1. The Golden Pitchfork

THE GOLDEN PITCHFORK

Hudson

"The floor is nearly silent. The only sound is the bitter whispering of tournament players who didn't make the cut?—"

I hear one of the girls whisper rather loudly, "Losers," and can't help but grin.

Riley Brooks, one of the owners of this fine establishment, continues over the brewery's speaker system, voice full of teasing amusement. "Here, at the New York Knights Players Club, we're all wondering the same thing: who will become the champions of tonight's high-stakes game?" She pauses briefly. "It could be either of the two teams. We have no idea how this will go or who will walk away with the golden pitchfork and their bar tab for tonight wiped clean. What we do know is the tension in Brooks Barn and Brewery is mounting ?—"

London Links cuts her off with a not-so-passive and mostly aggressive, "This game doesn't end soon, I know one player whose tension will be mounting. It might be a whole week before any other mounting happens in the Links' ho?—"

"Four," her husband, Logan, says confidently as his eyes connect with mine from across the table.

Four? Fucking four? screams in my head as I keep my eyes locked on his.

What do I have? Shit. Jack shit, a big old steaming pile of it.

I don't have a single face card; there's no chance in hell that I can do anything to help get us there. The hand Jackson Brooks dealt me will indeed set us. I'm mildly pissed, too, because, for the first time all season, I had a chance at winning this thing. It won't happen again when my regular partner, Knights running back, #21, Beau Boone, is across from me.

Just a fluke that he has his little girl for a few days during the season. Jackass bids four every chance he gets and always ends up putting us in the hole.

I had the opportunity of a lifetime, and Logan Links just blew it. Can't tell him what an epic fuck-up he just made, though—he's one of the owners and often runs workouts and drills with us. But I wanted that golden pitchfork just once.

Motherfucker.

Jackson's chest rises and falls in silent laughter.

I narrow my eyes at him. "What?"

Shaking his head, he looks at Logan. "Let's see what you got, player ."

Logan wastes no time revealing his choice of trump as he tosses the ace of clubs on the table before us.

I glance down and see that I have the three. With any luck, that could be the lowest card and gain us a point. With the ace as high and the three as low, we'd still need the jack of clubs and the highest score to get the game and win.

It's still possible.

In the next round, he tosses out the queen of clubs. Kolby Grimes lays the nine of clubs on it. I have one ten in my hand, which will count big for the game, but?—

"Don't be a pussy, Hart," comes from overhead, and I glance up to the second story of the barn-style brewery and see Lauren Brooks looking down at us.

I open my mouth to say something, but Logan beats me to it. "You're related to the opposing team; you really think he's going to trust you?"

Lauren is Jackson's and Riley's sister. They co-own this place and host weekly pitch tournaments where the older men of Blue Valley come and talk shit to each other for the first half of the game and then talk about hunting, crops, and the New York Knights, which happens to be the only three things going on here in Blue Valley.

The first time I stumbled in here on a Tuesday evening and saw the dozen or so of them, I smiled, knowing one day I'd be just like them. I'd be chillin' with my boys, talking shit and football. I dubbed them the New York Knights Players . They loved it.

Boone and I had hats and sweatshirts made at the printery down in the village for them and brought them in the following week. And that's how we got pulled into this weekly game. It's also how I learned Lauren and I were chill.

You see, the month before I started my professional football career with the Knights, I was here, looking at houses and staying about forty miles away at a hotel. I ended up at a bar hammered and hooked up with a chick in the bathroom.

I was so drunk that night that I may not have connected the dots, but she approached me at the stadium where she hangs with London and asked that I never mention it. She and her boyfriend had just broken up, and it was a rebound thing. I was good with that.

I have a lot of heart, passion, and love inside of me, but never once have I looked at a girl and thought, Damn, she's sexy, funny, sweet, and sassy. She's someone I could see myself pounding out a few kids and growing old with . The whole till-death-do-us-part thing? Nuh-uh.

With a last name like Hart, you'd think the damn thing inside my chest would skip a beat when I met the right girl.

I love women and everything about them. Hell, I love them when they're being bitchy or acting crazy—it shows spirit. But I have never once felt that feeling people talk about, and I've met dozens who should have fit the bill.

