Page 28 of The Check Down

His grin widens. “And as for the pants, that’s classified.” He folds himself into the ancient wooden chair across from me, trying and failing to hide when he attempts to get comfortable.

“Sorry. Those chairs were made for timid college freshmen. Not strapping tight ends.”

“No worries, professor.” He rests his laced hands on his abs and leans back as far as he can. Another grimace, followed by a flirty raise of his brow. “Strapping, huh?”

I ignore the look and straighten a stack of papers on my desk. When he grimaces again, I have to ask. “What’s wrong?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Eh, it’s fine. Just took a hard helmet hit to the ribs last night. Pads can only do so much.”

The Blues had the first of this season’s two Monday-night games last night. It was refreshing to have a few nighttime hours to myself, not having to tiptoe around Jack’s foul mood.

Nevertheless, I’m concerned about his pain. I angle forward, resting my forearms on my desk and clasping my hands. “We can save today’s outing for next week.”

“Nope.” He straightens. “No way I’m gonna let a little bruised rib ruin our day.”

An embarrassingly fierce wave of relief hits me, outweighing my concern for his comfort. It probably makes me a crappy friend. But I’ve been holding on to these Tuesday plans like a lifeline, especially since Friday night.

“What’s on the agenda for today, sir?” The text that lit up my phone Sunday afternoon only mentioned a meeting spot and time.

His eyes twinkle in that merry way that makes it impossible for me to resist any suggestion. “Did you know that fall is my favorite time of year? And not just because of football,” he says before I cananswer his question. “There’s a hint of fall in the air today, so we’re going to take advantage of it.”

He’s right. That slight nip of coolness encouraged me to quicken my pace as I walked to the English building this morning. It’s unseasonably cool for the end of September, so if we’re going to be outside, I’m grateful I chose a shirt with longer sleeves.

“What do you have in mind, Mr. Lacey?”

He tips his chin, gesturing to the door. “Let’s find out.”

He waits in the hall while I pack my laptop and class notes. When we reach the main office, Helen, the head secretary for the English department, waggles her silver brows at me and eyes my companion. She’s a grandmotherly comfort to me here, and probably the person I’m closest to. Our unlikely connection began during my second semester at Townes, when she discovered me steeping a mug of tea in the department breakroom one winter afternoon. She asked if I had an Earl Grey in my tea tin and joined me at the table with her own mug of hot water. It’s become a ritual for us on the days I’m on campus until dark. We gift each other new flavors every Christmas.

“Have fun,” she calls as we breeze through the office, her tone making it clear she’ll want a detailed explanation about howthishappened.

“No convertible today?” I ask when Griffin leads me to the passenger door of a huge silver Ram pickup.

“Nah. Dad only loans her out a couple days at a time.”

“So this is yours.” I climb up into the behemoth, and as I settle in the seat, I resist the urge to caress the supple leather. It’s the most luxurious truck I’ve ever been in.

“This is one of mine, yes.” He winks and shuts my door.

I study the dials and controls and large touchscreen on the fancy dashboard as he rounds the front of the truck. “How many cars do you own, Mr. Lacey?”

I’m expecting him to admit to an exorbitant amount, but as he clicks his seat belt into place, he laughs and says, “Two.”

“Hmm, disappointing,” I joke. “I thought for sure you’d tell me seven.”

“Why seven?” He grabs my headrest and twists his upper body, then backs out of the parking spot.

My mouth goes dry at his proximity, but I manage a swallow and stutter out, “One—one for each day of the week.”

“Ahh.” He comes to a stop and straightens. “Nope. Just the two. One to carry each of my Super Bowl rings.”

“Wow.” I drag out the word.

Head tipped back, he hoots out a laugh. “If it makes you feel any better,” he says, “I did buy a whole-ass building last week.”

For the rest of the drive, he tells me about the historic building and his apartment. And about the tattoo shop a friend of his brother owns below it. By the time we pull into a lot next to Mud Island Park, I’m drunk on Griffin Lacey—on his scent, on his laugh, on his charm, onhim. He’s intoxicating.

“Here’s what’s on the syllabus for today, professor.” We exit the truck, and side by side, we make our way to a concrete path. “We’re gonna take a little walk down the mightyMississipp. Then some friends of mine are hosting a barbeque, so I thought we’d stop by.”

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