The Check Down (Lacey Bros #1)

1. Griffin

Chapter one

Griffin

T he drive from Holly Holler, Arkansas, to the outskirts of Memphis takes an hour and twelve minutes. But that’s if the traffic cooperates.

I thought I’d left my hometown in plenty of time to make it to the stadium before the Blues’ home game this afternoon, but the brake lights stretched as far as the eye can see in front of me on I-55 indicate that my guesstimation might have been off. I huff an impatient breath and drum my fingers on the steering wheel. It only takes about thirty seconds to give in to the urge to check the Waze app on my phone. Again.

As soon as I swipe it open, my phone vibrates.

My assistant’s name flashes on the dashboard screen, and I release a sigh from deep in my chest.

“Seth,” I say as I inch forward another five feet and then brake. “Please tell me you have some traffic miracle up your sleeve, my man.”

His chuckle crackles over the line. “I feel like I’m in one of those action movies where I’m the expert hacker directing the superhero’s moves so he can outrun the bad guys and save the damsel in distress.”

“The only damsel that will need saving is my ass if I’m late for my first game with my new fucking team.” I scrub a hand down my face. “Just get me there. Please.”

“I’ll do my best, considering I’m 220 miles away at the moment.” For several seconds, he’s silent, the only sound his keys clacking. “Okay,” he finally says as I roll forward a few more feet. “We’re gonna side street and back alley you to the stadium from here.”

When I texted Seth fifteen minutes ago with an SOS, I sent him my location so he could see three steps ahead of me while I attempt to maneuver my SUV through the madness. The exit he wants me to take is as bumper-to-bumper as the highway, but maybe I’ll catch a break somewhere up ahead.

I’m afraid to check the time. It’s been a few miles since I was brave enough to let my eyes wander to those neon green numbers. Had a moment of panic then, so I refuse to look until I’m parked outside the players’ entrance. Generally, the team arrives at least three hours before the pregame warm-ups, but since this is my first game with my new team, I was hoping to be the first to show up.

Another sweep of cars gets through the red light at the end of the exit ramp, but I’m not one of them. A twinge of tightness has me rolling my right shoulder a few times to limber up. I’ve been sitting still for too long.

I’m so goddamn ready to get back to what I do best: playing fucking football.

And hopefully winning some fucking games while we’re at it.

With a deep breath in, I close my eyes. This sport, the sport I love—that I live, eat, sleep, and breathe—was almost ripped away from me a couple of months ago, when the team I’d spent my career with let me go after surgery to repair my torn labrum. I never want to experience the despair I suffered during those dark days after I got the news, when getting out of bed and eating became Herculean tasks. I never want that heavy boulder of anguish in my gut again.

This chance with the Blues? It’s my last shot to leave football on my terms. I can’t let anything distract me or take my focus.

Seth clears his throat. “You should get there in time, Griff. It might cut short the face time you wanted to have with your teammates before warm-ups, but you’ll make it.”

He’s right, but I don’t tell him that. He doesn’t need to know just how much I rely on him. But the truth is that I’d be an absolute shit show without him. Seth’s been my personal assistant for the past four years. Never thought I’d love having a dude for a PA, but after my last female assistant ended up in my bed, my agent, Kevin, insisted that I only have male assistants until I retire.

Kevin can be a douche, but he was right. Vanessa was the third assistant I fucked.

Never said I was a choirboy.

I haven’t earned the nickname Racy Lacey for nothing.

The light turns green, and I follow the line of cars turning left, only to hit the brakes for what feels like the hundredth time since I hit that exit ramp. This street is as backed up as the highway. I can’t hold back a groan.

When Seth snickers through my speakers, I blurt, “Have you asked Daniel to move yet?” He’s been nervous to ask his boyfriend of eight months to make the move from Nashville to Memphis with him.

“No. And thanks for the reminder.”

I bite back a chuckle at his salty response. “Anytime.”

It’s been a whirlwind of a few weeks for Team Lacey. After I’d spent a month hanging with an old teammate, despondent after getting dumped by the Tors and defeated by the lack of offers after my injury, Kevin called with an offer from the Blues. During the season opener, their starting tight end took a brutal hit that tore up his knee and ended his season. The other tight ends on the Blues’ roster are newbies, so the team wanted a veteran to round out the offense.

Enter Griffin Lacey.

Ten-year NFL veteran with two Super Bowls and seven Pro Bowls on my résumé.

