Page 1 of The Check Down

Chapter one

Griffin

The drive from Holly Holler, Arkansas, to the outskirts of Memphis takes an hour and twelve minutes. But that’sifthe traffic cooperates.

I thought I’d left my hometown in plenty of time to make it to the stadium before the Blues’ home game this afternoon, but the brake lights stretched as far as the eye can see in front of me on I-55 indicate that my guesstimation might have been off. I huff an impatient breath and drum my fingers on the steering wheel. It only takes about thirty seconds to give in to the urge to check theWazeapp on my phone. Again.

As soon as I swipe it open, my phone vibrates.

My assistant’s name flashes on the dashboard screen, and I release a sigh from deep in my chest.

“Seth,” I say as I inch forward another five feet and then brake. “Please tell me you have some traffic miracle up your sleeve, my man.”

His chuckle crackles over the line. “I feel like I’m in one of those action movies where I’m the expert hacker directing the superhero’s moves so he can outrun the bad guys and save the damselin distress.”

“The only damsel that will need saving is my ass if I’m late for my first game with my new fucking team.” I scrub a hand down my face. “Just get me there. Please.”

“I’ll do my best, considering I’m 220 miles away at the moment.” For several seconds, he’s silent, the only sound his keys clacking. “Okay,” he finally says as I roll forward a few more feet. “We’re gonna side street and back alley you to the stadium from here.”

When I texted Seth fifteen minutes ago with an SOS, I sent him my location so he could see three steps ahead of me while I attempt to maneuver my SUV through the madness. The exit he wants me to take is as bumper-to-bumper as the highway, but maybe I’ll catch a break somewhere up ahead.

I’m afraid to check the time. It’s been a few miles since I was brave enough to let my eyes wander to those neon green numbers. Had a moment of panic then, so I refuse to look until I’m parked outside the players’ entrance. Generally, the team arrives at least three hours before the pregame warm-ups, but since this is my first game with my new team, I was hoping to be the first to show up.

Another sweep of cars gets through the red light at the end of the exit ramp, but I’m not one of them. A twinge of tightness has me rolling my right shoulder a few times to limber up. I’ve been sitting still for too long.

I’m so goddamn ready to get back to what I do best: playing fucking football.

And hopefully winning some fucking games while we’re at it.

With a deep breath in, I close my eyes. This sport, the sport I love—that I live, eat, sleep, and breathe—was almost ripped away from me a couple of months ago, when the team I’d spent my career with let me go after surgery to repair my torn labrum. I never want to experience the despair I suffered during those dark days after I got the news, when getting out of bed and eating becameHerculean tasks. I never want that heavy boulder of anguish in my gut again.

This chance with the Blues? It’s my last shot to leave football onmyterms. I can’t let anything distract me or take my focus.

Seth clears his throat. “You should get there in time, Griff. It might cut short the face time you wanted to have with your teammates before warm-ups, but you’ll make it.”

He’s right, but I don’t tell him that. He doesn’t need to know just how much I rely on him. But the truth is that I’d be an absolute shit show without him. Seth’s been my personal assistant for the past four years. Never thought I’d love having a dude for a PA, but after my last female assistant ended up in my bed, my agent, Kevin, insisted that I only have male assistants until I retire.

Kevin can be a douche, but he was right. Vanessa was the third assistant I fucked.

Never said I was a choirboy.

I haven’t earned the nickname Racy Lacey for nothing.

The light turns green, and I follow the line of cars turning left, only to hit the brakes for what feels like the hundredth time since I hit that exit ramp. This street is as backed up as the highway. I can’t hold back a groan.

When Seth snickers through my speakers, I blurt, “Have you asked Daniel to move yet?” He’s been nervous to ask his boyfriend of eight months to make the move from Nashville to Memphis with him.

“No. And thanks for the reminder.”

I bite back a chuckle at his salty response. “Anytime.”

It’s been a whirlwind of a few weeks for Team Lacey. After I’d spent a month hanging with an old teammate, despondent after getting dumped by the Tors and defeated by the lack of offers after my injury, Kevin called with an offer from the Blues. During the season opener, their starting tight end took a brutal hit that tore up his knee and ended his season. The other tight ends on the Blues’roster are newbies, so the team wanted a veteran to round out the offense.

Enter Griffin Lacey.

Ten-year NFL veteran with two Super Bowls and seven Pro Bowls on my résumé.

My world has revolved around that brown pigskin since the day I first strapped on a helmet at the age of six. My brothers and I played peewee, and the three of us remained devoted to the sport through middle and high school. Tucker and I went on to have successful college years on the gridiron. Before my junior year at Oklahoma, my coach approached me about making the switch from quarterback to tight end, and since I’d do anything to keep playing, I agreed. Ended up thriving in that position and was drafted by the Tennessee Tors in the third round.

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