Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

brOCK

I don’t know why I’m so intent on beating Presley through book one, but I almost don’t go down to football camp like I told Tim I would. I mean, I didn’t say I was going to be there. Just gave him a thumbs up, which could totally mean that I got the message.

But spending all day reading isn’t something I’ve done for years, not since before college, and I’m antsy by the time six rolls around. Working out with the high schoolers will be the break I need. I can order a quick dinner from the diner for me and Mom to pick up on my way home and get a couple more hours of reading in after she goes to bed. With her early shifts, she’ll be asleep by eight.

Tim’s grandson, Mason, runs up to me when I walk onto the field where the team is stretching out and chatting in small groups. Tim’s son, Chase, got married right out of high school and had a baby right away with his high school sweetheart. Mason has been following Tim around to football practices and games since he was little. The twelve-year-old gives me a high-five when I walk up. He’s just starting to grow, shooting up to five foot six and proud of it. He measures himself next to me, like he does every time he sees me.

“Getting close to your shoulder,” he claims .

I hold back a laugh. I’m still well over a foot taller, but I’m not going to burst his bubble. “Any day now, bro.”

A few kids on the team wave or call out to me from where they’re stretching. I’ve been coming to their camps and summer stuff for a while, so they’re comfortable. The younger kids stare, and I’m never sure if it’s because of my size or because they know who I am. Left tackles aren’t usually the guys who get the glory on ESPN, although I have gotten my fair share of press, thanks to the power of memes.

I stop by where Kaden Jacobs is stretching out his arms, and he pauses to hold out his fist to bump mine. “Kaden, impressive,” I say, eyeing the way he’s bulked up since last year.

He grins. This will be his second year starting center for the team, and it’s obvious he’s taking that seriously. He must have gained thirty pounds since I saw him last, most of it muscle. “Did everything you told me to. Looked up that meal plan and stuff. U-Dub wants me to commit.”

I slap him on the shoulder. “And?” I ask. University of Wyoming could definitely use an athlete like Kaden.

“There are other schools interested, so we’ll see.” He wipes at his forehead with his shirt, already sweating even though the workout hasn’t even started. It’s hot, hovering over eighty, and the sun won’t set for another couple hours, so no relief in sight.

The eagerness in Kaden’s eyes sparks excitement in my chest. I remember when the colleges first started calling when I was a junior, UW among them. It was the first time I felt like I was accomplishing my goals.

“Kaden. That’s awesome.”

“INCOMING!”

I hear the shout only seconds before arms wrap around my waist and someone attempts to throw me to the ground. I do stumble since the attack took me by surprise and because I’m laughing so hard.

“Ugh.” Colby Sutton shakes his head in disgust as he steps back. “I thought the element of surprise was on my side this time.”

“You almost had me.” I size up the sophomore safety and receiver. In a small town like Little River, a lot of the boys play both defense and offense. “The good news is that most of the receivers you’ll be tackling won’t be nearly three-hundred pounds. Also, try double-teaming me with Cade next time. Could work,” I say, nodding toward his twin, who’s strolling up behind him. The boys rib Colby for thinking he could actually tackle me. I’m still chuckling when I approach Tim, who stands about ten yards away from where all the boys are warming up.

“Ready for training camp?” Tim asks when I reach him.

“Yeah, enjoying my time here though. Where everything is a lot simpler.” Get up. Work out. Read books. Hang out with my mom. See some of the guys from high school. Enjoy the way the air is crisp and clear here and smells fresh. I’ve never doubted that I’m retiring back here someday.

“You’re looking really good, Brock. Remember that,” he says. The familiar dad-tone in his voice makes me believe it. I wish he was on staff with the Devils. My temper would be a lot easier to handle. It helped in high school that Tim always knew exactly what to say or when to sit me down because I was about to boil over. He’s known me most of my life, almost like a dad, so it makes sense that he can read me like that. I don’t know the Devils coaches as well, and it makes things harder.

I thought when I grew up the world would seem more fair. Like the farther I got from my dad leaving, the easier it would be. But more frustrations are always in the wings, pushing at me until I’m overwhelmed, and it all comes spilling out. Sometimes with a hard tackle that people comment on or me throwing my helmet on the sidelines. Sometimes with me running my mouth to reporters. And with the last few seasons with the Devils being frustrating for everyone, a lot of stuff is pent up.

