Chapter 21
Fin
Dijon, Troy, and Treshawn convinced me to meet them at the Vine for an after-game beer.
They called it both a celebration and a tribute to Cody.
After showering and answering questions at the press briefing, I sent Vee a text message, letting her know I would be at the Vine bar for a short time and upstairs soon.
She replied.
“I’LL BE HOME.”
Home.
It didn’t happen overnight. Nevertheless, I was starting to think of Vee’s place as home.
I’d only stopped by my apartment to move more clothes and personal items to her condo.
My thoughts went back to week four of the season, the night I met some of the guys here at the Vine bar after the game.
It was the night Vee sent me a text message, the night we decided to put our past behind us and move forward.
Since that evening, I could count the number of nights I spent in my own apartment on one hand.
Hell, I’d spent more nights in hotel rooms than in my apartment.
I didn’t want to pressure Vee, but honestly, holding on to my apartment seemed unnecessary. Everything there was flat and fake—all rented. Vee’s place was the opposite of fake. In the last two months, her condo felt more like a real home than I’d experienced in years.
Without a doubt, the Vine was where my heart called home.
Dijon waved as I stepped through the arch into the bar.
He and Treshawn were sitting at a high-top table.
Hometown amber jerseys and shirts filled the establishment as the 4:30 NFL games played on muted televisions high above the patrons.
As we were last time, the players at our table were dressed in casual business attire.
I took the seat next to Treshawn, facing the entrance and hallway. It was an old habit. However, now I wasn’t watching for Vee to facilitate a chance meeting. I knew exactly where I’d find her. “Troy coming?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Dijon said. “Pratt called him in his office as we were leaving. He said he’d catch up.”
“Pratt.” I pressed my lips together. “Troy’s pissed about today. And honestly, I don’t blame him.”
“The coaches,” Dijon said, “are looking at the long game. Imagine if it was Troy out there who got sacked.”
A waitress approached our table. “What can I get you?”
We all ordered.
After she walked away, I shook my head. “If it had been Troy, he’d be fine. The hit was clean. Cody didn’t have his back foot planted. He does that…shuffling as he reads his progressions.”
The other two men nodded.
“I talked with Cody after the game,” I said. “He believes the sack should have been called for roughing the passer. He’s pissed there wasn’t a call or that Tilson didn’t throw a flag.”
Our waitress arrived with three tall beer flutes and handed each of us our selected ale. “Will you be eating today? I can get you menus.”
“We’re still waiting for someone,” Treshawn said.
She smiled and promised to check back.
Treshawn elbowed me. “Damn, she’s hot and sending you some vibes.”
I scoffed. “I didn’t notice.”
Dijon laughed. “Fin here has it bad for Ms. Maeve. She’s blinded him to all the other women in the world.”
Lifting my glass, I nodded. “Guilty as charged.”
The other two lifted their glasses and had a drink. Troy came around the arch at the entry and made his way to our table.
“I can’t believe you talked Fin into joining us,” Troy said as he sat in the last chair.
“I’m here for one beer. Celebration of our win and tribute to Cody.”
Troy pressed his lips together. “He’s out for the season. Could be longer for him to get range of motion back.”
“Fuck,” we growled in unison.
Troy’s dark stare met mine. “That means it’s you and me. They’ll probably pull Josh Jackson up from the practice squad.”
“He doesn’t know our plays.”
Troy lifted a brow. “Sounds like we have our work cut out for us.”
“There’s no set rule,” I said, “requiring a team to list three active QBs.”
“Yeah,” Dijon said, “the emergency third quarterback rule allows a designated third QB to dress on game day.”
“What the hell good is that?” Troy asked. “If he doesn’t know our plays, he’s just window dressing.” He looked across the table at me. “Sounds like we need to stay healthy.”
“What did Coach Pratt want?” Treshawn asked.
Our waitress returned. This time I looked at her.
Curly dark hair, light-blue eyes, and big boobs.
I had flashbacks of the women I dated at Tennessee.
She could have been one of them. I honestly couldn’t remember names.
Their purpose was to get one woman out of my head.
Considering that I made my way back to that one woman, those other women never accomplished my goal.
The waitress stood by my side. “I see your friend has joined you.” She smiled extra big. “What can I get for you?”
“Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Ale,” Troy said.
“What about you?” she asked, looking straight at me.
“I’m good, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? That’s my granny.” She shimmied her shoulders. “I’m Kelly.” She turned her attention to the rest of the table. “Anyone ready for a second round?”
“All good,” Dijon said. Once she was gone, he looked at me. “Tell me you didn’t catch her vibe this time.”
“I’m a better passer than catcher. If I caught it, I threw it out of bounds.”
Laughter filled the air.
“You’re hopeless, man,” Treshawn said. Looking at Troy, he repeated, “Coach Pratt?”
“He wanted to talk about next week’s Jaguar game.” He shrugged. “The Jags are a divisional opponent. They’ve got a winning record. Said if we get up by enough, they’re going to take me out. He wanted me to know it wasn’t because they’re not happy with me.”
“Of course it’s not,” I said. “You’re going to take us to the Super Bowl. They’re keeping you healthy.”
The waitress returned with Troy’s ale. I kept my gaze focused on my teammate.
Troy tipped his glass toward me. “To both of us staying healthy. We’re all going to be wearing rings.”
I liked the sound of that. The farthest one of my teams ever made it in my thirteen-year career was the conference championship. A ring was a lofty goal.
As the table started talking about a second round, I laid a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “I’m out. Thanks for the invite.”
“You sure you can drive home?” Dijon asked with an inquisitive arch of his eyebrow.
“No driving involved,” I said with a smirk. “See you tomorrow at films.”
I would willingly take their ribbing if it meant I was on my way to Vee.
Making my way through the growing crowd of patrons, I heard my name. Turning, I spotted the source—Preston Clark.
Tipping my chin toward the arch, I kept walking.
Clark followed.
We walked around the corner toward the resident concierge. Ethan was manning the desk.
“Clark,” I acknowledged. From a distance, Preston Clark appeared his usual corncob-up-the-ass prick, but up close, there was something off. There was perspiration on his forehead. “What are you doing here?”
His dilated pupils stared back at me, making his brown eyes appear black. “Looking for you.”
“And you thought I’d be hanging out at the bar?”
“I waited for you in the garage and followed you.”
My eyebrows arched. “That’s creepy as fuck.”
He didn’t disagree as he looked around the entry. “I’m leaving Lexington and heading back to Bowling Green.”
“And you thought I needed to know?”
Clark shook his head in jerky movements. “No. Fuck. I needed to know that you told Vee what I told you?”
“I did my own research.”
He turned right and left. “It’s been over a month.”
“I wanted clarity.”
“Fuck, fine. What did your research find?”
I shrugged. “Nothing to refute the story you told me. And nothing to validate it, either.”
Clark clenched his jaw. “It’s not a story, not as in fictional. What I told you is the truth, and Vee needs to know. There’s infighting in the Marsh-Hubbard world. Bre Stanton was an outlier.”
“Who gave Reid the Benadryl?”
“The police say it was Bre.”
I nodded.
“Listen,” Clark said, “I’m walking away from this, but Vee can’t. She should. I know she won’t. She needs to have her eyes and ears open.” His nostrils flared. “Tell her.”