8. Griffin
Chapter eight
Griffin
I type allergic to kiwi onto the ever-growing Brynn Nelson note in my phone, then scroll through the entries I’ve added since she moved in: Dragon collector. Morning person. Swims on campus M, W, F. Likes tea before bed some nights—black tea only on weekends. Loves candles. Terrible at Mario Kart . Scared of spiders.
I thumb back to the bottom and add loves french toast . As I slide my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, I make a mental note to ask Mom how to make fucking french toast. Because the pure joy on Brynn’s face when our waitress slid that plate in front of her? Fucking breathtaking. And I’m desperate to see it again.
To be the cause of it.
“Mmm,” she moans around a forkful of her breakfast.
The sound causes me to drop my fork onto the table with a clatter. Before I can catch it, it falls to the floor.
I signal to our waitress for a clean one, and once I have it, I duck my head and dig into my omelet, hoping like hell I can ignore any more sounds like that from the woman across from me.
We’ve lived together for five days now, and I’ve taken myself in hand in the shower every morning for the past four days. Wishing it was her hand instead.
This is a fucking problem .
“French toast might be a close second to soft pretzels, by the way.” She takes another bite that leaves a dusting of powdered sugar on the corner of her mouth.
I resist the urge to swipe it away with my thumb, instead dipping my chin to silently signal its presence.
“Oh.” Warmth suffuses her cheeks as she wipes it away. “My dad made it for breakfast every Sunday.”
“Our Sunday morning breakfast tradition was biscuits and gravy. Donna Lacey makes a sausage gravy that puts all others to shame.” Memories of the piles of fluffy buttermilk biscuits overflowing from the bread basket in the middle of our kitchen table make my mouth water. “We’d race to the table, hoping to be the first to slather on the fresh-churned butter while Mom finished up the gravy at the stove. Most weekends, she baked canned biscuits. Homemade ones take so long, and the gravy is plenty time-consuming. But my granny moved in with us after Gramps passed, and from then on, we got her homemade biscuits and Mom’s gravy, and we Lacey boys lived like kings.”
“You’re close with your family.” Her statement is punctuated with a serene smile. “I wish I lived closer to my parents. I miss them.”
“Have them come up. Take them to a game.” I’ve invited Brynn to attend the past two games, but she declined. I’ll wear her down, though. I’m not above recruiting Paige to help.
She doesn’t watch sports, but I think maybe she’d come to support me and even Beau if not for the risk of running into Cockburn. As far as I know, he’s still clueless about his ex-girlfriend living with a player of the team he works for. When she moved out, Brynn told him she was staying with someone from work until faculty housing opened up.
“Hmm. Maybe. ”
I leave it at that, and we finish our brunch in companionable silence. Afterward, as I pull up to our next destination, Brynn angles forward in the passenger seat and peers out the windshield.
“It’s an arcade?”
“What better way to follow up eating at Arcade than to spend time in an actual arcade?” I put the truck in park and shift so I’m facing her. “It’s not a Memphis institution like the restaurant, but I promise you a good time.”
She swivels my way, her lips parted and her brow furrowed. “But it looks closed.”
She’s not wrong. There’s only one other car in the lot. Even on a Tuesday afternoon during the school year, this place is typically busier.
“It’s not closed to us,” I tell her as I push my door open.
Catching my meaning, she gasps. Then she scrambles out of the truck. “Wait,” she says as I head for the entrance. “You rented it out?”
“Yep.”
“Griffin.” Her tone is firm, but her voice is farther away than it has been.
I grasp the door handle and look back, finding her feet planted on the asphalt of the parking lot, hands locked on her jean-clad hips. She’s paired them with a soft blush-colored sweater that’s both cozy as fuck and tight enough to tantalize.
“Why?”
I lift a shoulder. “I didn’t want you to have to deal with a repeat of Friday night.”
She steps closer but doesn’t cross the threshold. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. But since you did, I’m ready to kick your ass in some Skee-Ball.”
“Pfft. We’ll see about that.” I trail behind her as she steps into the neon glow, doing my best not to stare at her ass. “I majored in Skee-Ball. ”
Her sweet laughter fills the space as we step up to the counter to collect our tokens from the lone employee, a bored, college-age girl who doesn’t even look up from her phone as she hands us the buckets.
“Where to first?” I ask as we survey the place. The room is dark, the only sources of light coming from the machines. Every arcade game imaginable winks at us with bright, come-hither lights.
“How about we put that degree to the test? Skee-Ball.” She darts around a couple of head-to-head game tables and makes her way to the lanes on the opposite wall.