But I’m trying hard to be the cool, calm guy that Tim is. I want him to be proud of me. Besides, I owe him. He sacrificed so much time for me when he didn’t have to.

“Are you having fun still?” he asks.

I let out a short combo of a laugh and frustrated huff. “It’s hard when things are the way they are.”

He folds his arms, his contemplative expression showing me how seriously he takes my feelings on this. “Yeah. I can see the disconnect when you’re out there.” He lets out a sigh. “Having fun is important at any level, even with the pressure you’re under. You gotta figure out a way to find the enjoyment again.”

Easier said than done, and he knows it. I don’t have to point it out. I move back toward the kids to stretch out with them and help Tim instruct.

An hour later, as we’re starting to run some offensive plays with the team, Tim’s wife pulls up. I hide my smile as his eyes follow her when she hops out of her Tahoe and makes her way toward the field. Even after thirty-five years together, he can’t keep his eyes off her if she’s anywhere nearby. When I was in high school and spending a lot of time at their house with Chase and Derek, we used to tease them for how affectionate they were, but in truth, even then, their loving marriage was a comfort to me.

“You got the boys for a second while I see what Meg needs?” Tim doesn’t wait for my assent before he walks to meet her by the bleachers. He kisses her as soon as they greet, and the boys wolf whistle and holler until I call them back to order, grinning myself at two fifty-somethings acting like teenagers.

The workout is easier than my normal ones, but it’s a great distraction. It’s also a great reminder of what Tim’s talking about—having fun. I step in on more than a few plays to “instruct” the guys on stuff. And sure, it’s easy when I’m blocking kids half my size and all that’s on the line is bragging rights for who wins the scrimmage. (My team, of course.) But it reminds me of the love for the game I’ve had since I first put on a helmet. My friends like Lincoln and Jett McCombs are playing for good teams and having the time of their lives, by the looks of it. I can’t control the team I’m on, or even how the rest of the line behaves—whether they protect our quarterback with all their heart or are only looking out for their own career. But I can control how hard I work. And if I have anything to say about it, nobody is getting around me.

Presley: Yes! Done! Beat you!

Brock: Noooo. I knew I shouldn’t have gone to the football camp.

Presley: Camp? You guys still doing OTAs? Thought you’d get a break before training camp starts.

Brock: No, not with the Devils. I’m visiting my mom, and the high school coach here is a good friend. Hanging out with them.

Presley: I bet they love that.

Brock: They’re teenagers. If they love it, they don’t show it. Not most of them.

Presley: Did any of them fall out of their chairs when you started talking to them?

Brock: I thought that was because I knew about TOK.

Presley: I mean, it was. But my point remains.

Brock: The guys are cool. At least they act like it when I’m around. I’ve been coming to these camps for a while, so a lot of them know me and are used to me.

Presley: It sounds like fun. I bet the coach loves it too, being able to show you as an example of his success.

Brock: Tim’s proud of me, no doubt.

Brock: But I think he’s never going to be able to stop coaching me.

Presley: Tim sounds amazing. That’s how my dad is, even though I don’t play sports competitively anymore. He’s still always trying to give me tricks from the PTs he liked that were with the team back when he played.

Brock: Tim will text me after games with a compliment, something I can improve, and then another compliment.

Brock: Same way he always coached.

Presley: The compliment sandwich!

Brock:

Brock: Sometimes I think, in the long run, I was lucky my real dad left. Because I got Tim.

Presley: What about your real dad? Does he ever text you advice?

Brock: He’d have to know I grew up.

Presley: You don’t talk to him?

Presley: Sorry, if you don’t want to talk about him, that’s fine.

Brock: Classiest thing that guy ever did was to not try to have a relationship with me after I made it to the pros.

Brock: No. We never talk. I don’t even know where he is.

Brock: Honestly, I don’t think I want to.

Presley: He’d probably be a disappointment after Tim.

Brock: No doubt.

Brock: I owe Tim so much. Even today, he’s still trying to help me. Telling me to remember why I play and why I enjoy it, even when things aren’t going great.

Brock: And being around the kids, who have all these big dreams, it keeps MY dreams alive. You know?

Presley: Sometimes remembering who we wanted to be when we could be anything is good for the soul.

