Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

PRESLEY

June: The Wedding

I’m rethinking my decision to wear head-to-toe black to a wedding.

I don’t think I look like I was dressing for a funeral—the wide-leg trousers are lightweight and flowy, and the sleeveless lace top is flirty. The heels I’m wearing don’t look funeral appropriate either.

Listen, what I was going for was professional. Presley Tatum, physical therapist for the LA Rays football team. I’m honored that the star running back for the Rays, Lincoln Knight, invited me to his wedding. And I enjoy the camaraderie I feel with the players on the team, but as a member of the Rays training staff, there’s a certain distance I feel like I should keep with them. When players get too close to team staff like me, it’s asking for trouble. I thought not wearing a party dress while I was, well, partying with them might help me remember that in case the boundaries got a little blurry.

I didn’t think about how Lincoln obviously knows guys from other teams who are really good-looking, and I don’t need to keep a boundary with them. Like the New York Empire backup quarterback who used to play for the Rays, or another receiver Lincoln played with in college who’s with the Cobras right now. Now I wish I was wearing a fun party dress with glitter or sparkles or… Something that made me feel more like a girl these guys might ask out, like the handful of actresses Layla invited. Every single one of them looks like they could have walked a red carpet to get here. The football players here are never going to notice me. They’re much more likely to want to dance with a woman at this wedding who looks like she’s here to have fun, not the one who dressed “professional.”

My gaze flits to Brock Hunter, an old teammate of Lincoln’s from college. He’s a left-tackle for the Denver Devils, not the type of guy to get a lot of notice, the way Lincoln and the Rays quarterback, Eli Dash, do. Except Brock’s temper on the field has made him famous. I snicker to myself as I think about the latest meme I came across of him, throwing his helmet to the ground and it bouncing back up at him. He bats it away and then kicks it. The caption was something about trying to avoid responsibility.

“I see you eyeing Brock,” a voice says, surprising me. Lincoln’s new wife, Layla, is at my side.

“Me? No. I’m not really into guys with tempers like his.” I smile to soften the statement. Lincoln and Brock are good friends, and Lincoln mentioned last week, when the guys were in the facility for some off-season therapy, that Brock was coming to town early to help with the wedding. Their friendship has never made sense to me, considering what a big cinnamon roll Lincoln is, but football brings a lot of guys from different walks of life together.

“Ask your dad about him,” Layla says. “He knows that Brock isn’t anything like what the media portrays.” My eyebrows arch up, which makes her smile widen. “Yeah, he’s passionate. You, of all people, know the intensity these guys have to live at to go pro in a sport like football.”

I study Brock again. He’s dancing alongside Eli Dash’s wife and grinning like he’s having the time of his life, which, yeah, feels a little off considering his reputation. “Maybe,” I say. “But still.”

She puts a hand on my elbow. “Listen, Presley, there are plenty of good-looking players for you to flirt with.” She winks at me, and I chuckle. I have been scoping out my options. “Don’t dismiss Brock because of what the media and the commentators say. The Devils are creating a narrative, and making Brock out to be the football bad-guy distracts people from the real problems there.”

That’s true. The Devils had the worst record in the league last season, and it doesn’t look like things are going to get better this year. My dad, a former Rays football player, has commented on the poor coaching.

She squeezes my elbow. “I’m saying he’s a good guy.” We look up to see Lincoln waving her over. She gives my elbow one more squeeze and dances towards him. I can’t help glancing at Brock again, still dancing with Court Dash. Even she wouldn’t be out of place on the red carpet. Was there a red carpet walk to the wedding that I missed? Maybe only for the high-profile guests.

Brock’s smile is not a thing football fans see a lot, which backs up what Layla said. Sports channels and social media do focus on his brooding side, the guy who has a reputation for speaking his mind, even if his opinion gets him in trouble. In the sports world, Brock Hunter gets clicks when he glares or throws something on the sideline.

They clearly haven’t discovered this smile. Because he’s straight-up gorgeous when he smiles. That, combined with Layla’s words, make me curious about him and what else I don’t know that wouldn’t jive with his reputation.

His eyes meet mine, surprising me. Also embarrassing me, because I’ve been caught ogling him, but I try to own it by smiling at him. His gaze drops to the necklace my aunt gave me a couple years ago, and he squints then scowls.

Um, okay .