“You’re on, professor. Prepare to be schooled.”
Eyeing one another, we drop our tokens, and when the heavy balls are released, we begin. My aim suffers because I can’t help but keep my eye on Brynn’s score. We’re neck and neck until she sinks her last ball into the 10,000 hole near the top of the bull’s-eye.
“Yes!” With a pump of her fist, she spins my way. “Rematch?” The competitive gleam in her eye is so fucking hot. I fight the urge to haul her body into mine and kiss that gloating smirk off her lips.
Holy shit, Lacey, cool your jets.
I swallow back the desire that’s threatening to take over and grin. “You’re on.”
We play three more rounds and end up tied, two-two. Next, we take on the basketball shoot-out. Though I’m certain my height will make this an easy victory, I barely eke out a win.
“Are you a ringer?” I growl after she sinks another basket during the second round.
“Ha! Definitely not.” This she says as her next ball teeters on the rim and drops into the net.
“For someone who isn’t into sports, you sure are good at this.” I miss my next shot and push up the sleeves of my Henley.
When the timer buzzes, Brynn is in the lead.
“I think it’s time we up the stakes. ”
“What do you have in mind?” Her tone is pure flirtation. I pivot, finding her watching me, her lips parted and those gorgeous dark eyes so damn hopeful. I’m drawn closer, like we have fucking magnets in our chests, my gaze lingering on her lips a moment too long. All it would take is a single step to close the small distance, and I’d change our whole dynamic.
The flashing lights reflecting in her irises snap me back to the present. She’s as fixated on me as I am on her. But the distance between us now may as well be miles. Because I made a commitment to myself when I signed with the Blues. I can’t get wrapped up in her more than I already am. So I step back. And when her face falls and her posture sags, I mentally cuss myself out.
I clear my throat, desperate to make her smile or laugh again—anything to get that wounded expression off her beautiful face. “Uh, how about this? We’ll pick another game, and whoever wins gets to ask the loser a question. And you must answer truthfully.”
Her face brightens, and she straightens her spine. “Even though you said that like I’m the one who’s going to lose, I accept your terms.”
Without missing a beat, we seal the deal with our secret handshake.
After a heated air hockey battle, Brynn emerges victorious. With a brow cocked, she tilts her head and asks, “Tell me the true origin of the Racy Lacey nickname.”
I groan and blow out a breath. This isn’t a secret. If she’d done a Google search, she’d already know. But if she’s asking, she hasn’t. Like she wants to hear it from me, and that makes my chest ache.
I brace against the air hockey table, crossing one ankle over the other, and gesture to a metal bench across from me. Brynn obliges and pulls her feet up to sit crisscross like she’s a kid gearing up for story time at the library .
“That nickname is the media’s doing. My teammates didn’t call me that until well after the press started.”
She nods, brows raised, patiently waiting for the rest.
“I can’t say it originates from one incident or trait, really. But I’m fucking fast for a big guy. Was even faster when I started playing. I ran a four-five-five in the forty at the combine before I was drafted, which is almost unheard of for a tight end.” I pause, twist my lips, duck my head. “And there are a couple other factors to blame for the nickname…”
“Other factors?”
With a sigh, I peer up at her. “I tend to be a little foul-mouthed.”
She gasps and covers her heart. “You don’t say.”
I pop a shoulder and smirk. “Been fined a time or two for my colorful vocabulary.”
“What else?”
Now my cheeks heat, because damn, I enjoyed the hell out of my twenties. I’ve never regretted it. Not until this exact moment. Though I have no interest in analyzing the contrition creeping through me right now. The thought that this woman might see me in a less positive light after I confess this makes my gut sour with shame. But I can’t change my past. And it’s all online anyway.
“For the first several years I played, I, uh, frequently enjoyed the company of women.” I expect her to blush or grimace, but her expression doesn’t waver, so I force myself to elaborate. “I was photographed with a different girl almost every time I partied.”
“And now?” She visibly swallows, her slender throat working.
“Do I party now? Sometimes. Do I sleep with multiple women?” My voice is pure gravel. “No.”
No, I don’t have multiple sexual partners, professor, because there’s only one woman I want to fuck, and I can’t have her.
She gathers her hair at her nape and pulls it over one shoulder, her nervous tell, and keeps her focus fixed on me. The intense eye contact makes me sweat. This moment between us is heavy—heavier than the almost-kiss from earlier—and I like it too damn much to disrupt it.