I’m sitting on the porch that evening, book open in my lap but distracted by texting Presley and also by an amazing sunset being painted in the sky in front of me. Gorgeous shades of pink and orange slashed through with faint white puffs of distant clouds, and the mountains almost purple in the gathering darkness. My texting conversation with Presley has me thinking about our conversation the night of the wedding and the sense of trust I had in her that came so quickly.

Instead of responding to her text about dreaming big being good for the soul, I click over and start a facetime call.

She answers quickly, her expression bright. “Brock! Hey!”

“Got a second to chat?” It seems dumb to ask. She wouldn’t have picked up if she didn’t, but assuming feels like a jerk move too.

“Of course.” She pushes back a piece of hair that’s falling in her face from the riotous messy bun on top of her head. I should screenshot this and send it to Lincoln—further proof that there’s nothing between us but friendship. If she liked me romantically, she wouldn’t have answered like this. In fact, in all the facetime calls I’ve had with girlfriends or potential girlfriends over the years, I can’t remember one in the early days like this where the women didn’t look put together, trying to impress me.

“I know this is just an attempt to delay me from starting the next book,” she goes on, “but if anything, it’s flattering that you’re so threatened by my reading prowess.”

Laughter bursts from me, the way it has multiple times when we text. “I have no ulterior motives, except I wanted to show you my view right now—something I guarantee you’re not seeing in LA.” I flip my camera around to pan the view before me, making sure to include my mom’s picturesque porch with the swing as well as the comfy deck furniture I’m lounging in.

She sucks in a breath. “Oh, Brock…! It’s gorgeous.” There’s a pause, and in the small square in the corner of my screen, I see her eyes moving over the picture, taking it in. “Beach sunsets are awesome in their own right, but this is something else.”

I flip the screen back around, warmth in my chest at her appreciating one of my favorite views. When I make her the center of my screen again, I notice the way her eyes shimmer.

“Presley?” I furrow my brow. “Is everything okay?” The view wasn’t that good.

She chuckles nervously and swipes at her eyes with her fingers. “Oh my gosh, Brock. Of course you’re one of those guys who isn’t bothered by the idea of tears so you pretend not to notice.” She swipes again and sniffs. I think this is one of those times where the acknowledgement of her tears has encouraged them, but she’s right. I’m okay if she needs to talk about something.

“Single mom,” I remind her. “I’m comfortable with all sorts of things that lesser men fear—tampons, bras, UTIs? Come at me.”

She gives me a look I can’t interpret, maybe approval? “Hmmm.” She turns around and then pulls a plastic storage container onto her lap, tilting her phone for me to see it. “My aunt left me this before she died. I finally had the courage to open it today.”

My turn to suck in a breath. “Pres. That’s a big deal.”

She nods, her gaze on the box. “I was scared for a while, but not because I was afraid of being sad or grieving, you know? This is all I have left of her, and once I’ve seen it all, that’s just…”

“It.” I finish for her. “That’s all there is.”

“Yeah.” She breathes the word.

I quirk an eyebrow. “Anything good?”

Her smile returns, and I’m reminded of the beaming sunshine she is to my stormy sky. “Letters from her to open at certain times.”

“So … you still have more to discover.”

She turns her gaze to the box again. “Yeah. Aunt Shan was cool like that.”

Presley so easily discussing something difficult intrigues me. I don’t purposely hold back about my dad leaving or how hard it was for my mom to make ends meet, but it’s not easy for me to talk about either. I’m not saying that losing her aunt wasn’t hard, but she makes it seem like she’s good anyway. I need to learn from her. If I could take that attitude into playing for the Devils this season—I’m good anyway—it would temper some of my frustrations .

I settle back in my chair to observe her. “So, tell me all about her.”

Presley leans back against the pillows on her bed, setting her box to the side and then adjusting to a comfortable position. “She left my mom a notebook full of stupid advice, like ‘When in doubt, do the Hustle. Trust me on this.’”

“The Hustle?” I question, biting back a laugh.

She presses a hand to her forehead. “They were sooo bad at it, Brock.”

“They were together a lot?”

“Inseparable.”

“Well, I’m hoping you wrote down more of this great advice, because I could sure use advice in my life of any variety.”

“I wrote all of it down in my notes app.”

“Lay it on me.”