Page 2 of The Check Down

It’s been a week since Kevin’s call with the Blues’ offer, and I’m still in disbelief. I drove up from Georgia over the weekend and met with the team on Monday morning. That afternoon, I signed a one-year contract with the Memphis Blues. Started practicing with the team Wednesday and have been doing it every day since. Practice and team meetings and film-watching and play-memorizing. Learning schemes. Trying to find moments to bond with my new teammates and trusting Seth to handle the rest of my business. Answering my mom’s teary phone calls about playing for my hometown team.

Back in Holly Holler, there’s a framed photo on my parents’ mantel of the three of us Lacey boys at the team’s very first home game. In it, Shaw and I are almost the same height—we’re only seventeen months apart, so we’ve been neck and neck on the growth charts all our lives. He’s got one arm slung around my shoulder and the other straining to hold up a chunky baby Tucker. I swear, that kid’s been solid muscle since birth. We’re all sporting Memphis Blues T-shirts on our rounded kid bellies and huge grins on our faces. Shaw’s shows off a gap where he’d pulled a top tooth thenight before. He brought those two crumpled dollar bills from the tooth fairy that day and spent them on ice cream at halftime.

A car horn blares somewhere ahead and pulls me from memory lane. As I make the turn Seth has instructed, there’s a sickening crunch, and a sudden jolt propels me forward. My car stops inches from the back bumper of the truck idling in the traffic ahead.

“Fuck.” I glare at the indistinguishable offender in the rearview.

“That did not sound good.”

“Seth,” I grunt. “I gotta call you back. Some asshole just rear-ended me.”

I don’t wait for his response before disconnecting the call and stepping out. The heat rising from the concrete matches the heat rising in my chest as I straighten. I’m about to lay into this dickwad and use the most imaginative curses in my repertoire when a girly sandal slips out of the red sedan. A girly sandal on the end of a shapely leg. I follow that leg up until I find the hem of a ruffly dress. When my brain registers the tiny flowers on the material, my gaze shoots to her face, where big brown Bambi eyes shine with terror.

I wasn’t rear-ended by some pretentious blowhard in a shiny red BMW. No, it was a cute-as-fuck brunette in a sundress. All those curses waiting on deck retract like measuring tape.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.” As she scurries to the front of the car to check out the damage, I checkherout.

She’s on the tall side, but she’s still several inches shorter than my six-five. Her thick, dark brown hair is slicked back into a neat ponytail. Shit, I can’t let my thoughts delve where they’d like to aboutthat. Her flawless ivory skin lacks the golden tan so many Southern girls sport, like she spends most of her time indoors. A quick check of her left hand reveals an empty ring finger. As she bends over to check her bumper, the hem of her dress inches up and exposes more of her perfect legs. And I’m a red-blooded American male who hasn’t been laid in several months, so when she straightens, there’s no way I can’tcheck out her rack. Her breasts are full and round and…heaving. Heaving because she looks like she’s seconds away from a panic attack.

“Oh, God, sir, I’m so very sorry.” She turns to me, knees shaking. I can’t even catalog the details of her face because all my attention is drawn to her full bottom lip as it wobbles.

Shit. Hysterical females and I don’t mix.

I raise my hands in an attempt to calm her, but it’s futile.

She lets out a squeak and takes a single step closer. “Look at you. You must be heading somewhere important, dressed like that.” She waves at my light-blue dress shirt and bespoke navy pants. Pants that cling to my skin the longer we stand out in this oppressive heat.

She’s pacing when her last statement registers. She doesn’t know who I am. I’m not an egomaniac. I don’t expect every human I meet to recognize me, but it’s rare when one doesn’t. Rare and refreshing.

An angry honk blares from several cars behind us, and the brunette jerks to a stop. Her wide gaze slowly meets mine, and when her Bambi eyes fill with tears again and that bottom lip really starts to tremble, I’m hit with an overpowering need to pull her into my arms.

What the actual fuck?I choke that sensation down. I should be stressed. Frustrated. Pretty sure Trixie and Mom are the only females I’ve ever had the urge to comfort like that.

I clench my fists before sliding them into my pockets and finally finding my voice. “Are you hurt?”

“Me?” A wrinkle forms between her dark brows, and she looks over one shoulder, then the other, like she expects to find another soul with us on this sidewalk. With a sniffle, she turns back to face me. “No, I’m fine. Oh God, areyouhurt?” More tears line her eyes as she scans me from head to toe.

Her perusal gives me another chance to study her. Thick dark lashes frame her soulful brown eyes. A straight nose with a slightupturn at its tip. Full rosy-pink lips. Her oval-shaped face is mostly free of makeup. She’s a natural beauty.

Exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need.

A quick check of my watch has my stomach sinking. “Uh, listen. I know it’s against standard fender-bender protocol, but I really have to head out.”

“W-wait. No. The police have to file a report.” Brunette beauty wrings her hands and resumes pacing. “Oh God, I need to sit down.”

She stops and smooths the back of her dress, eyes on the ground beneath her, like she’s going to plop herself down on the scorching concrete. Before she lowers herself all the way, I grasp her elbow and haul her up. Pull her closer to me.

Catch a whiff of something floral and sweet.

“You’re shaking. Are you sure you aren’t hurt?” I try not to fixate on the sensation of her skin in my rough palm. I lead her to my SUV, open the back door, and move the suit jacket draped across the seat.

“Here. Sit.” She obeys my soft command and sits sideways on the leather bench.

“You-you’re being so nice to me. I hit your car, and you’re being so kind. I feel terrible. I’m so, so sorry. And you’re going to be late for whatever has you dressed up like this, and oh, God, I’m so sorry.” Her chest is heaving again as the words tumble out of her.

My own chest tightens in concern. “Hey, take a breath.”

She looks up at me, and I can’t fight the urge any longer. Taking her hands in mine, I use my thumbs to rub soothing circles on the inside of her wrists.

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