2. Griffin
Chapter two
Griffin
“ T ough game, Lacey.”
I lift my heavy head and regard the young player who gives me a sympathetic smile. I’ve got a good ten years on Devon Greenway, but I sure as hell didn’t provide him with a stellar example of our shared position out there on that field today.
My first game with my new team was absolute shit. I dropped three passes and fumbled on third and goal in the fourth quarter. The media is going to have a field day. I can see the headline now: Rusty Lacey fumbles in Blues debut .
I muster a brisk nod for Devon. That’s all I’ve got left in me. But he takes the bench next to me and carries on as if we didn’t lose an important conference game minutes ago.
“What’d you think of their coverage adjustments after the half?” He swivels wide, curious eyes my way as he hunches over to unlace his cleats. He’s smart to ask; we’ll face this opponent again later in the season. Though I’ve been a piss-poor mentor for the kid today, he’s eager to learn all he can, and he soaks up every tidbit I share like a sponge. His hunger for game knowledge is apparent in everything I’ve witnessed of him this past week.
I like him immensely. Have since the moment I met him, and I hope I can teach him a thing or two .
Despite his chill demeanor, the mood in the Blues locker room is somber. Coach Mundy gave us the old “keep your chins up, boys” speech a few minutes ago, and now we’re dragging our feet, going through the motions of getting showered and dressed.
The media awaits.
Instead of offering Devon insight into our opponent’s defensive strategies, I give him a compliment. “That catch you made in the third on second down was fire.” I’m not blowing smoke. The kid has skills.
He beams, his smile wide. “I played wide receiver all through high school and college. I can be light on my feet when I need to be.”
I chuckle. Tight ends are not known for being light-footed.
“Wouldn’t have had to go all ballerina tippy-toes if I had your height, though.” He stands and tugs his jersey over his head, then gets to work on the rest of his gear.
“Ballerina tippy-toes, huh? Think my little sister had that doll when she was younger.”
Devon and I twist at the voice. Quarterback Beau Dempsey grins at us as he dodges guys in every state of undress on his way to his locker.
“Sister? She single?” Devon jokes.
Beau gives him a good-natured eye roll. “She’d eat your lunch, Greenway.”
Devon wraps a towel around his naked lower half. He turns on the charm as he says, “I’d love to be on her menu.”
Beau snaps a rolled towel at him on his way to the showers, but he dodges it and cackles, the sound rising above the locker room din.
Confusion swirls in my gut. These guys are surprisingly upbeat after a tough loss.
I open my mouth, ready to share that thought with Beau, but he speaks first .
“Don’t beat yourself up too much about today,” he says as he rubs a tanned hand through his sweat-soaked hair, the dampness making it appear darker than its usual sandy-brown shade. “You’ve been in the league long enough to know that bad days are inevitable. It’s how you handle the bad days that matters.”
I’ve only spent a handful of hours around Beau Dempsey this week, but I could tell immediately that he embodies the C patched on his jersey. The four gold stars beneath the white letter are further evidence of his grit and dedication. The guy’s only four years into his career, and he’s been captain since the beginning.
He jerks his jersey up over his head and joins me on the bench. “We’ll find our rhythm, old man,” he jokes. He busies himself with removing his pads and the athletic tape on various body parts, but his tone turns serious as he asks, “How’s the shoulder?”
“Feels good. My mistakes today were mental; the shoulder had nothing to do with it,” I assure him.
With a nod, he stands and wraps a towel around his waist. “I’m glad you’re here, Lacey. Let’s hang out sometime. Outside of all this.” He lifts his chin, gesturing to the now almost-empty locker room. “And don’t let that room,” he tilts his head to the exit, “get to you today, either. Give ’em that Racy Lacey charm, and they’ll forget all about the drops.”
There’s no way those vultures won’t mention the drops. But I give Mr. All-American QB a confident nod that belies the heaviness in my limbs.
After my turn in the media room, which is somehow as brutal and not as bad as I expected, I step into the hall, ready to get out of here, and discover my new head coach leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his khaki pants.
Bobby Mundy has been the Blues’ head coach for the past ten seasons. He’s well-respected in the league, and from what I’ve heard over the years—as well as what I’ve witnessed this past week—he runs a fair and positive ship. Reminds me a lot of the former teammate I stayed with in Georgia. He builds up the boys on his team at the local high school rather than pointing out every damn mistake.
Night and day from my previous head coach.
Coach Mundy extends his hand as I approach. He’s gotta be close to my parents’ age, but the man doesn’t look a day over fifty.
“Just met your family.” He gives me a warm smile that stretches his silvery-blond mustache wide. “Good folks. Mighty proud of you.”
