at Ava. “Cell phone records are public record?”
“Nope, but when the security boys cross-referenced her phone number across the NFL, Caleb Cross from the Outriders popped. Looks like she has made contact with him recently, one conversation is under three minutes, under four, and the rest went to voicemail.
“She’s got a type,” I joke and look to Kolby, who looks angry.
“You good, Kolby?” Ava asks.
He nods. “With all due respect, that phone call doesn’t happen if you can’t promise not to bring out your imaginary fucking spray paint so you can draw and cross lines with him.”
“Whhhaaaat is going on here?” I ask, looking between them.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ava states then adds, “My fucking imaginary spray paint cans only come out for people I give a shit about.”
“Sorry about this, Lo.” He grips the back of my head, pulls me in, and kisses my forehead. “I’m gonna go up and watch some reels.”
“There’s a whole TV right here,” I call to him as he takes the stairs two at a time.
* * *
Ava apologizes profusely for interrupting whatever it was I had planned, insinuating what I actually hadn’t planned at all—Skinner was supposed to be here, or I totally would have. If that were the truth, I would have been pissed. Right now, I’m not angry. I’m concerned.
“Sorry about ruining what would probably have been a really good time.” She hugs me.
“Not sure what’s going on, but I trust you have your reasons,” I whisper.
“Call me if you need anything?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
When I get upstairs, Kolby’s sitting on the edge of my bed, elbows resting on his knees, holding an iPad in one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other.
I stand in the doorway and lean against the frame. “What can I do for you?”
He shakes his head but doesn’t look up, doesn’t say anything for a long minute.
“Cross.” He swallows hard and looks up. “He, uh?—”
“It’s okay to be pissed that she’s?—”
“Lo.” He shakes his head. “Those newspaper articles I left for you to read.” His eyes get red. “His mother … he’s the other boy.”
“Oh, Kolby.” I move to him and pull his head to my chest.
“He hates me, blames me.”
“You saved his life.”
“That will never matter to him, and I could never blame him for that.”
“Surely, he understands that now.”
He looks up, “My football coach back then was my rock. When I was rotting in juvey because Cross was going through his own shit and refused to talk to anyone for a solid week, it was my coach that finally got through to him. After the truth came out, my chance of any foster family wanting me … gone. No one wanted a kid my age, my size, who had been accused of a double homicide, living in their home. I can’t blame them. This comes out, and half the fucking world is going to believe I did it, and I don’t even give a shit about what they may say about me. I give a shit any of it will touch you.”
“I can’t imagine going through that, Kolby.” I bat a tear away. “But what makes you think I feel any different? Good chance I’d go to jail if anyone said a damn thing about any kid who endured that hell.”
“Can’t do that. I just got you.”
Bad time to swoon, but here we are.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You say that now.” He shakes his head.
I take his face and tip it up. “Don’t second-guess my word.”
He sighs. “Okay.”
“Does Deborah know?”
“She thinks I was raised by my uncle, in Ohio. Frank Grimes, a friend of Coach D’s. Was always our story. He died my sophomore year in college. I never told her any different. Never told anyone but you. She used that against me enough, she didn’t get more.”
“I know you’re thinking she knows, and that’s why she reached out to him, but that’s not necessarily true. Didn’t you and he have beef on the field at the last game?”
He crashes his eyes together. “He cornered me, accused me of knowing that my old man had more than a body count of two, and had I told someone back then, his mom wouldn’t have been one of them.” He opens them. “Called me Runaway the whole fucking game. Said I hid from the past like a little bitch.”
“It’s called healing.”
“Talked to Coach D; he said it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“You have to trust in that.”
“What else can I even do, Lo?”
“You remember you saved his life. Remember what the paper said. You are a survivor and a hero.”
“Didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Exactly.”
He leans in and rests his forehead against my chest. “I wanna stay like this. Don’t want to tell my fucking story to anyone but you.”
“You don’t have to, not ever.”
“And what if I don’t have a choice?”
“It may not seem like much, but you have me.”
“Lo,” he whispers. “That’s more than you can possibly imagine, and I will make damn sure I prove how much that means every fucking day.”
I don’t know how long I stand there holding him like that, but it’s long enough to feel him break, and then long enough to feel him rebuild.
When he finally looks up at me, he searches my eyes, looking so deep in them for an answer, one I couldn’t possibly have.
“I love you, Lauren Brooks.”
“I love you , Kolby Grimes.”
He searches my eyes again and asks, “But?”
“What do you mean but ? There is no but. It’s?—”
“I see a question in those beautiful eyes of yours.”
“We’ve got time for that. This whole conversation was supposed to happen after the game.”
“I need to know the one that’s hanging right there in your eyes.”
“It’s so lame,” I admit.
“No question you have about me is lame, Lo. I’ll answer anything.”
“I want to know what your name used to be so I can internet stalk you and find all your awkward phases.”
His lips twitch. “You sure?”
