6. Colt

Colt

I can't figure this kid out. He's built like a fucking truck. No joke. He's big. Tall and muscled. You wouldn't think he was scared of anything, but he is. That's for damn sure.

He almost looks meek and fragile on the field as he runs, following each one of the angry old coach's commands. He's easily one of the biggest players on the team, but there's a gracefulness to him you don't usually see with guys that size. And he's holding back.

I can see that, and I hate football.

Yeah, sue me. Gasp. I know . A guy from a small town in Kansas who doesn't like football. Shocker.

But I don't. Never have. But you don't grow up here and not follow the game in some capacity. There's no doubt that Dallas knows what he's supposed to be doing, but the kid looks like he's going through the motions.

And for whatever reason, that just doesn't sit well with me. It makes me uneasy, watching him. I don't know if this coach has it out for Dallas, but it certainly seems that way. It's not like he's all sugary sweet with the other guys on the team, but he's different with Dallas.

So are the other players.

I haven't missed the numerous shoulder checks and bullshit. Low, late hits. All directed at Dallas from his own team.

Why the hell does he put up with this?

I see his little friend from the other day. Benny, I think is what Dallas called him. That kid is something else. I tower over him and have plenty of muscle on him, but he didn't back down for one second. Not one hint of meekness from that one. I watch as he runs up to Dallas and wraps his arm around his shoulder, having to practically jump up to do it, but he's totally unfazed by that fact—and that his teammates are glowering at him for being near what seems to be the pariah of the damn team.

What is going on?

Dallas laughs at something his friend says, and for a short second in time, he actually looks relaxed, but that changes quickly when he spots me. His entire body stiffens, and Benny must notice too because his eyes immediately find me and narrow into a hard glare.

It's almost cute. Like an angry little kitten. But I'm sadly not intimidated by the protective friend. I'm the protective big brother—don't fuck with me.

Benny seems to direct Dallas away, pulling him closer to the team, and I see the kid stiffen for a whole new reason. The team—they are not his friends. I can sense that from here.

The coach screams at them all to shower and then pulls Dallas by the collar of his practice jersey. I can't hear what he says to him, but all my hackles rise as I watch the interaction.

Dallas is much larger than the coach, but you wouldn't know it by the way he shrinks back while being scolded. For doing what? Following every single order without any pushback?

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with this coach? Finally, when I can feel my fingernails digging into my palms with how tightly my fists are clenched, the coach shoves Dallas away and motions toward the gym doors.

Dallas takes off, but it takes several beats for me to calm down after witnessing the interaction. The coach doesn't look my way, and I'm thankful for that because in that moment, I'm not sure I wouldn't rip his goddamn head off, just for looking my way.

I don't know what the hell this is all about, but I'm going to chalk it up to small-town bullshit and leave it at that. I can't believe Chloe is hellbent on raising Christian here.

I'm not going to lie, I can't help feeling like they'd be so much better off getting the hell out of here. But I won't push it with Chloe. Not yet at least.

I see several of the players exit the gym about ten minutes later, but I don't see Dallas or Benny. I expect them to walk out together, but after about five minutes and the parking lot being almost empty, it's just Benny who walks through the doors. He's wearing a Big Bend t-shirt and jeans, his hair wet, and his eyes are full of anger and determination as he makes his way toward me.

The kid is fiery, that's for damn sure. I wonder what he and Dallas have in common. He doesn't stop until he's less than a foot away, his finger poking out and hitting me in the chest. "You cannot do this to him, asshole. You can't stalk him just because he slept with your sister," he hisses, keeping his voice low.

"It's not about that, and you know it," I sling back at him. No, I'm not thrilled about the way he used my little sister for some cheap hookup, but if she says it was consensual, that's her business. "I care about the fact that it takes two people to make a baby, and only one is taking responsibility for that baby."

Benny looks totally unbothered by my sharp tone. He definitely doesn't shrink back. He's still in my face, his glare wicked. "You still don't have the damn right to come to practice and try to intimidate him. Leave him alone."

