6. Post Game Rush

POST GAME RUSH

Riley

Standing at the bar, I am doing my best to hide the fact that I'm pissed that I was not at the field, celebrating the most epic win in the history of the New York Knights because Brett had such a severe stomachache that he was going to call an ambulance to get him home, just because he knew I didn't want to leave.

Now he's sitting at my bar, pounding a steak.

"You seriously can't be angry that I thought I had a major medical issue, so you had to leave one game out of how many have we been to?"

"Brett, you had to shit."

He looks around to make sure no one heard me because God forbid anyone think Brett M. Thomas does something as disgusting as taking a shit. "I didn't know that. Jesus, Riley, stop being such a bitch about it."

Now I'm looking up and down the bar to make sure no one heard him say that to me. "You could have tried using the bathroom."

"I don't shit in public restrooms."

"It's the owner's box. It?—"

"I'm done with this conversation. There's nothing I can do about it."

"Fine." I grab the remote and turn up the TV as they wrap up the doing post-game press interviews.

Iz and Mags storm through the doors, hooting and howling. "The Knights are tied for number one in the NFC, baby!"

Lauren walks in behind them, shuffling through her bag, passing by the bar, not saying a word, and heads right to the back.

Sydney … well, Sydney has the fakest as fuck smile I've ever seen on her face, and I've seen her smile through a piece of shit ex saying it was her fault because she let herself go, as she walks in. "Where do you need me?"

"One never knows how many are showing up after a game, so have a seat and let me get you a drink."

"Mixed Tape." She cocks her head to the side. "Did you pick a genre?"

I pull the bottle out of the ice bucket that I have it chilling in for Mom and the aunties to try it tonight. "Requiem."

"Is that a musical genre?"

Pouring her a glass, I answer, "Mass requiem is."

"Have you tried it, Brett?"

"Riley never offered." He pushes his empty plate toward me.

"You didn't like the first five attempts. I just assumed?—"

"I'd tell you it wasn't good?" he asks. "Isn't that what you want? Honesty?"

"Always," I answer and leave it at that.

"Hmm," he says, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms.

"Honest is always the best policy," Syd says, setting her glass back down on the bar. "And I honestly think this is delicious."

He waves a hand toward her. "And see, we don't always have to like the same things." He pushes back in his barstool. "I hate to be?—"

"Foods up. All hands on deck!" Lo calls back to us.

I turn and head back, happy to be called to do busy work so that I don't have to keep exchanging jabs with Brett.

I hurry back to the kitchen, and when I see Mickey, our head chef, wearing a Knights shirt and not one of the shirts from the bar we used to work at together a lifetime ago, it brings tears to my eyes.

Mickey sees my reaction, rolls his eyes, and nods to Lauren. I simply smile.

I feel a hand on my hip and turn to look behind me. "Little sis did good, huh?"

He's been such an asshole lately when it comes to the team that I've all but forgotten the fact that when it comes to things that matter the most, Brett shows up, even emotionally, like right now. "Yeah."

"We good?" he asks.

I don't want to say yes, but I know I will. But I do hesitate long enough that he kisses my cheek before stepping back.

"All right, put me to work."

The place is packed with every player on the roster, their families, and the New York Knights staff. If you add the die-hard fans who live here in Blue Valley, we're at about five hundred people. Due to the size of Barn and the open-door space, there's no concern we'll be over capacity.

Boone's here with my girl, Lily, and her mother, who seems nervous around the team, but who wouldn't? Syd avoiding them makes my heart heavy, but Wednesday is only three days away, and we'll most definitely over-talk that situation.

Hart's sister, Jillian, who was supposed to work for us during events this winter but went and bought a flower shop and fell in love with one of her brother, Roman's, Jerseys Jaguars MLB teammates, is even behind the bar. Hell, so is her man, Roman, his girl, their mother, and her boyfriend. We have four others on tonight, as we do every Sunday while in season, and we're still three deep on all three sides of the bar.

The rest of us just keep refilling the chafing dishes with every family's favorite comfort side dish and the best NY strip steaks we can find. That and clearing plates. So many plates.

After an hour, about half of the crowd has thinned, and at the end of the second hour, there are only about fifty people left, all of whom are players and the owners.

"How are you gonna top this when they win the NFC Championship game?" Jillian asks excitedly as she walks around to the other side of the bar.

"Just add seafood, live music, and hire about twenty more wait and bar staff."

As she sits next to her boyfriend, she asks, "Are there that many people in this town?"

I point to the tip jar, which is shaped like a barrel and overflowing. "Anyone who's ever worked here after a game walks out with a few hundred bucks for four hours, and that jar is never that full. I'm guess it's almost triple. The local kids will be begging for a night. You'll all get at least five hundred."

