91. I’m Fucking Lost
I’M FUCKING LOST
LAYTON
It’s late. I drive Pix and Sabine to the pink cottage on the beach, not bothering to request directions.
She doesn’t ask, and I don’t explain. I put the car in park but leave it running and move around to the passenger door to open it.
Livy holds my eyes a little longer than normal as I extend a hand.
She takes it, looks at the truck running board, and back to her ridiculous shoes.
“This is not a statement about your ability,” I begin before reaching and plucking her out of the cab and placing her on her feet. “I know, I know.” I do air quotes. “‘I am woman, hear me roar,’ and all, but those steps”—I look from my truck to her—“And those shoes were not made for each other.”
My hands linger just a moment too long on her waist. She’s a colleague, after all. So, even though I don’t want to, I release her and step backward, leaving her room to get to her front door.
Colleague or no, I definitely watch her ass in that little skirt as she walks away from me.
“Thanks, Layton,” Sabine says, exiting the back door and shaking me from my thoughts.
I lift a hand, saying nothing.
“Thank you, Layton,” Pix says more quietly from her top step.
I stuff my hands into my pockets and nod.
When they both enter the house, I shut the passenger door and jump back in the driver’s seat.
I rest my head back onto the headrest for a moment, wondering how much worse tonight could’ve gone, what could’ve happened with Tustin if I hadn’t been there, and why I give a single fuck about Livy Morgan’s well-being.
I hit go on the steering wheel and have the truck’s Bluetooth dial George.
“Hello?”
“Hey, man. Quick heads-up that I’ll be in the news tomorrow.”
After a second of rustling noises, his voice is alert and louder. “What? Why?”
“I was at a club tonight.”
“Good Lord, here we go.”
“Let me finish. I was at a club tonight with Marshall, Mattis, and Carlson. The team’s PT was there, and a guy got handsy with her. I handled that, but there are police reports with my name on them.”
“Anything I need to know about?”
“I didn’t do anything stupid. I’ll send you a written statement for news outlets when I get home. I wanted you out in front of it with Excel so we don’t risk that contract. I’ll get with team PR as well. But you know I’m not a fan of being in the headlines like this.”
“The team PT? Is something going on with you and this chick?”
“The chick is Olivia Morgan, and no, we’re colleagues.” Why is there indignation in my tone?
“Okay. Okay. I wasn’t trying to demean her, just trying to get the full picture.”
“Remember when I could go in public, and it didn’t require a statement?”
“Yep. You want to go back to those days?”
“Not yet. Give me ten years, and we can revisit that.”
“Retirement in ten?”
“At least that. And, George, I’m sorry for waking you up. I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t necessary.”
“I know. Thanks for the heads-up. Do you want me to set up any interviews?”
“Not this time. Unless this story won’t die, and that will make it go away. Otherwise, nah. Let’s see if we can nip it in the bud.”
I turn into my garage after saying goodbye and take the elevator to my apartment.
I lean against the island in my kitchen, downing as much water as I can, and grab my laptop.
I fire up an email to George, our team’s management and PR teams, and the club attorney.
“Last night, I was at a local club with my teammates when we noticed a woman from our organization being harassed by a patron.
I stopped the man threatening our colleague.
As a result, he threw a punch. My teammates and I quickly moved to eliminate the threat and to protect our colleague and her friend from any further harassment.
Authorities were called and are handling the matter. I will not comment further to avoid compromising any investigation they may conduct and to protect my colleague, whose privacy I ask you to respect.
Thank you to our local law enforcement who responded quickly and professionally to this matter.”
Team, adjust as you see fit.
—L Ranger
I copy Marshall, Mattis, Carlson, and my personal attorney, and blind copy Pix after finding her email in the company directory.
A quick shower later, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s well after midnight on Saturday morning.
I grab my phone, and sure as shit, today is the day. It’s the anniversary of my mom’s passing. One year.
A year where my oldest brother, Braxton, found out he had a son, found a great woman, and proposed. A year in which Exton found and married a kick-ass woman. A year in which my tough-as-nails sister fell in love and for whom I will be a best man.
My mom died, and everyone else’s lives became… something.
And I’m fucking lost.
She loved me, encouraged me, and gave from the bottom of her heart.