My world has revolved around that brown pigskin since the day I first strapped on a helmet at the age of six. My brothers and I played peewee, and the three of us remained devoted to the sport through middle and high school. Tucker and I went on to have successful college years on the gridiron. Before my junior year at Oklahoma, my coach approached me about making the switch from quarterback to tight end, and since I’d do anything to keep playing, I agreed. Ended up thriving in that position and was drafted by the Tennessee Tors in the third round.

It’s been a week since Kevin’s call with the Blues’ offer, and I’m still in disbelief. I drove up from Georgia over the weekend and met with the team on Monday morning. That afternoon, I signed a one-year contract with the Memphis Blues. Started practicing with the team Wednesday and have been doing it every day since. Practice and team meetings and film-watching and play-memorizing. Learning schemes. Trying to find moments to bond with my new teammates and trusting Seth to handle the rest of my business. Answering my mom’s teary phone calls about playing for my hometown team.

Back in Holly Holler, there’s a framed photo on my parents’ mantel of the three of us Lacey boys at the team’s very first home game. In it, Shaw and I are almost the same height—we’re only seventeen months apart, so we’ve been neck and neck on the growth charts all our lives. He’s got one arm slung around my shoulder and the other straining to hold up a chunky baby Tucker. I swear, that kid’s been solid muscle since birth. We’re all sporting Memphis Blues T-shirts on our rounded kid bellies and huge grins on our faces. Shaw’s shows off a gap where he’d pulled a top tooth the night before. He brought those two crumpled dollar bills from the tooth fairy that day and spent them on ice cream at halftime.

A car horn blares somewhere ahead and pulls me from memory lane. As I make the turn Seth has instructed, there’s a sickening crunch, and a sudden jolt propels me forward. My car stops inches from the back bumper of the truck idling in the traffic ahead.

“Fuck.” I glare at the indistinguishable offender in the rearview.

“That did not sound good.”

“Seth,” I grunt. “I gotta call you back. Some asshole just rear-ended me.”

I don’t wait for his response before disconnecting the call and stepping out. The heat rising from the concrete matches the heat rising in my chest as I straighten. I’m about to lay into this dickwad and use the most imaginative curses in my repertoire when a girly sandal slips out of the red sedan. A girly sandal on the end of a shapely leg. I follow that leg up until I find the hem of a ruffly dress. When my brain registers the tiny flowers on the material, my gaze shoots to her face, where big brown Bambi eyes shine with terror.

I wasn’t rear-ended by some pretentious blowhard in a shiny red BMW. No, it was a cute-as-fuck brunette in a sundress. All those curses waiting on deck retract like measuring tape.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.” As she scurries to the front of the car to check out the damage, I check her out.

She’s on the tall side, but she’s still several inches shorter than my six-five. Her thick, dark brown hair is slicked back into a neat ponytail. Shit, I can’t let my thoughts delve where they’d like to about that . Her flawless ivory skin lacks the golden tan so many Southern girls sport, like she spends most of her time indoors. A quick check of her left hand reveals an empty ring finger. As she bends over to check her bumper, the hem of her dress inches up and exposes more of her perfect legs. And I’m a red-blooded American male who hasn’t been laid in several months, so when she straightens, there’s no way I can’t check out her rack. Her breasts are full and round and…heaving. Heaving because she looks like she’s seconds away from a panic attack.

“Oh, God, sir, I’m so very sorry.” She turns to me, knees shaking. I can’t even catalog the details of her face because all my attention is drawn to her full bottom lip as it wobbles.

Shit . Hysterical females and I don’t mix.

I raise my hands in an attempt to calm her, but it’s futile.

She lets out a squeak and takes a single step closer. “Look at you. You must be heading somewhere important, dressed like that.” She waves at my light-blue dress shirt and bespoke navy pants. Pants that cling to my skin the longer we stand out in this oppressive heat.

She’s pacing when her last statement registers. She doesn’t know who I am. I’m not an egomaniac. I don’t expect every human I meet to recognize me, but it’s rare when one doesn’t. Rare and refreshing.

An angry honk blares from several cars behind us, and the brunette jerks to a stop. Her wide gaze slowly meets mine, and when her Bambi eyes fill with tears again and that bottom lip really starts to tremble, I’m hit with an overpowering need to pull her into my arms.