The Brooks sisters, for example. They're tall, all legs and tits, more thick than stick—which is my preference—with long black hair and blue eyes. But Riley has this insane magnetic personality. She's funny, sweet with the older folks, and sassy with everyone else. Just the flavor I like. So, yeah, the only girl who may have ticked those boxes shares DNA with Lauren and has just gotten engaged.

Riley Mae Brooks .

Even if I hadn't nailed her sister, there's no way their brother, Jackson, would be cool with it. He hates her boyfriend. He straight-up said he doesn't deserve her, and I agree. But when he followed it up with, "No man will ever be good enough for either of them," I realized that even if I could un-fuck Lauren, I couldn't fuck Riley to see if she ticked that last box.

Jackson draws my attention back to where it belongs. "You gonna throw a card or?—"

"Yeah, fuck it." I toss in the ten.

Jackson chuckles and throws in the eight of spades, which tells us he's still got the right suit. "Only need one to set you."

Logan grabs the cards and tosses out the king of spades.

"Well, shit." Grimes chuckles and tosses out the two.

"That's a possible three." I smile as I throw the seven of hearts.

"You out of spades?" Jackson asks.

"Was out last hand," I remind him.

"Shit," he grumbles as he tosses out the jack of spades.

The dozen or so OG players hoot and howl.

"You took down the champ," one of the OG says of Jackson.

"Damn right, we did." Logan smiles as he stands, looking at his wife and no one else. "See you guys at the gym at ten."

I hem and haw about doing the right thing as Logan walks to the door, arm slung over his wife's shoulder, and then that fucking voice in my head, the one that tells me I'm being a dick, does its thing.

"Hey," I call after him.

He holds his hand up. "It's all you, Hart."

"Fuck yes!" I jump up and head toward the bar, smiling when I see Riley walking out from the back, golden pitchfork in hand.

Smiling, she walks out from behind the bar and holds it out for me, laughing. "Congratulations, Hart."

"You have no idea how?—"

"It's a pitchfork, spray-painted gold, not a Super Bowl ring," her fiancé cuts me off.

Harts don't hate unless it's well deserved, and this motherfucker is edging his way to the top of my really short list.

Brett Thompson is the epitome of arrogance. His wardrobe is a collection of high-end clothes that don't blend in with the locals. His hair is always perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, giving off the impression that he spends a good portion of his day grooming himself. His jaw is always set in a way that makes it clear he's not easily impressed. His eyes are a steely gray and rat-like. The dick is constantly measuring you up, and no doubt finds you lacking.

Brett loves the finer things in life and isn't shy about showing them off. He drives a brand-new BMW and wears a Rolex. His thin-lipped smile is always tight, and when he speaks, there's a subtle sneer in his tone, as if he's humoring you by engaging in conversation.

He's a master at the art of subtle put-downs, delivering them all with a fake-ass smile. He loves to make "jokes" that are thinly veiled insults, and if someone gets offended, he brushes it off with not so much as an apologetic look.

I have no idea how this fuckwad got a girl like Riley to agree to marry his sorry ass, and I really don't get how the hell her family doesn't see right through his shit.

"A win's a win." I shrug as I turn to look at the men and hold the pitchfork in the air. "Hell yeah!"

Even over the cheers, I hear him say to Riley, "The closest thing he's gonna get to?—"

I turn back and see her glaring at him.

I've had just enough zero fucks juice—which happens to be one drink—to put his ass in his place, but Grimes pulls me into a one-armed hug.

"Congratulations, Hart." Stepping back, he smiles. "What are you going to do to celebrate the big win?"

This opens a door I did not previously see, giving me the perfect opportunity to piss rat face off even more.

The first time I ever realized people could be assholes was after Dad lost our house. We had to move into the mobile mansion where we lived until Mom finally stopped taking his ass back, and eventually ended up moving in with our grandmother and changing schools.

"Kill them with kindness, my little hearts," Mom would say.

Mostly, I did as she asked, but not always. I'm not a boy anymore, and kicking his ass, whether he deserves it or not, would result in jail time and pissing off the team's owners since his fiancée is family.

So, kindness it is.

"I'm going to Disneyland, baby!"

"You think you could give me a lift home before you head west?"

"Florida's south, Grimes." I chuckle as we approach the exit.

"Disney World's in Florida, not Disneyland ," Brett remarks in his normal condescending tone.