Brynn’s the first to cave. She clears her throat and drops her feet to the floor. “Okay, Racy . Now I challenge you to that racing game.” She points at the side-by-side leather seats situated behind a pair of steering wheels.
“You’re challenging me to a driving game? Do you remember how we met?”
Her mouth drops open when my words register, but then her lips twist to one side in an effort not to smile.
“I might need to give you a head start,” I tease.
That remark earns me a swat to my arm, and I clench my hands into fists to keep from tugging her to me.
When I win the race by a landslide, Brynn shifts in her seat, ready for my question.
Going easy on her, I ask the first thing that springs to mind. “What’s your middle name?”
“That’s your question?” Her eyes flash, like there’s a story here. It’s confirmed when the color of her face rivals the red sports car on the screen in front of us.
“Yep, that’s what I’m going with.”
She fidgets with the hem of her sweater for a moment, then pops up from her seat. “I’m sure you can come up with a better one than that.”
Her evasiveness turns me into a dog with a bone. I press my lips together, pretending to mull it over, but then shake my head. “Nope. I’m happy with my original question.”
She wrings her hands and chews on the inside of her cheek, but she keeps her attention averted.
“Remember the terms of this game that you shook on, professor. You must answer truthfully. ”
“Fine.” She crosses her arms, and this time, I let myself peek at the perfect breasts this defensive position accentuates. God, what I’d give to get my hands on those—
“It’s Amethyst.”
I blink to keep myself from blurting out something that’ll clue her into my thoughts. “What’s amethyst?”
She huffs, her expression going flat. “My middle name.”
“Is Amethyst?”
“Yes.”
I hold back a chuckle. “No way.”
With a grunt, she scans the empty arcade. “Way. I told you my parents love crystals. My birthday is February first, and the birthstone for February is—”
“Amethyst,” I finish for her.
“Yes.”
“Brynn Amethyst Nelson?”
“That’s me.” She gives me a weak smile.
“I need proof.”
Dubious, she studies me for a silent moment. Then she rummages through her purse. Side-eyeing me while she continues her search, she asks, “You really didn’t know?”
“How would I know?”
“You didn’t run a background check on me?” To most, her laugh might suggest she’s joking, but the tension in the sound is clear to me, and her eyes tell a different story. “Here you are, Mr. Multimillionaire,” she says, yanking her wallet from her purse, “letting a poor college instructor nobody move into your home after only knowing her a couple weeks.” She’s embarrassed and lashing out.
She holds her license out, but I don’t take it. Instead, I make a colossal dumbass mistake and step closer. Her sweet floral scent—the one I’ve caught whiffs of around the apartment for the past few days—fills my nose. Fuck, this close, it’s hard not to want to trace the smooth skin of her jaw around to her nape and pull her in. But I settle for a gentle chin grip.
“Hey.” When she zeroes in on me, I continue. “You remember that night at the Peabody? When you told me that you trusted me?”
She nods as much as my hold allows.
“That’s a two-way street, professor. I trust you. Implicitly.”
“That’s—that’s good,” she whispers.
“It is. And we’re done playing for answers. You want to know something, just ask me. I’m an open book.”
She swallows thickly, composes herself. “What’s your middle name?”
“Michael.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“Tomorrow.” I grin.
She jerks back, and my hand falls away. “What?”
“It’s tomorrow. October eighth.”
Blinking, she shakes her head. “Griffin. Your birthday is tomorrow ? Why didn’t I know this?”
“You’ve really never googled me?” I can’t help but puff out my chest.
“Your ego knows no bounds,” she scoffs. “And no, I don’t google my friends. Though apparently, I should so I’ll know when their damn birthdays are.”
Her dramatics make me grin. God, I love when sassy Brynn comes out to play.
“Wasn’t keeping it a secret, professor.” I cross my arms and look down my nose at her, holding back a smirk. “I can get Seth to type up a personal stats memo just for you, if you’d like.”
“Not necessary.” She turns on her heel and starts for the Whac-a-mole. “I’ll consult Google from now on.” She lifts her chin, haughty as fuck, and my pulse picks up. “So, any big birthday plans?” she asks as she hefts the mallet .
I wait to answer until she’s finished whacking the hell out of the elusive moles. Or trying to. She’s terrible at it, but she puts her all into it anyway.
“Some of the guys are taking me out tonight.”
She hands me the mallet and presses a token into the slot for my turn. Not one mole escapes my pounding.
“Ugh, show-off.” Her smirk melts into a smile. “So tonight is boys’ night, but what about tomorrow?”
“I’ve got practice.” I shrug. “Just another Wednesday.”
“What about your family?”