So there’s the Brock Hunter we all know. He might be a great guy like Layla says, but I’m going to need more proof. I quickly turn away and feel twice as self-conscious about my dancing as before. Maybe I can seek out an actor friend of Layla’s instead. I like football players fine, especially since I work around a lot of them. But I don’t have a type or anything.

I scout the people around me dancing. The easiest way to strike up a conversation with someone would be slowly dancing my way over like it’s an accident. Weddings are the perfect time to find dates, and I don’t want to be left out. All I’m asking for is the number of a nice, good-looking guy. Besides, Aunt Shannon would be proud of me for putting myself out there. I’ve never been shy, but I’ve definitely tried harder the last year to take more chances.

“Hi!” a voice says loudly over the music, making me spin around. Brock Hunter stands behind me, hands in his pockets, and his expression… well, he’s not glaring, but he’s not laughing like he was with Court, either. Not even a smirk. Like I said, he’s not known for his cheery attitude, so I try to ignore the discomfort his unreadable face conveys and remember what Layla said about him.

“Uh, hi,” I call back, nodding at him and smiling. I can’t help it. I’m a nervous smiler, and he makes me very nervous. The white lights strung along the ceiling of the tent twinkle in his dark brown eyes, but the firm set of his lips make sure I don’t fall for the trick of light and mistake him for happy.

Brock is also huge. I’m used to big football players, I am. I work on them all the time. But somehow his height—well over Lincoln’s six foot four—seems overwhelming. And for a left tackle, one of the guys directly responsible for protecting the quarterback, Brock is surprisingly slim. I mean, he’s not actually slim. He probably weighs something like 275, but linemen are usually hefty-looking. Brock looks like he could run a five forty.

But also like he could stop a car coming at him by lowering his shoulders .

He has his hands in the pockets of his dress pants. His suit is black, his white dress shirt pristine, and as one of Lincoln’s groomsmen, his yellow tie matches the wedding colors.

He nods toward my necklace and says something.

“I’m sorry, what?” I shout back.

He steps closer but also raises his voice. “I like your necklace. Where did you get it?”

My fingers automatically find the silly black stone etched with the crest of a fake kingdom from a book series I loved when I was a kid.

Okay, fine. Yes, I reread the whole series last year.

Heat dumps into my cheeks, and I wonder why Brock would fixate on this. Up against the black of my outfit, I didn’t think anyone would even notice it. Otherwise I would have chosen something a little more elegant for a wedding.

This necklace looks elegant, though. And I thought Aunt Shannon would have gotten a kick out of me wearing it to something like this.

Ugh, I miss her, and it’s stupid that Brock just asking about my necklace has tears stinging the backs of my eyes.

“My aunt gave it to me.” I move closer to him to be heard. My voice breaks a little, but I think that’s from having a conversation at high volume. I hope. “It’s from a book I like.” Books, actually. Fifteen of them. Should be sixteen, but Gideon Thornridge has been silent on that subject for over ten years now.

Brock smirks.

And there I go again. That smile softens him so much—and, of course, makes me weak in the knees. Flashing it at me should be considered a dangerous weapon.

“The Obsidian Kingdom,” he says.

I blink rapidly in shock. Brock Hunter knows about The Obsidian Kingdom book series? No one knows about this book series. Not really.

His smile widens, and even if he was about to make fun of me for what might be a silly thing to still be obsessed with at nearly thirty years old, I wouldn’t even care. I’m telling you, this smile is the thing of legends.

“Let’s get something to drink,” he suggests, nodding toward the open bar.

I follow, unsure where this is going and how it relates to TOK, as us fans like to refer to the beloved series. All one hundred of us.

Is Brock Hunter one of those one hundred? I bite back amusement at the thought. Probably not, but maybe someone he knows.

I order a Coke from the bar since I’m not much of a drinker, and Brock follows suit, then leads me toward a table away from the dance floor, where it’s a lot quieter.

“I’ve read TOK about a dozen times,” he says when we stop at the table.

I nearly miss my chair as I move to sit down. Brock grabs my arm and keeps me up, all while steadying my Coke on the table. “Sorry,” I murmur, slipping into my chair. “I’m not really used to anyone knowing about TOK.” The fact that he’s read it as many times as I have convinces me more than anything that he’s the good guy Layla said he is.

“There are only a few of us,” he says dryly. His smile has faded, but amusement lines his expression.

I chuckle. “Very rare to stumble into another fan.”