I wonder how much jail time I'd get for busting his mouth.

I look from him to Riley, whose hazel eyes are wide and worrisome.

I love women. Love them. Seeing them uncomfortable is not something I relish in. Unless it's due to initial penetration, we usually work that out within a few thrusts.

In this case, that's neither here nor there, I remind myself and set to right the wrong her piece of shit fiancé has put us in. "You have my card on file."

She nods and forces a smile.

"Put the OG Knights ,"—I say Knights like he said land — "tabs on my card."

After saying goodnight to the old men and Jackson, we head out.

"You done?" Grimes chuckles, and I glance over at him.

"Done what?"

"Stewing," he states.

I shake my head as I come to a stop. "Not stewing, just imagining busting bones."

"She said yes." He shakes his head. "Some chicks like assholes. You should try that instead of the whole Knight bit. She may finally see that you've got a thing for?—"

"Grimes, you've got the wrong idea. I don't have a thing for anyone. I treat all the ladies the same."

"You and Boone both have a"—he pauses and chuckles—"way with the ladies. But you're different with the Brooks sisters."

Well, shit, but also bullshit, and I'm calling it.

"First, do not compare my harmless appreciation to Boone's … whatever it is Boone does; and second, they're Ross adjacent. Of course, I'm?—"

"So are Maggie Sawyer and Sydney Sparks, but you're constantly flirting with them, and Izzy's last name is Ross, yet?—"

I bark out a laugh. "All three of them are worse than me. Hell, I think they're almost worse than Boone."

"You don't pull that with either Brooks girl. I get it with Lauren; she's just a?—"

"Love you, man, but if you call her a bitch, you're gonna be left on the side of the road."

"Wasn't gonna say bitch," he lies. "Witch , maybe. And before you get all Knight in padded armor and stick up for her, all I have to say is: if the broom fits …" He leaves it hanging right there with a huff.

"She's a cool chick." Or my ass would probably have been traded by now .

"Cool like a fucking glacier," he mumbles.

"You're not all that warm and fuzzy when it comes to her, either. Try the whole kill her with kindness bit like I did with fuckwit tonight."

"Like fuckwit , Lauren Brooks wouldn't be affected."

I'm half a second from calling him out as he did me because I'm sensing there's more to this, but it just feels wrong to do that, especially since she and I did the no-pants dance in that bar bathroom. She and I are cool, but I'm thinking if it goes in that direction, she may be pissed if she thought I was passing her off to a teammate.

"Hart, you just passed my place."

" Shiiiit ," I hiss while silently scolding myself for getting lost in my Brooks sisters' thoughts and pull a U-turn in the middle of the street.

He grabs the oh shit handle and hisses, "You're gonna get a damn ticket."

"It's only illegal if you get caught," I joke. "I've yet to see a cop after dark in the village."

"Kind of the point," he grumbles before he sighs and leans back in his seat as I park behind his ninety-thousand-dollar car in front of the townhouse he's rented since we started playing pro.

"You good?" I ask, knowing he's not.

I watch him work something out in his head as he unbuckles his seat belt.

He scrubs a hand over his face as he tells me, "Got papers today."

I'd love to be able to pull off a bullshit look, saying I didn't see that one coming, but I did. He and Deborah went from fuck buddies in college back at Lincoln U to married when the world shut down. They've been separated for over a year. Plus, he's tripping over Lauren. So, yeah, I can't even pull a look out of my ass.

"Not sure how to feel. Divorce isn't something to be taken lightly." Neither is marriage. "I'm glad you have that piece of paper ending that chapter of Kolby Grime's memoirs so you can start the next."

He waves his hand toward the townhouses, and his chest rises and falls in a silent chuckle. "Start over here?"

"Hey champ, you're basically living in Halston House; this is freshman-year shit. Buy a house, plant roots, and see what happens."

"Can't afford to," he says in a tone that is so low I'm pretty sure I just heard his thoughts.

There's no way in hell I'm hearing this right. I know he's making at least twenty a year. "Come again?"

"Her father's a lawyer, that's how," he states.

