Page 12 of The Check Down

As he shakes Jack’s hand, his name and importance snap into place in my mind. Bobby Mundy, Blues’ head coach. And the Geneva he referred to is the team’s owner. She’s the matriarch of the Russells, the family who’s owned the team since its inception in the mid-nineties.

“Jack, good to see you and your lovely companion again.” Coach Mundy takes my hand but keeps his focus on my boyfriend. “Geneva will want you in one of these pictures, so you might as well tag along.” He pops a shoulder and turns my way, his smile affable. “My Tamara’s around here somewhere, Brynn. I’m sure she’d love your company.” A soothing warmth flows through me as I return his smile. He and I have only met a handful of times, and he must be introduced to hundreds of people each year, yet he remembers my name. It’s impressive and surprising.

Before I can sputter out a thank you, Coach Mundy grips Shane’s shoulder, and the three men stride away, leaving me alone in a sea of strangers. I shuffle through mental images of people who work for the Blues, hoping to land on one of Tamara Mundy that will aid me in finding her in all this chaos, but I come up empty.

Oh well. Maybe I’ll savemaking friendsfor a different night.

Determined to find a server with a tray of Prosecco or water or anything to coat my parched throat, I spin on my heel, only to crash into a massive warm frame covered in…fur?

Oversized brown paws grip my upper arms to steady me, and a muffled “sorry” comes from somewhere near the giant hound dog’s throat.

King. The Blues’ mascot.

“So sorry, ma’am.” A lanky young man appears beside King, holding a heavy camera. “Care for a picture?”

I give my head a quick shake, cheeks heating. “That’s all right.”

There’s a couple standing nearby, clearly waiting for their turn with the beloved mascot. But whoever’s in the giant furry suit is determined to stick with me. He wraps me up in a hug, then maneuvers to my side and rests a heavy paw across my shoulders.

“Big smile,” the photographer prompts, and I acquiesce, ready to end this whole encounter and hunt down a damn drink.

As I sidestep away, the waiting couple swoops in for their photo op, and King blows me an exaggerated kiss. With a parting expression that’s half smile, half grimace, I hustle away. My target? One of the two bars on opposite sides of the ballroom.

Weaving through the people crowding the ballroom makes me even more desperate for liquid relief, but it doesn’t detract from my not-so-subtle examination of every tall, dark-haired man I squeeze by. Disappointment snakes its way through me when I make it to the bar without laying eyes on him. I blow a wisp of hair out of my eye and place my order.

Guzzling a hearty swallow of the Prosecco, I turn my back to the bar to survey the room. This time, searching for Jack. When that task proves to be futile as well, I decide to wait here until I get a “where are you?” text from him.

I stake a spot at the side of the bar, resting an elbow on the corner. As I do, the crowd parts in the middle of the ballroom, making space for King and some of the Blues players to gather together for a picture. This break in the throng affords me the perfect view of my boyfriend across the room.

He’s tucked against the far wall. With another woman.

All the voices and noise filling the giant space fade into silence. He’s so close to her, he can probably determine whether she’s a dedicated flosser. His arm is propped on the wall above her head, and she’s smiling and laughing at him like he’s her effing moon and stars. When she grabs his lapel affectionately and pulls him even closer, my stomach knots, and I bite my cheek so hard, I’m sure it’ll leave a mark.

The intimacy between the two of them is not new. Or professional. As I assess them, all those smiles aimed at his smartwatch or phone snap into focus.

My stomach has untwisted and is free-falling when a looming presence appears from my right. I glance that way long enough to notice a crisp white shirt under a light-blue jacket, but before I can register any other details, my attention zooms back to Jack.

The woman tucks a strand of ash blond hair behind an ear and bats her lashes at the man I uprooted my whole life for. The man I followed to a city I still feel like an outsider in, even though I’ve lived here for years.

Jack tilts his head toward the crowded room—a reminder, perhaps—and she releases her hold on his suit jacket. Each takes half a step back, putting them at an appropriate distance. The whole intimate exchange lasted less than a minute, but every second has been branded into my memory.

Certainly didn’t haveBrynn’s entire world implodes in forty-five secondson my bingo card for tonight.

Beside me, a throat clears, like the death knell of my relationship. Finally, I focus on the person beside me, and the blood drains from my face when recognition hits.

He’s not looking at me, thank God. His glare is fixed on the individuals who’ve caused my heart rate to short circuit. His jaw tenses and his eyes narrow, movements that act as defibrillators to my heart, causing me to press a palm to my chest to reassure myself that the organ is functioning.

Griffin Lacey turns to me, his blue-gray eyes softening. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll let you ram his car into mine again.”

I can’t help the laugh that breaks free, and the smile he gives me in response makes my tummy flip-flop.

He lowers his head, moving in so close I catch a hint of his scent. “OrI’ll stand lookout while you go all Carrie Underwood on his ass.”

The man is tall and solid, and he’s dressed in a light-blue linen suit that makes his eyes appear more blue than gray. The look fits his stature perfectly.

The brief distraction of his charm fizzles out at the trace of pity there, and mortification swoops in. Unable to look at him, or at anyone, I study my hands to hide my embarrassment and devastation. A tingling sensation starts in my fingertips and creeps up my body while warmth saturates my face and chest.

“Hey.” His deep voice is full of a concern that makes my cheeks heat even more. “Brynn.”

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