The fierce way he says every word—the way he eyes me heatedly, like he isn't just saying meaningless words but will absolutely follow up the threat with action—makes me wonder if I'm missing something. I've never seen a mere friend back up another one this strongly.

Although, I guess if I thought someone was harassing Chloe, I'd probably do the same thing. Maybe these two are more like brothers. Hell, for all I know, they are. "I can't leave him alone. He's the father of my nephew, and until he pulls his head out of his ass and agrees to a paternity test, he and you,"—I look at him pointedly, showing him I won't be backing down—"will just have to get used to me showing up."

"Fuck you, asshole. You leave him alone or I swear to God?—"

"Benny." I hear Dallas as he runs up to us, grabbing Benny's arm and pulling him back. "What are you doing?"

"I'm telling this asshole to back off," he says, his teeth gritted as he glares at me.

"Don't," Dallas says, not looking at me, his eyes only on his friend. A feeling—a strange one I can't understand or put a name on—takes over me, watching them. I don't like it at all, so I try my best to ignore it. Dallas looks at me, those big blue eyes wide and scared. "What are you doing here?"

"You know what I'm doing here," I say easily because I'm done with this bullshit. My sister is stubborn as shit and won't talk about it. Dallas is a scared fucking kid who doesn't want to talk about it. I have a goddamn life I need to get back to, and even though I'm in my early twenties, I'm too old for this shit.

"You can't show up here." He looks around nervously, his eyes darting around the parking lot like a criminal on the run. Part of me feels sorry for the kid, but then I look at his eyes—eyes that match my nephew's—and I'm reminded again why I'm here.

"I can, and I will until you talk to me like a man."

"He is a fucking man," Benny says coldly, clearly hating my guts, and that's just fine with me. Big Bend doesn't matter to me. Kensley doesn't matter to me. I cannot wait to get the hell out of here. People liking me or not doesn't matter.

I look solely at Dallas, my eyes focused, and I'm sure they show my anger. "Then act like it."

"Don't talk to him that way," his little guard dog chimes in, and I'm getting really annoyed.

I turn to Benny now. "Listen to me. I'm not here to be his friend, and I know I'm not graceful in communicating." A fact my sister has reminded me of time and time again. "But I don't want any harm coming to your friend. I don't want to hurt him in any way. I just want to talk to him." I look at Dallas when Benny is blissfully silent. "Please."

Dallas looks shaken. I don't know what the hell has this kid so scared of life. He's so damn young. He's good-looking and built. Plays football in a town that worships football. He has it made—at least on the surface.

Something tells me, though, that being a dad after a one-time hookup isn't what's haunting him. At least that's not the only thing. But that isn't my goddamn problem. It isn't.

He doesn't say anything, and I huff, frustrated and beyond annoyed. I scrub one hand over my face and then look at him pointedly. "Okay, so you don't want me showing up here." I say it not as a question, but he immediately starts shaking his head in answer anyway. "Okay, and I'm assuming you don't want me to show up at your house again."

Now the kid finally says, "No. Never. You can't do that again." He sounds desperate, almost frantic, and again, my hackles are up. He doesn't want me here at school, that's for sure, but he's downright terrified of me showing up at his house.

"Okay then," I say calmly. "Let's go somewhere we can talk."

"No fucking way," Benny immediately interjects, and I jerk my head in his direction.

"I don't know what it is with you two, but he can speak for himself," I snap.

"Fuck you, asshole," Benny—the angry kitten—shoots back with an actual hiss.

"Benny." It's Dallas who addresses his friend, finally finding his damn voice. "It's okay. I'm fine."

"No, you aren't. You don't owe him shit." Benny is talking to Dallas, but his eyes don't leave mine. The fierce protective nature of his words hits me in the chest, and again, I don't like it. For reasons I can't explain.

"He owes Christian," I say my nephew's name, and I'm not looking at Benny. I'm looking at Dallas.

That seems to startle him into motion as he nods his head, looking totally unsure as he eyes his friend. "I'm fine. Really. I can do this." He turns to me, not waiting for his friend's rebuttal. "Not here. I know a place we can go."