There’s a pinch in my chest at the thought of my family. He’s right. They’re my biggest supporters. “Yes, sir.”
“Tried to recruit your brother. The fighter. That kid’s built.”
I shake my head, but there’s no stopping the smile that spreads across my face at the mention of Tucker. “He’s pretty busy these days. Just opened up his own gym, and he’s training a few kids who want to follow in his footsteps.”
“Yeah, he mentioned that.” He straightens and rubs the back of his neck. “Listen. Lacey.” He huffs a breath. “You’re a hell of a talent, and all the talk about you being too old and washed up is hogwash.”
I roll my lips to hide the smile that threatens to escape. Hogwash is one of Fred Lacey’s favorite words. Fixating on this similarity with my dad is damn helpful with keeping me from dwelling on the rest of his words for too long.
Old and washed up.
If Coach notices, he doesn’t let on. “I know days like today won’t become a habit for you. Shake it off, and we’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”
Shoulders heavy, despite all the pep talks, I dip my chin. “Yes, sir.”
He narrows his eyes, considers me for a beat, then slaps my bicep and starts back toward the coaches’ offices .
I make it five steps in the opposite direction before he calls my name. “We do things kinda different round here,” Coach Mundy says, hands on hips, his voice echoing in the stark hallway. “They tell you about the event on Tuesday night?”
“My assistant mentioned something about it.”
“Season-ticket holders have been integral to keeping our team in this city. Memphis is a small market, and there’s been talk here and there for a long time about relocating to a more populated city.”
I nod. The rumors pop up every few years, especially after sub-five-hundred seasons.
“The organization holds this event every year. It gives some of those diehard fans a chance to rub elbows with the team. Gives us the opportunity to thank them for their dedication.” He heaves a breath. “It’s asking a lot of you guys to give up one of your off nights, but it’s tradition.”
“I’ll be there, sir.”
His whiskers twitch as he smiles. “Good man. I’ll let you get to your folks, then.”
I pass a few team personnel and players on my way to the family zone, and before I even round the corner, I hear them.
Stopping in the corridor, I give myself a moment to breathe before I approach them. Strains of my mom and dad’s amiable bickering fill the air of the quiet hallway, with Aunt Dottie’s opinions sprinkled in. I swallow the lump in my throat and blink back the rogue tears that threaten to spill.
My family is here , and they got to see our last name on a Blues uniform today.
What a fucking privilege.
That thought strengthens my resolve to give all I’ve got to this season. It might be my last year to play, and if that’s the case, then I want to go out on top.
Coach is right. I’m leagues better than today’s performance .
I don’t want to let him down, or the team. But what really paralyzes me, makes my gut feel like granite, is the thought of letting down the people waiting around the corner.
After another deep breath, I steel myself, push my shoulders back, and round the cinder block wall.
It takes them a second to notice me, but when they do, Mom’s voice shrills above the rest.
“ There’s my baby boy.”
“Mom, he’s thirty-four years old,” Shaw grunts.
“Oh, pooh,” she waves him off. “He’s still my baby. You’re all still my babies.”
I step up close and wrap her in my arms. “Hey, Mom.”
After a tight squeeze, she pulls back, eyes shining with tears, and palms my scruff. “So proud of you, Griff.” The rest of my people circle up and form a cocoon around me, like they can protect me from the shit show of the game they witnessed.
Always a man of few words, Dad gives my head an affectionate rub. “Tough game, son,” he murmurs. Then he steps back to let Tucker close in.
He’s my little brother in age and height only. Though he stands a couple of inches shorter than me, he almost lifts my feet off the concrete when he hugs me, the ferocity of it forcing an oof from my lungs.
“Damn, seeing you in those blues today made me fucking emotional, bro.”
“He wept like a damn baby.” Shaw’s deep voice cuts in.
Tucker and I turn in unison to face our older brother. With a smirk, he shoos Tucker out of my arms, then leans in to give me a perfunctory bro hug—the pull-in with one hand and a smack on my shoulder blade is a Shaw specialty.
He’s the least emotional of us Lacey boys. Since we were kids, I’ve only witnessed him lose his shit once.
Hope I never see it again. It was brutal .
No, these days, Shaw operates at a low simmer that makes most folks steer clear.
“You catch a case of the dropsy down in Georgia?” He regards me with narrowed eyes. They’re bluer than the gunmetal hue Tucker and I share with Mom. He’s got Dad’s eyes, a piercing, clear blue the color of the Caribbean.
“Shaw, don’t be a dick.” Trixie shoves him with one arm while wrapping the other around my back. “You’ll get ’em next week, Griff.”