She texted me daily during the college football season my freshman year.
I was teased mercilessly about it until I finally told her I was getting shit in the locker room.
Did she stop? Nope. She started a group text to a handful of guys, then added to the number each week or month as they asked.
My team knew they were being watched by a mama bear, who saw their potential as players and as men. She was a constant voice.
Encouragement. Jokes. Kudos. Admonishments.
She reminded us to study, to be smart on bye weekends, and keep our heads down. She chided us when we had attitudes about coaches or the plays they called or when the TV displayed us swearing on the sidelines.
She’d call people out if they gave half the effort and gave lectures about plays where our hearts weren’t in it. She’d blow up at obvious bad calls the refs made or where tempers flared without good reason.
But me? I still got mine daily. Some nugget of Emilia Ranger wisdom, humor, or passion delivered daily to my phone.
When I got drafted, she was my loudest cheerleader.
Not for the fame, which she cautioned me about, or the money, which she advised me about.
She burst out in tears and laughter—that weird mix when someone is so happy all their emotions explode.
Pop was visibly proud of me, that was obvious.
But Mom had never expected anything less.
Some might say our relationship was different because I was the baby.
That’s partly true. Braxton is nine years older and was out of the house and in college when I started fourth grade.
A year later, Exton did the same. I was ten and without my brothers.
And Brighton… Well, Bright is a whole other story, but we weren’t a duo like we are now. Not at that age.
Mom drove me to practice. Mom took me to two-a-days.
We couldn’t very well have Pop up with the sun, running a ranch, handling everything that entailed, driving me to and from practice.
He cut down on that work when Brax moved home, but by then, I could drive.
So, for years, I had the live version of the Mom text on the way to practice or training.
Today, get one more rep.
Today, be the hardest worker on the field.
Today, accept all correction.
Today, ask how to be stronger.
Today, show them no one wants it more.
And while I may have rolled my eyes, when I did what she said—because Lord knows it wasn’t all the time with my teenage attitude—I got better.
A year ago, those texts stopped. Her words of wisdom haven’t failed me, but fuck if I wouldn’t give every dollar I have for one more text, one more phone call.
One miserable fucking year.
I check the clock. Three-thirty in the morning. Thank God it’s Saturday. I couldn’t very well skip practice after a late night, especially after this trip down memory lane.
I let a handful of warm tears slide down my face and into the hair at my temples.
“Love you, Mom. Miss you so damn much,” I say to the ether and turn my face to burrow into the pillow.
Livy
I wake after the sun and only because Kyle is impatient. We have our schedule, and I so rarely veer from it that he doesn’t understand the function of a snooze.
He talks and thwacks his tail against the wall. No doubt he’s waking Sabine.
“Alright, alright. Give me a minute,” I say to the huge face smiling down at me. “You went out at two. Why are you awake now?”
His tail goes faster as I stand and toss on some sleep pants and head for the porch.
When I open the door, all hell breaks loose.
Kyle tears through the screen door toward the white picket fence, sending half the people on the other side scrambling or toppling, cameras and equipment flying. The sounds of plastic and metal hitting concrete tangle with shouts of expletives and fear.
His booming bark isn’t playful. He is on full alert and reacts like I’ve never seen before.
Then again, so do I.
I stand on my porch in a tank and slouchy sleep pants, jaw slack, blinded by camera flashes and deafened by yelling. After a moment of sheer bewilderment, I call, “Kyle. Let’s go, boy.”
My previously well-behaved pup ignores me, and much to my horror, I have to venture to wrangle him in.
I march to the short fence that borders my yard to shouts of: How long have you been dating Layton Ranger?
Was it a one-night stand? Is he still inside?
Is this a workplace romance? Are you pregnant?
My blood runs cold. Their hurled insults and the whites of the flashes are my undoing. I run inside, calling for Bean. I fight the onset of a panic attack.
She pushes into my room to find me on my bed curled in a ball. “What’s going on?”
“Please get Kyle. Please go save Kyle. I need him.”
“Okay, honey. What’s—”
“I need Kyle. Please go save him.”
She leaves, and the sob that tears from my chest is so strong that I can’t stand in time before I vomit. I vomit until my stomach is empty and my throat is raw with scratches.