Chapter 2
CONNOR
For all the millions of dollars spent on the Boston Bruisers’ training facility, I’d expect cell phone reception to be better.
I drop the call with my manager. Moments later, it rings again, likely him calling back to discuss how the wolf sanctuary I sponsor is opening its fifteenth branch in the fall and I’m slated to make an appearance.
Answering, I say, “Yeah, just put it on my schedule.”
I expect him to remind me to prepare a speech—I’m better at winging those kinds of things.
Instead, a slick voice with an Appalachian accent, similar to but much thicker than mine, comes through the phone.
“Well, aren’t we frilly and fancy? ‘Just put it on my schedule.’ I figured you’d already have it in ink since Lizabeth sent out the invitations a few weeks ago.”
“Hello, Cain.” The greeting to my brother comes out like steel on gravel as I await whatever fresh trash is going to come out of his mouth.
We rarely speak, twice a year at best. See each other once a year at the annual Enduro Survival Challenge back home.
“No congratulations? I figured you’d be pleased to hear about your big brother’s upcoming nuptials.”
“I’m pleased as punch.”
“Nah, I bet you’re jealous. Envy is eating you alive. As usual, I beat you to the punch.” He chortles.
The way he says that particular word reminds me of how many punches I’ve taken from him, though the last time, I hit back. As a result, he lost a tooth. Hasn’t come at me since, but he still talks a big game, more than happy to remind me of my place in the pack.
But I’m not envious or jealous. More like concerned for Lizabeth’s well-being, but I have to trust she knows what she’s doing. I take a deep breath, reminding myself to at least attempt to be gracious to my brute of a brother. So far, he’s behaved himself, and that’s saying something.
“Congratulations, Cain. Please pass on my well wishes to your bride-to-be.”
At the mention of his future missus, he launches into a detailed account of what he’ll do to me if I so much as look at her and provides supporting evidence of what happened to Hayden Kennedy, who asked her if she wanted a drink when they were last at the pool hall.
I interrupt his account of the brawl. “Cain, I have to go. Nice talking to you.”
“Wait. I was just getting to the good part. But I understand. You’re busy up there in the big city with your fancy life and all. Just remember that you’re my best man and have to give a toast at the wedding.” He laughs darkly like that has a double meaning.
I’ve been to a few weddings. I’m pretty sure the best man toast is a bit of a roast, but I will try to keep things clean, simple, and short so Cain doesn’t drag me outside and try to use me as a punching bag, emphasis on try.
Before I get off the phone, he launches into a few instances of our childhood when he was bigger, better, and more brutal than me.
I doubt he’ll even notice when I’ve hung up. But now I’m strung up with aggravation. I don’t want to go to his wedding. It’s sure to be a who’s who of bullies and brutes.
I stomp into the lounge at the training facility here in Boston.
“Uh, oh. Looks like Wolf is looking to bite,” says Declan Printz Charming, our wide receiver.
I grunt. “My brother just called and reminded me about his wedding. I have to give the toast.”
“Didn’t know you had a brother.” Chase Collins frowns—yes, of the legendary football family.
“I don’t. You’re my brothers. Cain was less of a brother and more of a bully.”
“Are you going? I’ll be your plus one. Keep Cain in line.” Declan waggles his eyebrows. We’re all Bruisers, but he’s never backed down from a fight.
“I’ve got your back, bro. Whatever. I’ll crash the thing if he gives you any trouble,” Chase adds.
“It’s not until next month. I didn’t plan to go, but I’ll be in North Carolina, anyway.”
“That’s right. Your annual retreat to the woods where you survive off the land,” Grey says with interest. Of all the guys, Adams is the most outdoorsy, and our linebacker.
“Knowing Cain, he’ll probably be named Groom-zilla of the year,” I say.
“Is he that bad?” Declan asks.
Dropping onto one of the leather sofas, I answer, “He’s worse than mayo.”