I hug her back and tweak one of her ginger pigtails as her mom sweeps in for a hug of her own.
“Uncle Roo would’ve been so dang proud today,” Aunt Dottie whispers in my ear, her voice quivering with emotion. Her husband, Trixie’s father, passed away ten years ago, but the thought of him never fails to stir emotion.
“Thanks, Dot,” I choke out past an unexpected knot in my throat. Fuck, I miss that red-headed, larger-than-life force of nature. My Uncle Rooster was one of my favorite people on the planet.
I catch Trixie’s watery eyes over my aunt’s shoulder but huff a laugh when they roll to the ceiling the second a heavy arm slings across my shoulders.
“Griff, gotta say, having our own suite softened the blow of the game’s outcome.”
I smack Camden Little’s abdomen with the back of my hand. He and Tucker have been joined at the hip since kindergarten. The guy might as well be a Lacey, too.
“Yeah, it was good?” I look at Mom for confirmation. My one nonnegotiable request when the Blues made their offer was that my family have a reserved suite for every home game.
“It was perfect.” She nods her affirmation, her bleach blond bob bouncing .
We stand in silence for a moment. Their expectant, hopeful gazes settle on me and weigh down my shoulders like sacks of feed.
“Well, best be gettin’ back.” Dad rubs the Blues logo covering his belly with one hand and jingles his keys in the other.
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Thanks for coming, guys.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it, Griff.” Aunt Dottie clasps Trixie’s hand, and they both beam at me.
“Fuck, why am I about to cry again?” Tucker tilts his head back and massages his eyes. “We’ll see him at home in a couple hours.”
Laughs echo off the concrete wall.
“Stop being a goddamn wuss.” Shaw’s tone is gruff, but he grips the back of Tuck’s neck in a fond hold.
“Shaw Morgan, watch your mouth,” our mother scolds. Like most southern mamas, she hates when we curse. We Lacey boys swallowed enough soap in our teen years to clean a pigsty.
After my aunt reminds us all to drive safely, we say our final goodbyes, and my family starts up the ramp toward the parking lot.
“You wanna ride with us, Silly Rabbit?” Camden asks Trixie, bumping her shoulder with his. My five-three cousin rears back and gives him a swift punch in the bicep that makes him howl with laughter. He’s been goading her with that nickname since they were kids.
The rest of the group starts in on the two of them or on each other, all the while moving toward the exit.
I watch until they disappear from view, my hand gripping the strap of my leather bag.
Knuckleheads. The Lacey clan is loud and boisterous, but I wouldn’t trade them for the fucking world.
“Man, I hate wearing a suit. ”
I bring the flute of champagne I swiped off a passing tray to my lips and eye the three-hundred-pound lineman sulking against the bar next to me. D’Angelo Sweeney tugs at his collar, then swipes his hand across his brow.
With a swat to my arm, Beau leans in. “Big D here dresses in business casual on game days.”
I snicker at the nickname. “Yeah, I saw that T-shirt and gym shorts combo on Sunday.”
“It’s impossible for some of us to compete with your swagger, Lacey.” D’Angelo turns and grins at our QB. “Besides, you know I can’t keep all this contained, Cap.” He smooths a hand down his thick frame like he’s outlining the sensual curves of a woman’s body. “Gotta keep myself comfy on game day. Helps me keep your ass off the turf.”
“This Cap nickname strictly because of your captain status?” I ask Beau.
With a roll of his eyes, he opens his mouth to answer, but wide receiver Tyrell Jefferson, who’s standing to my right, pipes up. “Look at this mug.” He squeezes Beau’s cheeks, which have gone pink, then gives one a pat. “This is freaking Captain America right here.”
The offensive guys launch into a thorough ribbing of Beau’s boyish good looks, but it’s layered with a deep respect and appreciation for their leader.
“Now we got ourselves another pretty boy to compete for the ladies,” D’Angelo says with a nod in my direction.
I smirk and finish off my champagne. Pointing at the group with the empty glass, I say, “They’re all yours, gentlemen.”
The guys’ answering whistles and catcalls draw several looks our way.
“Aw, hell. You telling me I’ll never know what it’s like to have Racy Lacey as my wingman?” Devon lowers his head and pouts like a kid who’s been told Santa isn’t real .
“I’ll be your wingman, Greenway. Name the time and place.”
I might be determined to keep distractions to a minimum, but that doesn’t mean I’m not down for a good time. In fact, good times of the one-night variety, if I can find willing participants who’ll accept a zero-strings offer, are exactly what I’m looking for.
“You taken, Lacey? Back together with that smoke show you were with a while back?” Tyrell asks, referring to my most recent ex, Kate.