What the actual fuck? I choke that sensation down. I should be stressed. Frustrated. Pretty sure Trixie and Mom are the only females I’ve ever had the urge to comfort like that.

I clench my fists before sliding them into my pockets and finally finding my voice. “Are you hurt?”

“Me?” A wrinkle forms between her dark brows, and she looks over one shoulder, then the other, like she expects to find another soul with us on this sidewalk. With a sniffle, she turns back to face me. “No, I’m fine. Oh God, are you hurt?” More tears line her eyes as she scans me from head to toe.

Her perusal gives me another chance to study her. Thick dark lashes frame her soulful brown eyes. A straight nose with a slight upturn at its tip. Full rosy-pink lips. Her oval-shaped face is mostly free of makeup. She’s a natural beauty.

Exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need.

A quick check of my watch has my stomach sinking. “Uh, listen. I know it’s against standard fender-bender protocol, but I really have to head out.”

“W-wait. No. The police have to file a report.” Brunette beauty wrings her hands and resumes pacing. “Oh God, I need to sit down.”

She stops and smooths the back of her dress, eyes on the ground beneath her, like she’s going to plop herself down on the scorching concrete. Before she lowers herself all the way, I grasp her elbow and haul her up. Pull her closer to me.

Catch a whiff of something floral and sweet.

“You’re shaking. Are you sure you aren’t hurt?” I try not to fixate on the sensation of her skin in my rough palm. I lead her to my SUV, open the back door, and move the suit jacket draped across the seat.

“Here. Sit.” She obeys my soft command and sits sideways on the leather bench.

“You-you’re being so nice to me. I hit your car, and you’re being so kind. I feel terrible. I’m so, so sorry. And you’re going to be late for whatever has you dressed up like this, and oh, God, I’m so sorry.” Her chest is heaving again as the words tumble out of her.

My own chest tightens in concern. “Hey, take a breath.”

She looks up at me, and I can’t fight the urge any longer. Taking her hands in mine, I use my thumbs to rub soothing circles on the inside of her wrists.

I’ll worry about where the fuck this urge to comfort her came from later. Right now, I focus on calming her, evening out her breathing.

Brows furrowed, she studies the way our hands are joined. “What’s your name?”

“Griffin.”

“Griffin,” she repeats, and goddamn, do I like the way it flows from her lips like honey.

“And you are…”

She locks eyes with me and swallows thickly. “Brynn.”

Brynn.

“It means hill.”

Confused, I tilt my head and frown.

“My name,” she explains. “Welsh origin. It’s derived from the Welsh word for hill .” She pulls her hands from mine and twists the ruffles on her dress absentmindedly. “My parents are nature enthusiasts, of a sort. Not that you need to know that.” One side of her mouth lifts, along with one shoulder.

Damn, I’d pay top dollar to turn that half smile into a full one.

I clear my throat. As much as I’d love to spend more time with the beautiful distraction in front of me, duty calls.

I’m pulling my phone from my pocket, ready to hand it over to get her number when she face-palms and mumbles, “The car. Jack is going to be livid about his damn car.”

Hold up. There’s a Jack ?

She’s once again twisting the ruffles of her dress. “Jack. My boyfriend. It’s his car.” She rolls her eyes. “He loves that damn car. I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

My chest tightens at this new information. Well, shit. There’s a Jack.

Lucky bastard.

That’s it, then. She’s taken.

It’s just as well. Must be the universe’s way of keeping me focused on what’s most important right now: getting back on the turf.

One more glance at my watch spurs me into action. I need to get her number, but I’ll send it on to Seth so he can handle all the insurance and repair shit. Once I do that, I’ll delete her contact information from my phone and be done with Brynn the brunette beauty.

“Brynn.”

She bites the inside of her cheek and looks up at me.

“I really do have somewhere to be. It looks like your car took the brunt of the damage.”

She rolls her lips and blinks like she’s fighting more tears.

“Hey,” I say, unable to resist trying to soothe her. “That’s what insurance is for.” Phone held out, I nod at it. “Put your contact in here, and my assistant will handle all the details.”

She takes in a deep breath and scrutinizes me, her brow pinched, like she wants to argue with me. But after a deep sigh that makes her shoulders slump, she takes the device and starts typing.

While she frowns down at it, I step back from my vehicle and survey the street around us. Traffic has eased up a bit, but we’re still getting angry honks and raised middle fingers from drivers who are forced to swerve around us.