"You're not going alone with him," Benny says instantly. "What if he kills you and chops you into bits?"

"I'll be fine," Dallas says, looking at his friend fondly, and shit, I have to look away for a minute to gain control over whatever this emotion is. "I'll text you later to let you know I haven't been murdered, okay?"

I look back in time to see the smaller guy isn't too thrilled, but he eventually grins at his friend and punches him in the arm. "Call. No texts. Actual voice." My jaw is set in a scowl by just how caring this guy seems to be over Dallas, and I don't know why it bugs me so damn much.

Dallas agrees, and finally his little guard kitten heads off to his own truck. Dallas watches him before turning to me, his mouth in a hard line. "I'm taking my own truck. You can follow me."

I nod in agreement, letting him walk past me before hopping into my own truck. I follow him for about ten minutes before we pull off the gravel road, and I wonder for a moment if I'm the one who'll wind up chopped into bits.

When I park my truck next to his, I see we're actually out by a lake, but no one else seems to be here. I've been here once or twice during the summer to go swimming when Chloe and I were younger, but it's been a long time. He climbs out slowly, clearly wanting to be anywhere else but here.

We both move to stand in front of his truck, looking out at the lake and not at each other. Surprisingly, he's the first one to speak. "Look, if your sister?—"

That's as far as he gets before I turn to look at him and interrupt him. "Chloe." He looks startled, but I go on, "Her name is Chloe, and your son's name is Christian."

I watch his throat flex as he swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he does. "Ch—loe," he stutters through her name, but I don't call him on it. "If Chloe doesn't want me involved, there's nothing you can do."

"That's not true," I say matter-of-factly. "I can't force her to have a DNA test done, but she's scared because she doesn't know you." He seems confused and unwilling to talk, so I go on, "So I'm going to get to know you for her."

"W-what?" he asks, looking horrified. "Why would you want to know me?"

I stare at him for a little too damn long, and I find myself wanting to ask him what the hell happened to make him hate himself this damn much. It's clear he has no confidence in himself, and I shouldn't care, but for some reason, I do. "Because you're Christian's father."

"Stop saying that," he snaps, and I'm surprised to see that little bit of fire in him, but then he quickly shrinks back, and I find myself feeling disappointed. "I shouldn't be anyone's father."

I hate that I feel sorry for him. Goddammit, I don't want to feel sorry for him. I want him to step up so I can leave, and that's it.

I don't remind him that he's already a father. I don't think that's what he needs, and I know I'm not really one with a ton of tact. So, I'm trying here. I'm really trying, damn it. "I just want to get to know you. So I can tell Chloe you're not a bad guy and you might be a good father."

"And if you determine I'm not good enough?" He doesn't seem to have any actual emotion when he asks that. He's definitely not defensive. It's more resigned.

"Then I'll back off."

He nods his head slowly at that, thinking it over. "You can't come to my school."

I nod in agreement. "I won't."

"And you really can't come to my house." The way he says it—like he's absolutely terrified of that happening—has my blood running cold.

"I won't," I promise him, even though he didn't ask me to.

He doesn't look like he believes me, but I suppose he doesn't have to. "So how do we do this?" he asks nervously.

"How about you come to my house? Tomorrow is Friday. I can grill, and we can have dinner."

The kid looks downright sick at my dinner invitation. I'm not thrilled about it either, but we're in this now, damn it. "Um..." He grabs the back of his neck, and I watch as his bicep flexes tight, every prominent vein popping.

I'm momentarily distracted by that sight and nearly miss his answer.

"Friday nights, I have . . ."

"Oh right. Football." How could I forget? "How about Saturday?"

He reluctantly nods. "Okay."

That's as good as it's going to get, I suppose, so I rattle off the address of the little house I'm renting in Kensley and tell him I'll see him at six on Saturday before he climbs in his truck and drives off.

Okay, now all I have to do is hope he shows up, get to know him well enough to tell Chloe he'll be a decent father, and I can get the hell out of here.