He looks down at my necklace again, his lips turning up ever so slightly. “I read the first one for a middle school parent-kid reading thing.” His expression tenses the slightest bit and then relaxes. “Couldn’t help but read all the rest.”

I put my elbows on the table and lean forward. “Parent-kid reading thing?”

“Didn’t your school do something like that?” he asks. “You had to pick an adult to read a book with and discuss it? Then they had to sign a paper saying you’d done it for a grade.”

“Not that I can remember. But it sounds fun.” I’m seeing a little bit of the passion Layla was talking about. There’s excitement in his eyes that probably mirrors my expression—eagerness in finding someone to share something you love with. The football players I know—my dad, the team members I work with, especially the ones I can call friends—they’re all passionate about the sport they love.

He looks down at the table. “It was good for me,” he says in a low voice. I barely catch it with all the background noise, and I instinctively lean in closer then catch myself and sit back again. “How about you? How did you discover it?”

“My aunt bought the first one at a garage sale for me because she thought it looked like something I’d like.” I was really into fantasy books as a kid. Read all the Fablehaven series and Percy Jackson and anything similar my library had. “I had to save all my babysitting money that summer to buy the rest of the series because my library didn’t have them. Did yours?”

He gives a short laugh. “No. I grew up in a tiny Wyoming town. A family friend bought them for me.” He shakes his head in a nostalgic way, a smile remaining. He’s warming up to me a little, I think. “He’s the one who suggested TOK,” Brock goes on, “though I don’t know how he came across it. Probably googled ‘books with battle scenes for angry teenage boys to let off steam’ or something.”

I snort. Are his outbursts off the field something he’s struggled with since he was younger? Maybe the family friend thought reading would simmer him down? I want to know more, and finding out that he’s read a series I’ve been obsessed with since I was a teen flicks to life the spark of a crush.

I can picture Aunt Shannon eyeing me teasingly. She loved to rib me about my crushes and how freely I admitted to them, small or big. She was my best friend, so we talked about everything. She was the same with me, especially once I was out of high school. She didn’t spare details about the men she dated, and when she met her boyfriend, Thomas, she confessed within days that she knew he was the one. She was practically vibrating with excitement the night she told me that they’d talked about their future for the first time and that Thomas hadn’t been afraid to confess he knew they were headed for something serious.

Then her diagnosis took it all away.

I push those thoughts out, because tonight I am channeling the Aunt Shannon who wanted to find joy in every small moment, especially a few hours with a cute guy. “I heard there’s going to be a sixteenth book. Soon maybe,” I say.

Brock’s expression brightens. “Yeah. I read somewhere that it could even drop as a surprise this summer.”

Somewhere . The only place people talk about TOK are obscure Reddit threads or the TOK forum on the website. I wonder if I’ve ever seen him post something. That flicker of a crush flares. And besides that, this conversation is hard to fit with the memes that pop up of him throwing things. It makes me want to find out about the good guy Layla told me not to dismiss.

“I’ve heard that story before,” I say. “I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”

“Same.” Brock takes a sip of his Coke. Our eyes meet for a moment, and it seems like he relaxes a little more into his seat. “Still, I can’t help but cross my fingers. I’m dying to know if Lyra gave up her powers or took the chance that she could save Eldraeth with them.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re glossing over the biggest part of the choice—abandoning Kael.”

Brock stares at me, that squinty, almost a glare, look coming back, but I see it for what it is now. He’s pondering. He’s one of those people who has a resting angry face, and it’s been misunderstood. One side of his mouth turns up. “How could I forget?”

There’s something knowing in that turn of his lips that makes me blush. Yes, as a thirteen-year-old girl, I was extremely invested in the romantic subplot of Lyra and Kael through the books.

Okay, yes. I still am.

Also, I have a feeling that next time I reread the books, how I imagine Kael to look might shift. He’ll be impossibly tall, blond hair darkening closer to the roots, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache.

Our conversation turns into discussion and light-hearted arguments over various plot lines and fan theories. Little by little, the grumpy persona Brock hides behind fades. I’m seeing the good guy that could be friends with Lincoln, that would have Layla championing him.

After our third Cokes, Brock nods to my necklace again. “Is your aunt a fan of the books too? You said she bought them for you.”