A few guys on the team pay exes out the ass. Regarding child support, I'm all about it. If any of them complain, it takes everything I have to keep from slamming a fist in their faces. Alimony, too. I never want to see or hear of a mother working three jobs like mine to care for her kids. But Grimes was married for about a minute and has no kids. She has an education and is more than able. Hell, her father is a lawyer; she's not hurting in any way.

"Alimony?"

He holds up three fingers. "Fifty percent for three years."

" Dayum ." I sigh. Then I decide I need to keep this shit positive, or I'm not going to get home in time to start my day-off-eve ritual. "But still?—"

"Before taxes," he snarls. "And I have to pay for the New York City apartment and maintenance until she finds a job and a place." He throws his thumb over his shoulder toward the townhouse.

"Don't her parents live on Park Ave? And hold up, she isn't required to pay?—"

"Was stupid to sign the papers. My own damn fault." He grabs the door handle. "I need?—"

"To talk to Ava Links. She's the head of the legal team for the Knights. She'll?—"

"Hart, I will let your ass get pummeled on the field Sunday if you breathe a word. I was an idiot. I sure as hell don't want the entire fucking organization to know that."

As he opens the door and slides out, I know I'm about to fuck up my perfectly peaceful day off tomorrow.

"Grimes."

He lifts his chin.

"Gonna do breakfast with Mom in the morning after my run. You wanna come over and?—"

"Play Call of Duty?" he cuts me off.

"Yeah, champ, let's do that."

I'm halfway home when my screen lights up, and my ride-or-die, Siri , announces, " You have an incoming call from Big Daddy Boone. Would you like to accept this call ?"

"How about you answer for me, sweet thing."

She replies, " I'm sorry, I don't understand. "

"I still have hope for us," I whisper as I hit accept .

When the call connects, my ears are assaulted by an ear-piercing scream. I cringe before asking, "What the hell is going on over there?"

He chuckles. "My little flower is making sure she's heard."

"Let her know that she is." The sound stops for just a second before it begins again. "Boone, man, what the hell is wrong with her? Does she need a doctor?"

"A doctor, no. An exorcism, maybe," he jokes, and she stops. "Any chance you're close to the Brewery?"

"Why? What's up?"

"My Wovey!" she screams, then lets out another shriek.

I'm straight-up shocked. "I can't believe that's coming from sweet little Lily."

He waits for her to stop screaming, then says, "Yeah, well, Lovey's MIA, and I think we may have dropped it at Brooks."

"No, mya Wovey! My drop!"

"My bad, little flower. You're right; you dropped Lovey," he says calmly.

"No! My bad. No, you! Flower bad!" And then she screams again.

"Fuck, man, I'm on it. What do I do if I can't find it?"

"Stop somewhere and grab two pairs of earplugs." He chuckles.

"Two sets?"

He clears his throat. "She wanted to feed the ducks."

"You at the lake house?"

He responds with one word. "Yeah."

I'm not pissed about it. Hell, I've told him to move in; there's plenty of room. He's another teammate who makes a mint but doesn't have much to show for it. But, unlike Grimes, his funds are low because he pays child support, which is not court-ordered.

He got Lily's mom, Lindsey, pregnant in college. It didn't matter it was a one-night thing; he wasn't about to be a deadbeat. Her parents cut her off because neither of them wanted to get married, and she ended up dropping out and returning home. Boone says he was pissed at first but understands her wanting what's best for their daughter. Her parents are dicks, and although he isn't one to talk about the hard shit. I've gotten bits and pieces about them trying to marry her off to some trust fund baby and asking him to step back and sign over his rights so she and Lily can have what they deem a real chance at life. He obviously isn't down for that. He loves his flower. He has her every chance he can get her. She's usually the sweetest little thing.

"I'll swing by and check it out. See you in a bit, man."

I end the call, pull another U-turn, and head to Brooks Brewery.

I pull into an empty parking, except for the Jeeps parked in the back row. Riley and Lauren both have two-door Wranglers; Lauren's is a firecracker red, and Riley's is more maroon. Sydney Sparks has a custom pink, four-door Jeep with her Sugar Rush logo on the side of it. Izzy Ross has an older model Jeep, and it's red, but you can't tell since the thing is always covered in mud. And, like Izzy, Maggie Sawyer drives an older model Jeep; it's navy blue and almost as dirty.

I pull to a stop, park, and reach under my seat for my flashlight to look around for Lily's Wovey.