I roll my shoulders, trying to knock loose my immediate discomfort. We’ve been split up for over a year now, but she’s the last woman I was seen with. There’s no way in hell I’d consider rekindling any kind of relationship with her, given how we ended, but I keep that to myself. Instead, I keep my response simple. “Nope. Not taken. Not looking, either. Gotta focus on the game. I’ll worry about the rest when I’m ready to walk away for good.”
Like my mind has been taken over by an external force, an image of a floral sundress hits me. Fuck. I give my head a quick shake to dislodge it.
“Respect.” As Tyrell tips his beer in my direction, he’s pulled away for a photo op with a group of fans.
We’ve been hit up for pictures and autographs pretty regularly since arriving an hour ago, but there’s been a welcome lull for the last few minutes. This group is the first since I snagged that glass of champagne.
I lean closer to Beau. “There’s no way this is all the season-ticket holders, right?” This hotel ballroom is crowded, but it’s nowhere near the number I was expecting.
“No way,” he says with a pssh . “Our season tickets number is somewhere in the twenty-thousand range. This event is for the top-tier. The people who donate a significant amount to the team’s community outreach programs and charities.”
“So these are the richest of the rich folks?”
He closes his green eyes and barks out a laugh. “Pretty much. ”
Beau pulls out his phone, his face lighting up. “Hey, my fiancée is planning a barbeque at our new place in a couple weeks. She wants to invite the entire O-squad and a few others. You in?”
Maybe it’s pathetic how good it feels to receive a simple invite like that. But to be so easily accepted after coming in at the last minute like I did, then having a shit first game, is, frankly, a little shocking. “Hell yeah, man, I’m always down for barbeque. Where’s your new place?”
“Out on Mud Island. Moved in right before the season started. You got a place in town yet?”
With a hand stuck in my trousers pocket, I dip my chin. “Close on it next Tuesday.”
“Cool. Where?”
I chuckle. “It’s actually a whole damn building. On South Main.”
Beau’s brows raise, and he lets out a puff of air.
“Yeah, three-story building. First floor houses a tattoo shop. My brother’s buddy rents the space from this old oil-and-gas tycoon, but Mr. Moneybags wants to sell off some of his real estate. Tuck’s friend was going to have to move his shop unless the new owner agreed to keep him as a tenant. I wanted a place in the city, so much to Donna’s dismay, Tuck suggested I check it out.”
“Wow. Donna’s your mom?”
“Yep. She’s been convinced I’d stay out at the family farm since I signed the contract. But I’m not making a two-hour round trip to work every day.”
“Don’t blame you,” Beau says, handing his empty glass to a passing server. “You won’t mind living in the city like that?”
I follow suit and hand off my glass, taking a moment to consider my answer before responding. “It’s very different from where I’ve been living for the past several months, but in Nashville, I had a condo downtown, and I liked it fine. Plus, the setup at this place is sweet. It’s two stories, with a gated lot out back for parking. It’s as private as you can get in the middle of a city.”
“Sounds sweet,” Beau confirms. “What are you thinking about—”
Tyrell hustles over, cutting off Beau’s words. He’s been off schmoozing, but now his dark eyes glow like they’re full of secrets.
“Guys,” he starts, his tone hushed but excited. “Cockburn is here.”
I gather from the guys’ eye rolls and disgusted faces that the person he’s referring to is not a favorite. “Excuse me, did you say this person’s name is Cock burn?”
Chuckling, D’Angelo explains, “Naw, we just call him that. His real name is Cogburn.”
“And I take it we’re not a fan of this Cogburn?”
“Ugh, no.” Devon’s top lip curls, his usual happy-go-lucky demeanor gone. “He’s front office, and a real douche. Works under Phillips.”
Shane Phillips is the GM for the Blues, and he’s a big reason I’m here. I’ve only met him a handful of times, but he, like Coach Mundy, has a solid rep. So the guys’ dislike of this Cogburn guy is telling.
Beau, ever the diplomat, chimes in. “He’s kind of a blowhard. He’s worked for Shane for the past few years. Fortunately, we don’t deal with him much, but he’s shown his butt enough to earn that nickname.”
“He’s a dick,” Tyrell states, his voice a little too loud. “But,” he says, quieter now, “he’s a dick who showed up tonight with a looker on his arm. Please tell me how Cockburn can pull a woman like that .”
He swings his arm wide, and when I follow his line of vision across the ballroom, my heart lurches in my chest.
Fuck .
Because the woman on the weaselly-looking frat boy’s arm is brunette beauty Brynn, wearing the hell out of a dark-green dress.