CHAPTER 23 JOLENE

"It's his ACL," Lincoln says when he calls me. It's after midnight, and he woke me when my phone rang, though I don't admit that to him.

"Shit," I mutter as I sit up and rub my eyes. The Aces ended up winning but only because Brandon stopped throwing the ball and started handing it off to Jaxon. Or, rather, because that's what his coach told him to do.

Fletcher was nervous, and it showed. He wasn't expecting to take on this role, and it was clear from watching him that he was resigned to sitting most of this season since the rookie was picked to play over him. Except now he's moving front and center, and I'm curious what that means for the Aces.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Not really," he mutters.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"I'm sorry, Lincoln." I need to be up in six hours to play Marcus at the office where I'm currently working as I decide what to do, and I should probably go in with a good night's rest.

But looks like that's not in the cards.

"Do you want to come over?" I ask.

"I shouldn't. I've been drinking." It's only then that I hear it in his voice. His first few answers were too clipped, but the slight slur to his words now tells me he's not just been drinking a little. He's been drinking quite a bit.

"Oh. Do you want me to come there?"

"Can you?" he asks, and there's a certain desperation to his voice.

I've only seen Lincoln Nash drunk once. It was after the team lost in the playoffs his junior year, back when I judged my high school peers for drinking when they were underage. Or maybe it's why I started judging my peers for underage drinking.

It was…messy.

He was messy. This boy who was always poised and always well put together changed that day. Maybe it was the mark of him turning from a boy to a man, and what sticks out most to me from that day is how he seemed like he drank to run away from what he was feeling. He numbed himself instead of feeling the pain of the loss, and he wouldn't talk about it the next day—likely because he was hungover, but he wouldn't talk about it in the days after, either.

He was upset. He thought he lost the game for his team.

He didn't, but he drank to bury the anger.

I'm guilty of it, too—now, anyway. Not back then. But now, I've had plenty of alleviating drinks over the years along with plenty of pains to numb.

Somehow, this feels different. I've never seen an adult Lincoln drunk, and one part of me is nervous about what I might be walking into, but the other part of me is desperate to be there for him.

So I pack a quick overnight bag and head out to the kitchen, fully intending to wake Sam to let her know my plan…when I find her standing in the kitchen making out with Devin.

And when I say making out, I mean these two are really going to town.

His hands are on her ass, and his tongue is down her throat, and neither of them hear me until I clear my throat.

They jump apart guiltily.

"I mean, it's a damn good thing it's me and not Cade since you two are taking it slow," I say, and they both laugh a little sheepishly.

"What's going on?" Sam asks, clearly pretending like she's not embarrassed, and her eyes fall down to my bag.

"Lincoln called pretty upset. I guess it was Miles's ACL," I say.

"Damn," Devin curses. He's an Aces fan, and I think everyone had high hopes for the kid.

"Looked like it." Sam shakes her head a little, the resident expert in all injuries given her field of work.

"Are you cool with hanging here tonight and helping get Jonah to school in the morning? He asked if I could come over." I twist my lips a little as I feel sort of bad for asking.

"Of course. Go," Sam says, and at the same time, Devin teases, "Booty call!"

I roll my eyes. "You want to chat booty calls? Why are you two making out in the kitchen after midnight?"

Sam has the grace to blush, but Devin just shrugs as if to admit that sure enough, this is a booty call.

I creep quietly into the boys' room and give Jonah a light kiss on the forehead without waking him up, and then I head over to Lincoln's place.

He's waiting for me with a nearly empty tumbler in his hand when he opens the door. He shuts and locks it behind me before he bends down to press a soft kiss to my lips, and then he heads back toward the kitchen. I'm still not real sure what to expect here, but I sort of just want to go back to sleep since now it's approaching one in the morning.

I follow him into the kitchen, and he fills his glass. Before he picks it up, I slide in between him and the counter, and I wrap my arms around his waist.

"It'll be okay, Linc," I murmur as I look up at him.

He links an arm around me, his eyes glassy when they land on mine. "Will it?"

"Fletcher is capable."

"Is he?"

I sigh. "I know you're upset, but I'm not sure why you asked me over if you're only going to negate everything I say with sarcastic questions."

"Why'd I ask you over? What about because I wanted the kind of distraction only you can give me?" His mouth crashes down to mine, and he tastes like whiskey.

I can't help but wonder how much he's had as I push him back a little. "Not like this," I say, shaking my head.

He looks wounded.

"I think you should probably just go sleep it off," I suggest.

He moves back and reaches around me for his glass. "But I just refilled. Terrible thought to let a good Stagg go to waste."

"Did you invite me over to watch you drink?" I ask, hands on my hips.