Declan sticks out his tongue. “Sounds like Cain is cruisin’ for a bruisin.’ We could give him the ole Boston Bruiser wedding gift.”
“What’s that?” Chase asks.
“How about a balloon bouquet filled with whipped cream?” Declan makes a popping motion.
“Or we could put one of those creepy mannequins that Grey found in the basement when he was looking for old jerseys in Cain’s hotel room.”
“Good one,” Chase says.
“Speaking of pranks. We should discuss the matter of Brandon Campos. The new center,” I say, eager to forget about my brother.
“I’ve put some thought into this. We could glue his hands together while he’s sleeping.
” Declan is originally from Ireland. He doesn’t look like a leprechaun, but has one tattooed on his arm.
People think they’re funny little men with happy accents.
Not so. In traditional lore, they’re tricky, dangerous creatures to watch out for.
Declan, too, if his mischievous smile is any indication.
“Dude, he’s our new center. We kind of need him to have use of his hands.” Grey speaks carefully and is the least likely among us to be voted troublemaker of the year.
I’d probably get that superlative. Along with the best safety. On the field, I’ll cover the wide receiver—Declan—and I’ll tackle anyone, anytime...all the time.
“Yeah. Coach Hammer says his hands are gold.” I grunt because that remains to be seen.
“The commish says he’s like the rising sun and any team would be lucky to have him.” Chase lifts and lowers one shoulder. He’s our peacemaker, though he makes trouble with the best of us.
“Luck has little to do with it. I say he’s in it for the paycheck.” I cut my eyes in Chase’s direction.
Grey sniffs. He’s our elder statesman and has little tolerance for our smack talk.
“Now, now. Let’s give him a chance,” Chase says. “You felt the same about me in the beginning.” He arches his eyebrow, referring to his start on the team as a legacy player.
“You proved yourself,” I say, now proud to call him one of my football brothers.
“So will Brandon,” Grey says.
“Brandon Campos will have to do more than prove himself. He’ll have to endure our killer practices, show that he’s a team player, and not a showboater—” I use a few of what Coach Hammer calls locker room words.
Even though the Boston Bruisers are the toughest team in the league, language like that is against the rules, but Hammer isn’t here.
We have our own rules, namely, initiating new players. Campos will also have to prove himself while training and on the field, but there will be plenty of time for that.
“How about we replace his toothpaste with mayonnaise?” Declan wrinkles his nose as though even speaking the idea out loud grosses him out.
Chase tilts his head from side to side as though that idea doesn’t cut it. “We could always use the old standby.”
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “No. We’re not covering the toilet seats with plastic wrap. Coach Hammer made me clean it up last time. Never again, man.”
“Doughnuts filled with mayo? Mayo in Oreos?” Declan suggests, his slight Irish accent coming through.
“What’s with you and mayo?” Chase asks.
I recall a late-night party and an early morning snack-sesh that involved mayonnaise and resulted in a miserable, ailing Declan Printz. He vowed never to touch the stuff again.
“I know what we’re going to do.” My lip curls as an idea takes shape.
“Oh, boy. He has that look.” Grey shakes his head. “Whatever it is, I’m not sure I want to take part.”
Declan cuffs him. “No, you’re not backing out. With Rylen off on his honeymoon, we need all the manpower we can get.”
The details formed, I lean in and tell them my plan.
“Brandon Campos is not going to be impressed.”
“Sure, he will.” I wink. “Let’s see. Macy, Stacy, Allison, Keisha... They all seemed impressed by my—” I slap my rear end, referring to the many women who’ve complimented the way my backside looks in uniform.
Grey holds up his hand. “We do not need to hear about your latest conquests.”
Chase shifts uncomfortably at the mention of my wolf-like reputation. We all know—and respect—that he’s looking for the right woman.
“I think there are just as many who’d like to give you a swift kick on that backside when you date ‘em and leave ‘em,” Grey mutters.
“Haters gonna hate,” I say.