I keep a smile on my face because even though Brock and I have solidly bonded over TOK, it’s too soon to cry in front of him. Talking about Aunt Shannon doesn’t always bring me to tears. It’s been almost a year since she died. But even though she only read the first book with me, she supported my habit in every way she could. The only reason she didn’t buy me the rest of the series from Amazon herself was because Mom insisted I should earn it.

“Not really,” I say, grateful my voice is steady. I clear my throat to make sure it stays that way. “But she loved my obsession and fed it all the time.”

“Loved.” He catches the way I used past tense and tilts his head at me.

My smile turns into a sad one that I can’t help. “She passed away almost a year ago.” I reach up and touch the necklace. “She was my best friend.”

“I’m sorry, Presley.” The genuineness to his tone melts my insides.

“I think Layla might have been right,” I murmur.

I can’t believe he picks it up amidst all the noise around us, but his pondering face comes back as he eyes me. “Right about what?”

My cheeks warm, but I think of Aunt Shannon and how she’d be giving me eyebrow wiggles and encouraging me to flirt it up if she were here. “Just that you’re a good guy, despite your penchant for helmet throwing.”

He lets out a short, dry laugh. “Long story short, my dad left when I was eight, and my mom didn’t have money for a therapist—not that I would’ve talked to one, to be honest—so she signed me up for football so I had an outlet for my anger. I know I shouldn’t do stuff like that on the sidelines, that I should express my frustration in private. And that the Devils are using it to sweep stuff under the rug. But dumping a cooler of ice water out—” Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten about that meme last season. “It’s better than me pointing out all the ways my teammates aren’t doing their jobs.” I barely catch it, but he says under his breath, “I know football.” It’s not meant for me to hear, and unlike him, I let it go because this is different than admitting that maybe Layla is trying to do some matchmaking. He’s reassuring himself.

“Things are bad?” I say anyway. Honestly, anyone watching a few football games knows the Devils are in a spiral that no one wants to take responsibility for. Not management, not the coaches, and definitely not the all-stars they keep trading for to save the sinking ship.

It’s a couple moments before he answers, and he doesn’t meet my eye when he does. “Too many guys are in it for themselves, trying to be the star and to make the headlines. That’s not how teams work.” He looks up and meets my gaze. “McKay Thompson was picked in the first round, led LSU to a national championship. He’s one of the best QBs in the league, but none of that matters if he doesn’t have time to make plays, if linebackers are on top of him before he can hand off—forget about getting a pass. And if he does? Half the time it’s intercepted because he has to rush it.” He shakes his head quickly. “I’m sorry. You probably don’t want to know all of that.”

It's my turn to smirk, although I don’t think it’s as sexy as when Brock does it. There really is something to say about those brooding guys. And I have a weakness for them—thank you, Sir Kael Winteridge.

“You know who my dad is, right?”

“Hmm. Presley Tatum… Tatum.” His eyes widen, surprised. “Wait. That Tatum? As in Steven Tatum, the legend?”

“I can’t wait to tell him you said that.” I grin. “The point is, I can talk football. And I like to. I wouldn’t be working for the Rays if I didn’t.”

He returns my grin, and the way it lights up his face makes tiny footballs bounce around in my stomach. “Well, Presley, I don’t know what it is about tonight. Maybe it’s that you’re a fellow TOK fan—” He makes the sign of the Eldraeth brotherhood, three fingers pressed against his heart. I giggle, which I try to reel in and then can’t. “Or drinking all this soda,” he continues. “But I’ve said more to you about all that than I’ve told anyone except Lincoln.”

“You got a Veilstone on you?” I ask in a teasing voice. “I’ll happily Shadowbind your secret and take it to my grave.”

“Too bad. I’m fresh out. Any chance that necklace is a Veilstone?”

I pick it up and finger it. “Pretty sure it’s glass. Or maybe a rock painted black.” I shrug. Aunt Shannon showed me the Etsy store she got the necklace from, and the artist is legit, but I don’t think they’re charging $19.95 for real obsidian.

“Guess I’ll just have to trust you.” He makes a face like it’s no big deal, but I don’t buy it.

My arms tingle, but I try to ignore that my crush is snowballing. He’s a TOK fan—honestly, what more do I need in a man?—and that smile is something to write home about. The broody side of him is a mystery I want to solve, and if Layla Knight, the wife of the sweetest guy I know, says Brock is a keeper, I can’t help but trust her.

The truth is I think Brock might be my real-life version of Kael.

Aunt Shannon would have approved.