He doesn't crack a smile when he says, "No, I invited you over for sex, but you've already issued that rejection, so I guess I return to the bottle."

I snag my bottom lip between my teeth. "I have to be up in six hours to return to a job I don't care for and play boss to a bunch of people I also don't much care for. If there's a point to me being here, make it. Otherwise, I'd like to go home to my son."

He blows out a long breath. "I certainly didn't invite you over with the intention of fighting with you. I'm sorry." He wanders over to the couch and sits. "It's been a long day, and now I'm going to have to sub Fletcher in, and you saw how he handled the ball." He shakes his head. "Might have to go to the practice squad and see what we've got there."

"What about Marsh?" I ask, naming the third string quarterback.

He purses his lips a little. "Bobby Marsh is no Miles Hudson, you know? It's like watching my entire season go down the drain on one fucking play."

"Brandon and Bobby have been at the same practices as Miles," I point out. "They know the playbook. Back-ups are there for a reason. These guys are competent, but they need you to believe they are or they won't be. Your passion for the game is infectious, Lincoln, and they need you there motivating them every step of the way."

"Yeah, but how do I do that when I already told Fletcher he wasn't my first choice?" he whispers, and it's the first time I'm seeing the vulnerable side of the coach.

Something about that makes my heart thump. "Only you can answer that, and I know you'll figure it out. You wouldn't have kept him on your team if you didn't think he could play in the event something happened to your starter."

He nods, and he presses his lips together as he contemplates that. It's as if he knows I'm right but he's still not quite sure how to piece it all together…or how to get Brandon to understand that he believes in him.

But I know Lincoln, and I know he'll figure it out.

We head up to bed shortly after that, and he basically passes out while I lie awake staring at the ceiling and wondering whether I made the right choice in issuing that rejection since now I want it and he didn't offer it again before he fell asleep.

When morning dawns, I have a headache even though I didn't drink a drop. Between the lack of sleep and the sympathy pains I have for Lincoln, I feel like I shouldn't go into the office.

But I have to. I have to play Marcus, and I'm cranky…which doesn't bode well for our Monday morning meeting where we discuss the stories for the week.

I hold my head high when I walk into the office even though I've been demoted from team correspondent back to beat reporter, and both Sanders and Rivera are already in the conference room when I walk in. They stop talking when they see me, and I hate that it feels like they were talking about me.

"If you have something to say to me, you can say it to my fucking face," I hiss.

Rivera's brows arch. "Feisty for a Monday morning, Bailey. But, then again, you've always been pretty feisty." He winks at me, and it makes my stomach turn.

I shake my head. "Fuck off, Rivera."

The other reporters and sports anchors join us, and I start the meeting.

"What's everyone working on?" I begin, and we round robin the table for everyone to discuss current stories and projects.

"I've got an exclusive interview with Troy Bodine later this week," Gary tells me, and I smile.

"That's great. Make sure to keep the sex club question out of the discussion."

"Oh I think you definitely need to ask about it," Rivera says. "Viewers want to know more about it and whether the rumors are true about his connection to it."

I grit my teeth for the first offense, but it feels like no matter what I say, Rivera has a comment about it. And most of the comments are neither helpful nor wanted.

Eventually I turn toward him. "Do we have a problem here?"

"You know we have a problem," he says.

"Then talk to me after the meeting. Marcus asked me to stand in for him, so you can kindly keep your comments to yourself. I've got this." I continue to hold my head high.

"Just like you've got your personal life?" he jabs, and I snarl at him.

"My personal life is off-limits to this conversation, but maybe you'd like to share with everyone why you're so fucking obsessed with it!" I'm screaming at him, and just then, the door opens and standing there are Marcus and Paul—the guy from human resources.

They look between Rivera and me, clearly not sure what to do while all the others in the room look on with a bit of awkwardness.

"What's going on here?" Marcus asks.

"I was simply trying to give my opinion on some stories and she attacked me. Everyone in here can vouch for that," Rivera says, and my blood boils.

"Oh come off it, you jerk! That is not what happened!" I wait for someone to stick up for me—anyone—but nobody says a word.

Fuck this.

"Uh…Jolene, can I see you in my office?" Marcus says.

"Fine," I spit out, and I storm out the door past him and beat him to his own office. "What are you even doing here?" I ask.

"I came in for the weekend to see my wife and kids and figured I'd stop by to see how things are going here on my way back to Florida. What the hell did I walk in on?"

"You walked in on my last fucking straw, Marcus. I quit."

I leave those words behind me as I storm out of the office to my car, and I peel out of the parking lot before I even have a chance to process what I just did.