“Lovers gonna...fill in the blank,” Chase says.
No need to fill in the blank. There’s nothing else to say. But there is a reason I date ‘em and leave ‘em. My nickname, Wolf, isn’t unfounded. I have plenty of room in my life for women, just not relationships.
“I think Rylen would approve,” Declan says.
Only I laugh in response.
We spend the next few minutes in a huddle, hashing out the plan to prank the newest member of the team. When we’re done, we throw our hands into the center of the tight-knit circle, and holler, “Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’”—the team slogan.
Who needs commitment, drama, and baggage when I have football bros like this, a winning streak, and my pick of any woman for an evening of a no-strings-attached good time?
We convince Chase, the one least likely to rouse suspicion, to text Brandon out of the blue. He invites him to come hang out with us in the team lounge—the idea is to build trust and camaraderie. He he.
Chase’s phone pings with a reply a moment later. “Brandon says that he’s on his way.”
I grin. “Perfect.”
Head resting in his hand, Grey rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why I let you guys talk me into this.”
I’m crossing the room to get into position and stop short.
I cast Grey a glare of warning. An outsider might think that I’m fixing for a fight—and that I’m an idiot for crossing our linebacker—but it’s just one football brother to another, reminding him of who he is.
Grey needs that from time to time, otherwise, he’ll travel down a dead end.
Been there myself and it’s no fun finding the way back.
To drive home my point, I ask, “Who started the newbie initiation, Grey?”
Grey Adams is the oldest player on the team and arguably the best. He can win a game blindfolded and backward.
Seriously. We challenged him once. Granted, it wasn’t against another team, but he was formidable.
Football is woven into the very fiber of his being.
It means everything to him and though he might not admit it, we do too.
“Who was the original mastermind behind all the pranks?” I ask.
Grey’s lips form a thin line and the muscles in his jaw twitch. He knows he’s the OG, the original. The real deal.
“Don’t forget who you are. Don’t let it get you.
He wouldn’t want that.” The weight carried in each word is enough to qualify as a workout.
I know it. He knows it. Declan too. As for Chase, as far as I know, the guy has lived a charmed life, so I’m not sure what kinds of challenges he’s faced.
But it doesn’t matter. We’re family and look out for each other.
As for my actual brother, he’d just as soon see me get injured on the field, kicked off the team, or wiped off the planet. Figures he’d invite me to his wedding.
Hope the bride is an ogre.
Grey exhales and then nods as though set to rights.
The four of us assume our positions while waiting for Brandon. A wisp of anticipation shoots through me. I live for football, but pranks are pretty fun too. Footsteps echo from down the hall.
In Rylen’s absence, Declan leans in, and as if starting a game with the classic expression, Hut, hut, hike, he says, “On the count of three...”
We adjust our stances, preparing, and then as the door opens, Declan says, “Now.”
...And at that moment, whoever stands in the doorway gets an eyeful of Boston Bruisers’ butt and I am not sorry.
“It’s a full moon in Boston,” Declan shouts.
I let loose my classic howl.
Then someone gasps.
A camera clicks and flashes.
A low voice groans.
If it weren’t already apparent, when I turn around, it isn’t only Brandon in the doorway. The pro league Commissioner Starkowsky and his daughter, Elyse, along with several other team officials, stand with their mouths hanging open.
This was more than the mission I expected, but I’d say it’s mission accomplished. I chuckle inwardly. Time to get folks around here to loosen up.
Then the commish, shielding his daughter’s eyes, blusters.
The guys make their apologies. I do not.
Elyse wiggles out of her father’s grasp. “Dad, I’ve been in and out of locker rooms for almost thirty years. I’ve seen—”
She’s definitely eyed my rear end.
Starky’s face turns purple. “You are excused,” he chokes out.
It all happens in fast-forward as we rush from the lounge, dispersing like kids caught ringing the neighbor’s doorbell, leaving an unwelcome gift, and running while laughing our butts off. In this case, literally.