“They took me to dinner after the game on Sunday.”
“Hmm.” Her brows lower in concern. “We can’t let your real birthday pass without some kind of celebration.”
Warmth washes through me at the regard in her tone. “Why not?”
“ Because ,” she emphasizes. “Birthdays are a big deal. The day you were born is a big deal.”
“Your family goes big for birthdays, huh?”
She nods. “Yeah, they do.” The wistfulness in her voice makes my chest ache. That tone, though, is quickly replaced by one full of determination, and she wears an expression to match. “Can I cook dinner for you tomorrow?”
I jerk my chin up. “You cook?” We’ve only lived together for a handful of days, but I haven’t seen any evidence of Brynn being a closet amateur chef.
“I’m a terrible cook.” She winces. “Like, really awful.”
“But you want to cook dinner for me?”
Another nod. “Yes. I promise I won’t burn down your building.”
“All right, not-a-chef, make a birthday dinner to remember.”
Her answering smile hits me in the solar plexus. I’d probably let her burn down the fucking building if she’d promise me one of those smiles every day. Being with Brynn only makes me crave more time with her. I’ve never in my life experienced a connection this deep with anyone in such a short time.
It’s fucking terrifying. An out-of-control sensation that I both hate and want.
She pulls her phone out of her pocket to check the time. “I have time for one more. What’s it gonna be, Lacey?”
“Oh? Big plans tonight?” I swallow down the panic threatening to choke me. If she tells me she has a goddamn date—
“Big plans at the library. I’ve kind of neglected my research lately.” She wrinkles her nose and heaves a deep sigh.
Relief floods my lungs with my next inhale, but I do my best to ignore the reaction.
Brynn, oblivious to my relief, struts up to the Dance Dance Revolution game. “Ready to show off your moves, big guy?”
“This?” I rub a hand over my buzzed hair. “I might break the damn thing.”
She considers me, starting at my head and working her way down to my shoes before sweeping back up.
Shit, her assessment brings me way too much pleasure.
Phone still in her hand, she swipes it open and gives the screen a few taps. Then she holds it up to my face. “That sign says max capacity is 450. And according to Google, my friend weighs 248 pounds.” She waves the device, where my stats are pulled up. “Maybe you’re scared you don’t have the right moves.”
I wag my brows. “Oh, I’ve got the right moves, professor.”
Even in the dim lighting of the arcade, there’s no mistaking the pink hue that stains her cheeks.
“But my style,” I say, ducking in closer, “leans more toward the two-step and line dancing.”
She steps up on the platform, and I do the same, my shoes spanning more than a single square that surrounds the blue arrows.
“Racy Lacey knows how to two-step?” she asks, brows arched like maybe she’s impressed .
I chuckle. “All the Lacey boys know how to two-step. It’s a requirement.”
Her brows furrow, so I explain.
“My aunt owns a honky-tonk in our hometown. Aunt Dottie made sure the three of us—four, counting Tuck’s buddy, Camden—learned how to two-step before we graduated from high school. She said any nephew of hers would know how to properly spin a lady around the dance floor.”
“Hmm,” she muses. “Can’t say that I’ve ever two-stepped before.”
Before the last word has left her mouth, my own commits the bad habit it’s developed when Brynn’s around—blurting without consulting my brain first. “I’ll take you for a spin soon.”
Her eyes light up, and her gorgeous face, wide with hope, makes me a little dizzy.
But I’ll ignore that for now, too.
“Cheers to thirty-five.” My QB clinks his beer bottle against mine, then settles back against the leather seat in the round booth where we’re holding court. This VIP corner of the club is roped off, but that doesn’t stop bold, tipsy fans from trying to sneak past the two beefy bouncers stationed at either end. This place is dark and loud and strobe-y enough to cause seizures, but the younger guys insisted we come here after we ate our weight in ribs at Rendezvous.
“Thanks, Cap.” With a pull of my beer, I relax into the creaky leather seat. “He’s going to be feeling that tomorrow.”
I tip my head, gesturing to Devon Greenway. He’s slurping a frozen concoction from a neon pink yard glass while he boogies on the dance floor with a couple of our teammates and a gaggle of scantily dressed women. It’s a Tuesday, so the dance floor is empty save for the group circling the Blues’ players like bees to a hive. I would’ve been content to call it a night after dinner, but Greenway and Jefferson wore the rest of us down.
Jefferson, who’s broken away from the cluster on the dance floor, flops into the booth next to Beau. “Lacey, you’re missing out. It’s your birthday, dude, and you can have your pick.” He throws an arm out, gestures to the women tossing their hair and laughing at Greenway’s sloppy attempt at a moonwalk. “Or, hey, I bet they’d let you guest DJ.”