I nod.
“My last name was Johnson. My first name was, well, it was Ryan.”
I gasp, “Shut the hell up.”
“Please don’t ever call me that, especially in bed.”
I laugh out loud, and he smiles so bright I can feel it to my bones.
And then …
Skinner yells, “All right, roomies, get your asses off each other and come down here. We need to go over some fucking rules.”
* * *
After closing up the Brewery, I expected to walk into, at the least, dishes in the sink, but there isn’t one. I ignore my evening list and head straight to bed, trying to be stealthy, but he wakes up.
“Told you to text and I’d come over and walk?—”
“You have a huge game in three sleeps.”
“Tonight is also the first night I’m in your bed and not hiding it.”
“I know.” I smile so big it’s probably good there’s only a tiny amount of light coming from the moon shining through the window.
“Gonna kiss you goodnight.”
And we kiss, slow, unhurried, sweet, and unneedy. And we do it again and again.
He holds my head to his chest, and I listen to his heart beat slow down. It’s like a lullaby I have longed to hear my whole life.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, lips to the top of my head.
“Wondering why you chose Kolby.”
“My uncle was a huge sports fan and told me that if I worked as hard at football as Kolby did at basketball, there would be no stopping me.”
“Makes sense.”
“You as close with your grandfather, Daniel, as you are your mom’s dad?”
“In some ways, closer. I’ve always revered he and Grandma Jane. They have such an endless amount of love for everyone. Dad was placed with him and Grandma Jane when he was young, and they adopted him and five others. They taught them how to handle their emotions.”
“Yeah?”
“Dad’s always said there was no better therapy than doing wood.”
“You think that’s why he took me there?”
“Not sure. Were you pissed?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles but doesn’t say more.
To remove the heaviness caused by all that, I ask, “Remember when you ordered a light lager, and I gave you that nasty sour we were trying to get rid of? When you called me on it, I said?—”
“Maybe you should enunciate with your mouth and not your biceps .”
“I told Riley that you drank it, anyway, because it matched your personality—dry and a little bitter.”
“Not gonna lie, it was an ego boost more than an insult.” He chuckles. “How about that charity event that you were emceeing and said some shit like, up next, number 68—great blocker, questionable attitude.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t a lie.” I laugh then admit, “I was sure you winked at me to get me going and lived in that moment for two months. Then I finally admitted to myself I was delusional.”
“Oh, I winked.” He chuckled. “How about that one trivia night where I got one stupid question wrong, and you told everyone I peaked in college?”
I nudge him. “Your response was well—you peaked in high school.”
“Would apologize for that if you had apologized for calling me a Midwest Meathead during a live Q&A.”
“Sorry?”
“I call bullshit.”
Grinning, I asked, “Did you ever open those conversation hearts we passed out last Valentine’s Day?”
“You mean the package that every heart was stamped ‘emotionally unavailable’ was intentional?”
“Special ordered those damn things.”
“Little bit true,” he admitted.
“I wouldn’t change a thing.”
* * *
I wake up to the smell of bacon, brush my teeth, throw on some sweats, and head down to see Kolby at the stove.
“Morning, Lo,” he says, setting down the spatula and pulling me into a hug … a freaking hug.
“One day, you’ll have to show me how to use the cast iron.”
“’Kay.” I look up at him and, seriously, I think he gets better looking every day, which is probably why I say, “We successfully made it through a night without breaking a rule.”
“Skinner himself broke rule number 7, which was that you weren’t supposed to know about the rules to begin with.” He winks. “So, when we break it, I am not going to beat myself up about it.”
From above us, I hear, “Break it up, roomies. We got to jet.”
“You just made breakfast,” I say.
“Made it for you.” He kisses my forehead. “See you later?”
“Yeah, later.”
Skinner pops a kiss to my cheek. “You’ll see me, too.”
“Can’t wait, roomie.” I give him a thumbs-up.
As they walk out the door, I hear Kolby growl, “Kiss her again, and all you’ll see is dirt.”
Skinner throws his head back and laughs loud enough to wake the entire valley.
As I’m eating bacon and scrambled egg whites, I get a text.
#68:
Sending screenshots so you know the schedule. See you later, Lo.
Coach Cox:
FRIDAY – FAST & CLEAN.
Helmets only. Tempo day.
Scripted drives. No wasted motion.
First steps matter more than pancakes.
If you can’t move like a unit, you don’t play like one.
Extra 10 mins on cadence—silent count prep.
Coach Cox:
SATURDAY – STAY SHARP, STAY LIGHT.
Walkthrough in team room at 9. Game script only.
We travel at noon. Gear packed. No excuses.
Hydrate like it’s your job. Because it is.
Once we land: stretch, meal, bed. No late-night BS
Coach Cox :
GAME DAY
Breakfast window 7:30–8:15.
Tape + treatment after.
Kickoff at 3:05.
You are the front line of this war. Win the point of attack, and the whole team eats.