Page 92 of The Check Down
His wild joy is so infectious, I can’t help but give in. The shame from earlier is forgotten as my grin breaks free, and I croon along, happy to be so in sync with the man beside me.
Chapter twenty
Griffin
“Everything good with you?” Beau asks, one brow cocked and his attention fixed on my bouncing knee.
Nodding, I shove the crossword back into my bag. I give up on trying to find calm in the orderly black-and-white squares. They usually work like a charm, but I’m too on edge today.
I woke up like this, aching for Brynn, and the sensation hasn’t dulled since. After our bye, we were fortunate to have two home games in a row, so this is our first weekend apart since we made it official. Hell, we’ve been separated for a little over twenty-four hours, and I’m a wreck. I fucked her before I left yesterday, thinking that would be enough to get me through this road trip, but it only made me want to stay tangled up in her, football be damned.
Yeah, that’s a fucking terrifying development.
Never in my life have I wanted to put anyone or anything above this sport. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. The only thing I’ve ever nurtured.
Then a five-nine adorably nerdy, sexy as fuck brunette crashes into my life and wrecks my priorities.
Since the crossword didn’t do the trick, I seek a different way to shake these unsettled nerves. I open my camera roll and scroll back a few months, searching for the picture I’ve looked at more times than I’d ever admit.
It’s a screenshot I saved from the night Brynn agreed to experience Memphis with me. I discovered it later that night, while lying in bed, on the Blues’ Instagram page. The social media department had posted a series of shots from the season-ticket event at the Peabody. I sat up when I recognized the girl in the picture as the one I’d shared a sausage and cheese plate with hours before. Brynn and King, the Blues’ hound dog mascot. Don’t ask me why, but I was compelled to save the picture on my phone.
Now I can’t imagine my life without the beautiful smile or big brown eyes that shine on my screen.
Brynn Nelson has become a necessity. I need her like my lungs need oxygen.
But I also need to learn how to deal with being apart from her. The guys in this locker room are counting on me to pull my weight out there today.
Sudden exclamations from teammates across the room draw my attention. Carlos, Tyrell, and Devon are huddled up, heads bent over a phone.
When Carlos’ shocked face morphs into one of disgust, Beau and I wander over to check it out.
“Cap, have you watched any of these?” Devon asks as we approach. He holds his phone up. “Hydraulic press videos.”
The video shows a huge machine crush a watermelon to bits, and ribbons of the smashed fruit shoot out through round holes in the base of the press.
“Yeah, some of them are pretty gnarly.” Beau laughs.
“We’ve got a little competition going to see who can find the grossest ones.”
This is not what I usually fall into before a game, but it’ll work, so until it’s time for pregame warm-ups, I let my teammates and their strange videos distract me from this twitchiness in my gut.
In the middle of the first quarter, after a not-so-auspicious start, Beau finds me on the sideline. “You sure you’re good? You don’t have a crazy high fever again, do you?”
Hands braced on my hips, I catch my breath. “No. Why?”
My friend narrows his eyes. “You ran the wrong route on second and eight.”
“I read the coverage wrong, man. Sorry.”
And I deserve the call-out. My mind blanked when he called the play, and then my ass was double-teamed. I couldn’t get open, but had I run the correct route, we probably would’ve gotten the first down.
Turns out, that missed route was the least of our worries. Jefferson and I both drop passes in the first half, and Beau throws a pick late in the second quarter. Our offense can’t find our rhythm, and the defense spends so much time on the field, they’re exhausted at the half. Mundy doesn’t yell often, even when we’re down in a game, but he chews our asses at halftime.
Since we won the toss and deferred, we get the ball at the start of the second half. The crowd noise in this stadium—notorious for being the loudest in the league—is deafening after we break the huddle and step to the line to begin our opening drive. I scan the defense, calm my breathing, prepare for muscle memory to take over.
Beau’s called for a play-action pass. From my stance, I brace for the snap. There’s no way I’ll hear his cadence with the noise. But before our center snaps the ball, I flinch, and a flag is thrown.
“False start, number 89. Five-yard penalty. Repeat first down.”