"Oh, hell no, we're not taking your money," she says, as if offended.

Her man shakes his head as he lifts the beer I've just placed in front of him to his lips, his World Series ring catching the light and nearly blinding me.

"It's not my money; owners don't get tips."

"Neither do friends of the owners." She arches a brow.

When I see Lauren hurry through the crowd toward the doors that lead to the deck and watch her push them open like a linebacker and walk out, I hold up a finger. "Be right back."

When I get outside, I see her standing between Hudson and … Brett.

"What is going on?" I ask, pissed.

"Tell my fiancée what you said to me," Brett spits.

Hudson unclenches his fists and crosses his arms, and the look on his face is disgust. "That's your play? No wonder you rode the bench in college. How much playtime did you get, number negative one?"

The fact he knows that much about Brett's college football career is … disconcerting.

"I went to an Ivy; my focus was on my studies, you imbecile. I didn't attend a low rent state school with a pitiful record until that"—his face scrounges up in disgust—"boy from Texas showed up, and you rode his coattails all the way to the only team in the NFL who went to the Island of Misfit Toys to recruit a team of low-talent wannabes."

"Brett!" I gasp.

Hudson barks out a laugh as he catches Lauren's hand before it lands on its desired target—Brett's face. "That may have actually stung if it didn't come from a clown whose father stroked dicks under the alumni table to get his kid into college and then had to open the vault and pay in greenbacks so you could wear the jersey of a team we wiped our asses with."

"From the bench." Lauren nods, trying not to laugh at Hart.

"My grades got me in, not my family's money. But speaking of, isn't your old man in jail for?—"

"That's enough!" I yell. "This was supposed to be a celebration, not a fucking third-arm race."

Hudson reaches down and starts unbuckling his belt. "After this, every time you open your mouth to make some snide-ass comment, trying to convince yourself you're superior, remember my dick and everything about who I am is bigger than yours. And Brett, you can look, but you can't touch."

Brett laughs out, "Finally, he finds a way to show my fiancée his dick, hoping she'll want to?—"

Lauren cuts him off by taking his hand. "He's too honorable a man to go after Riley, you turd. Choke on that and not his dick." She walks away and pulls at Hudson's hand, scolding him, "Your penis should never be used in an attempt to end a fight." She looks back at Brett. "That's just fucking lame."

I see the way Hudson looks at Lo, and it's with amusement and respect, I think. It shouldn't sting, but it totally does. But it also means I have some work to do because the two of them would be such a beautiful couple.

Once they're inside, I whirl on Brett. "What was that all about?"

"He told me I didn't deserve you, that any man in this bar was better for you than me. I flat-out asked him if that included him, and the bastard smirked and walked away."

"And you?—"

"I was out here, getting some air, and he told me he was going to be all over me until the day you said I do, Riley." He throws his hands in the air. "He had the nerve to tell me he was confident that he'd be part of your life longer than me." He grabs my face. "The sooner we get married, the sooner he'll stop this bullshit, and I won't be so on edge. He's ruining us, Riley, and you just won't let yourself see it. You think it's all me and?—"

"He can't ruin us, Brett; only we can do that."

"Marry me."

"I already said?—"

"I don't wanna wait until the season ends. You and I elope, and then we have a reception after the fucking season ends."

"Brett, I?—"

"I'm not waiting until the season ends to get my wife pregnant."

I close my eyes. "How do you think getting married in secret is going to change this between you and?—"

"You know me, Riley."

I open my eyes at the sound of the smile in his voice and am met with soft brown eyes.

"I'm promising you it's going to change everything."

I eye him skeptically, and he gives a genuine smile, one that disappeared when he felt betrayed by me, when he thought I was hot for Hart.

"Your man's a dick," are the first words Lauren has spoken directly to me in days.

"Not denying that, but Lo, you know that if you corner any animal, their survival instinct is going to kick in. Hart cornered him and?—"

"You truly believe that Hudson Hart is the one instigating your tantrum-throwing, entitled prick of a boyfriend?"

"He followed him out on the deck and?—"

"Jesus, Riley, do you hear yourself? You're making excuses for yet another fucking asshole!" Her yelling … at me is totally out of character.

"I need something from you."

"You're asking me for a favor right now?" She barks out a laugh.

"I'm asking that when Brett and I get married, you allow yourself to lean into what you and Hudson Hart could be."

"Me and Hart?" she gasps.

"Lo, he's?—"

"Fuck you, Riley. Like seriously, fuck you."

"Lauren," I call after her.

"You don't get to talk to me again until I say you can. Until then"—she opens the door—"fuck you."

"What is happening?" Syd asks, walking out from the kitchen.

"So much, Syd," I admit.

"Okay." She pulls me into a hug. "You and me, we're going to fix it. Make it all better."