When she hands my phone to me, I read her full name: Brynn Nelson.

I swipe open my camera app and snap a few pictures of the damage to both vehicles. There’s a scratch and a small dent on the bumper of my new Cayenne. Correction: Seth’s new Cayenne. I promised it would be his when he made the move to Memphis. Both of my vehicles are at the farm.

Jack’s car isn’t so lucky. The plastic cover of one headlight is splintered, and the hood is slightly crunched in. Still, it’s drivable.

I return to Brynn, who is still sitting in my back seat. She’s hunched over, rubbing her sleeveless arms like she’s warding off a chill, even as a heat haze rises from the ground around us.

“I’ll forward these pictures to you. For your insurance.”

She sits up and eyes the hand I’ve extended to help her out of the car. “W-wait, we can’t leave until the police make a report. Insurance might deny coverage if we do. ”

Without a word, I wriggle my fingers.

Her eyes dart from my hand to my eyes and back again. After a beat, she huffs a breath and accepts my silent offer.

The moment her hand is in mine, I swear an electric jolt races through me. It’s so unexpected and potent, my knees almost buckle.

But she’s Jack’s, whoever the hell he is. So I shake off the sensation. As I walk her to her car, I resist the urge to guide her with a hand to the small of her back. “If insurance has an issue with it,” I tell her, “I’ll take care of it.”

She jerks to a stop, her hand slipping from mine, and she rounds on me. “You’ll take care of it? What does that mean?” That little wrinkle forms between her brows again as she stares me down. It’s so fucking adorable, I twist my lips to quell a smile.

“It means I’ll handle it. Pay for the damages or whatever.” I wave a hand.

She tracks the gesture, her frown deepening. “But it wasn’t your fault. I did this. I’m to blame. How can you be so flippant about it? Why would you offer to pay for something you didn’t do?”

I lift a shoulder and let it fall lazily. “Because I can.”

Eyes narrowed, she crosses her arms, and it takes every ounce of self-control I possess to keep myself from admiring the way this position pushes her tits up.

“Because you can? What kind of answer is that? I can’t have a random stranger, whose car I hit , by the way, paying to fix Jack’s car.”

“Sure you can.” I mimic her stance, crossing my arms. The movement causes my shirt to pull tight over my shoulders, and the stretch of cotton across my sweaty back reminds me it’s time to wrap up this encounter. As she scans the street around us, like the hustle and bustle of Memphis can provide her with answers, I lose the battle I’ve been waging for the past few moments.

I take a peek. And I am not disappointed .

They’re high and perfect, and she’s showing the barest hint of cleavage. The view is so tantalizing, my mouth fucking waters.

See, definitely not a choirboy.

When I wrest my gaze back to hers, my face flames. She’s caught me. Her eyes are wide and locked on me, and a pink hue flushes her ivory skin. Still, I own that shit and give her a sheepish smile in return.

The same smile that has gotten me out of countless scrapes with Donna Lacey.

What the fuck, right? I’ll never see this woman again.

Loosening her arms, she straightens and juts her chin, her brown ponytail swinging with the movement. “Who are you exactly?”

A niggle of dread seeps through me at the question. She might not recognize my face, but will she know my name? So far, I’ve reveled in her ignorance of my celebrity. But I’m shocked that a passerby hasn’t screeched to a halt in the middle of the street and really fucked up traffic to demand a selfie or an autograph. Though I suppose Memphis is pretty different from Nashville. Maybe while I’m here, I won’t be subjected to the scrutiny and pressure and hero-worship I’ve suffered my whole career.

God, the thought almost knocks the breath right out of me.

This last chance I’ve been given means my sole focus must be football. Not endorsements or appearances or parties. Or women.

With that in mind, I quash the sliver of disappointment that’s nicked me at the idea that I’ll never see her again. Hand extended for a shake, I answer her question. “Griffin Lacey. It’s nice to meet you, Brynn Nelson.”

She takes my hand before my words register. I watch her beautiful face as she works out my identity. Her eyes widen when it hits her, and I give her a wide grin before striding back to my SUV.

As I pull back into the crowded Memphis traffic, I allow myself one final glance in the rearview .

Brynn stands motionless on the blistering concrete, mouth agape and one hand over her heart like she’s willing it to slow.

I know the feeling well. My heart was galloping like a thoroughbred the entire time I was in her proximity.

But she’s Jack’s. And I have a comeback to make.