“You know we have practice at seven a.m., right?”
With a shake of his head, he looks at Beau. “Please don’t let me get this old.”
“You show up to practice hungover tomorrow, and Coach’ll take care of that for you, I’m sure.” Beau lifts his chin.
“Aw, man. Not Cap, too,” Jefferson wails. “Greenway,” he shouts across the club. “Save me from these old geezers.” He snatches up a leftover shot, downs it, and throws himself out of the booth. Then he’s hurdling over the velvet rope and hitting the dance floor again.
“Gah, to be that young again,” I lament.
“You’d want to go back to those days?” Beau points his beer at the crowd as a techno version of “Dancing Queen” thumps through the speakers.
“You’re nowhere near my old geezer status.” The guy’s only twenty-seven. “It’s too soon for you to be sitting on the sidelines.”
“This game ages you.” He finishes off his beer and signals the waitress to close his tab. “Plus, this was never my scene, even in college. And Paigey would kick my ass if I came home wasted on a weeknight.”
“Ah, the old ball and chain.” My tone is lighthearted, at odds with the heaviness settling in my limbs. I’m fucking jealous that I don’t have someone soft and warm waiting for me at home like my friend does. Though I’d never admit that out loud, even after a couple of beers .
You could have someone like that waiting for you at home, you dumbass . I wash the thought away with another swig of the brew.
Beau studies me a moment, thoughtful. “Where’s your roommate tonight?” This fucker. He’s been tenacious about this lately.
“I’m not her keeper, you ass.”
He rewards me with a cocky smirk.
“But if you must know, she’s working at the campus library.”
He crosses his arms, his lips tipping higher, the expression growing more obnoxious by the second. I don’t tell him it was on the tip of my tongue to invite her, even though our group text said “boyz night only,” and I certainly don’t tell him that the thought of her wanting to cook a special dinner for my birthday makes my insides gooey.
“You’d be her keeper in a heartbeat if you thought she wanted that.”
The smugness in his tone makes me blurt, “Who says she doesn’t want that?”
Beau’s brows reach for his perfectly styled hairline, but he doesn’t respond.
“I mean,” I stammer. “I think she might be…” The words dissolve before I can finish the thought. A deep-seated loyalty to Brynn won’t let me admit the truth to the guy who’s quickly become a confidant.
“Getting too attached?” he guesses. His smug expression has morphed into a concerned frown.
“Maybe.” I sigh. “We had a moment, earlier today, and I…” A vision of those big brown eyes and soft pink lips assaults me. God, I wanted to kiss her so fucking bad. “I’m worried I’m sending her mixed signals.”
Every one of these conflicting feelings bubbling under the surface is a huge-ass red flag, warning me to step back, put some distance between Brynn and me .
“Look, I’m Team Lacey all the way.” Beau uncrosses his arms and tilts forward and rests his clasped hands on the table. “But if she’s into you, and you’re into her, would it be so bad to pursue this, see if it could be something real?”
Something real? Some days, Brynn is the most real thing in my life. Football can be a fickle mistress—the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. It’s a lesson we all learn the hard way. But when I was escorted to the locker room at the end of last season, in so much pain I could hardly think straight, I vowed that I wouldn’t let the game end me that way. I would fight tooth and nail to come back swinging. Then, after I’d gone under the knife to repair my shoulder, my team let me go, and depression descended like a suffocating blanket. My mother and Tucker had to coax me out of bed while I rehabbed at home. The chance the football gods have given me here? I can’t fuck it up.
No matter how tempting it is to give in to my desire for Brynn.
Beau’s silent as I work through my thoughts. I clear my throat and lock eyes with him. “It could be something real,” I say, practically shouting over the heavy beats of the music. “But football needs to be my number one right now. Maybe after the season—”
“If she’s still available.”
With an impatient huff, I push away the panic that hits me. “If she’s still available.”
“You know the best way to clear up those mixed signals?” Beau lifts his chin toward the dance floor, where two girls grind on one of my teammates. “Take another woman home tonight. That’ll drive home that ‘just friends’ message loud and clear.” He actually air quotes just friends —smug Beau has returned.
“Maybe I will.” The lie makes me nauseous. There’s no way in hell I’m bringing another woman into my bed when the one I want is sleeping one floor above me .
An hour later, after making sure Greenway and Jefferson get into the correct Uber, I wave good night to my QB and head home—alone.