CHAPTER 32 LINCOLN

Yeah, we won our first preseason game. But mistakes were made, as I said to Jolene, and now we course correct so we don't make them again next week.

Most players have Monday off since we won. But those who racked up penalties each have appointments with me today to go over film and discuss what happened.

First up bright and early at nine in the morning is my very own little brother.

"Coach, Asher's here," Megan says when she calls into my office. She never mentioned what went down with Jolene, but I have to think she did it on purpose. She's been her consistent and efficient self with me, though, so I have no reason to believe there was foul play involved.

"Send him in."

Asher walks in a minute later, and my nose wrinkles as I take in his appearance.

"What the fuck are you wearing?" I ask.

He glances down at his clothes. "You don't like the fit?"

"The fit?" I repeat.

"The outfit," he clarifies.

He's wearing saggy pants, crocs on his feet, and a shirt with flamingoes all over it. One is larger than the rest, zoomed in on its face, and I feel like it's staring at me.

"It's certainly…unique," I say, not one to judge my brother's sense of style. Or lack thereof.

"Did you call me in to criticize my clothing choices today?" he asks.

I clear my throat. "Not at all. Wear what you feel good in. That's what I always say."

"And you feel good in another pair of chinos and an Aces polo shirt?" he presses.

I glance down at my own fit. "It's comfortable," I say a little defensively. It's also professional, but I have a feeling the dude in the flamingo shirt won't really care.

"So are the flamings."

"The flamings? Oh, do you mean the flamingoes? Are we just…shortening all the words now?"

He sighs. "You're so fucking old, dude."

"Right. Well, anyway. What the fuck was with your false start call yesterday?" I pull up the footage of his penalty and run it on the screens in my office—one behind me so he can see it, the other behind him so I can see it.

His eyes don't watch the screen. Instead, he's looking at me. "Sorry Coach. I'll do better."

"You're damn right you will. It cost us five yards."

"So?" he says a little flippantly, and I can't say I appreciate his tude right now.

"So that could've been the difference between winning and losing. We scored a field goal on that try. We might've gotten a touchdown if you hadn't set us back a down. Every yard counts."

"Yeah, yeah. It's fucking preseason, man."

My brows shoot up. "You're new to this team," I begin, ready to tell him that the culture here is to play our fucking hardest even when the games don't matter, but he interrupts me.

"So are you," he points out.

His words only serve to pulse my anger. "Correct, but if you want to continue starting for me, you need to do better. Plenty of guys want your spot, and you earned it in camp, but if you don't play like you want to keep it, I'll bench you faster than you can abbreviate another word."

"You know I play better than those guys."

I clench my jaw for a beat. "Maybe you do, maybe you don't. But you're not doing yourself any favors talking back to the coach just because he's your brother. Now get the fuck out of my office, and if you ever talk to me like that again, you'll be running suicides until you vomit. Hear me?"

"Yeah," he mutters, and he stands to leave without another word.

Maybe that wasn't the most motivational meeting I've had with a player, but I can't have him strutting around in his stupid fits thinking he has some advantage because I'm his brother. I need to be as hard on him as I am on any other player…if not harder. And suicide drills where he runs from the goal line to the ten-yard line, then back to the goal line and to the twenty, all the way down the field over and over—that's usually the way to get through to just about any player.

So when he gets called for illegal use of hands when he pushes a player before he moves to catch a ball Miles fired at him in the next game, I'm furious. Especially because this time we lose ten yards and we were already on a third down.

The game comes down to a field goal at the wire that goes the way of the Bengals at their home stadium, and I'm fucking livid.

I realize it's a team effort and it never comes down to just one play. Furthermore, I realize that there was more than one penalty in this game despite going over the issues with my players in the last game. There will always be penalties. That's just the nature of the game.

Maybe I'm expecting more out of my brother after our talk. Maybe I expected a cleaner game because I came down hard on him.

Maybe he needs to run a few suicides as penance for his penalty.

We get in late on Sunday night, but I still call him in Monday morning at nine. He's wearing another ridiculous outfit, and his eyes won't meet mine as I basically blame him for losing the game for us.

I'm in a bad mood the rest of the day as I meet with every player who committed a penalty during the game, but Tuesdays are our day off, and I text Jolene just as I'm leaving the office.

Me: Any chance I can see you tonight?

Her response is quick.

Lorraine: Is this a booty call, a dinner date, or an overnight?

My chest tightens as I think about what I need, and I know what I need is a good night of sleep holding her in my arms.

Me: All of the above if possible.

Lorraine: I'll see what I can swing.

Me: I miss you.

Lorraine: [teary eye emoji] I miss you, too.

As it turns out, she can swing coming over at nine, which is just after Jonah goes to sleep. The boys are back in school now, and Jolene said Sam was fine with getting both boys off to school in the morning.

The moment she appears at my front door, I pull her into my arms. I let out a heavy breath that feels like I've been holding onto since the last time I got to hold her in my arms like this. Every time I've seen her since our first preseason game, our time together has been rushed.

I don't want to rush.

I just want time with her.

I kiss her and pull her inside, slamming the door shut behind her.

"What's going on?" she asks breathlessly.

"Nothing. Just been a tough couple weeks and I guess I needed this more than I realized."

"So did I," she admits, clinging to me just as I am to her as she nestles into my chest.

We stand there quietly, just holding one another as we practice deep breathing exercises, and I feel instantly calm having her here in my arms.

"Can I get you some wine?" I finally ask, and she nods against my chest.

"I'd love some. I'll take my bag upstairs and meet you in the kitchen in three minutes."

"Deal," I say, and I press my lips softly to hers as she heads upstairs to my bedroom—a room that feels like our bedroom when she's here.

I pour a rather large tumbler of whiskey for myself and a glass of wine for her, and it's probably only been about ninety seconds when I hear the doorbell ring.

"Fuck," I mutter, and I head over to the door to get rid of whoever is visiting me at this late hour when all I want is some time alone with Jolene.

I see my brother standing on my porch when I glance through the peephole, and I open the door.

He's wearing normal clothes this time, which tells me he's been wearing those dumb outfits to purposely irk me, but the expression on his face is not normal at all.

"Is Sam here?" he demands when he walks past me as I hold the door open.

I shake my head. Maybe he saw her car out on the street in front of the house and that's why he asked, but I can't tell him who really is here. He didn't ask, though. He asked specifically about Sam.

"Good," he says. "Because I need your help. I'm in a lot of trouble."

I'm about to warn him that we aren't alone before he starts talking, but he plows forward.

And the very last thing I need is someone from the media overhearing his next words.