Page 43 of The Check Down

“Big plans at the library. I’ve kind of neglected my research lately.” She wrinkles her nose and heaves a deep sigh.

Relief floods my lungs with my next inhale, but I do my best to ignore the reaction.

Brynn, oblivious to my relief, struts up to the Dance Dance Revolution game. “Ready to show off your moves, big guy?”

“This?” I rub a hand over my buzzed hair. “I might break the damn thing.”

She considers me, starting at my head and working her way down to my shoes before sweeping back up.

Shit, her assessment brings me way too much pleasure.

Phone still in her hand, she swipes it open and gives the screen a few taps. Then she holds it up to my face. “That sign says max capacity is 450. And according to Google, my friend weighs 248 pounds.” She waves the device, where my stats are pulled up. “Maybe you’re scared you don’t have the right moves.”

I wag my brows. “Oh, I’ve got the right moves, professor.”

Even in the dim lighting of the arcade, there’s no mistaking the pink hue that stains her cheeks.

“But my style,” I say, ducking in closer, “leans more toward the two-step and line dancing.”

She steps up on the platform, and I do the same, my shoes spanning more than a single square that surrounds the blue arrows.

“Racy Lacey knows how to two-step?” she asks, brows arched like maybe she’s impressed.

I chuckle. “All the Lacey boys know how to two-step. It’s a requirement.”

Her brows furrow, so I explain.

“My aunt owns a honky-tonk in our hometown. Aunt Dottie made sure the three of us—four, counting Tuck’s buddy, Camden—learned how to two-step before we graduated from high school. She said any nephew of hers would know how to properly spin a lady around the dance floor.”

“Hmm,” she muses. “Can’t say that I’ve ever two-stepped before.”

Before the last word has left her mouth, my own commits the bad habit it’s developed when Brynn’s around—blurting without consulting my brain first. “I’ll take you for a spin soon.”

Her eyes light up, and her gorgeous face, wide with hope, makes me a little dizzy.

But I’ll ignore that for now, too.

“Cheers to thirty-five.” My QB clinks his beer bottle against mine, then settles back against the leather seat in the round booth where we’re holding court. This VIP corner of the club is roped off, but that doesn’t stop bold, tipsy fans from trying to sneak past the two beefy bouncers stationed at either end. This place is dark and loud and strobe-y enough to cause seizures, but the younger guys insisted we come here after we ate our weight in ribs at Rendezvous.

“Thanks, Cap.” With a pull of my beer, I relax into the creaky leather seat. “He’s going to be feeling that tomorrow.”

I tip my head, gesturing to Devon Greenway. He’s slurping a frozen concoction from a neon pink yard glass while he boogies on the dance floor with a couple of our teammates and a gaggle of scantily dressed women. It’s a Tuesday, so the dance floor is empty save for the group circling the Blues’ players like bees to a hive. Iwould’ve been content to call it a night after dinner, but Greenway and Jefferson wore the rest of us down.

Jefferson, who’s broken away from the cluster on the dance floor, flops into the booth next to Beau. “Lacey, you’re missing out. It’s your birthday, dude, and you can have your pick.” He throws an arm out, gestures to the women tossing their hair and laughing at Greenway’s sloppy attempt at a moonwalk. “Or, hey, I bet they’d let you guest DJ.”

“You know we have practice at seven a.m., right?”

With a shake of his head, he looks at Beau. “Please don’t let me get this old.”

“You show up to practice hungover tomorrow, and Coach’ll take care of that for you, I’m sure.” Beau lifts his chin.

“Aw, man. Not Cap, too,” Jefferson wails. “Greenway,” he shouts across the club. “Save me from these old geezers.” He snatches up a leftover shot, downs it, and throws himself out of the booth. Then he’s hurdling over the velvet rope and hitting the dance floor again.

“Gah, to be that young again,” I lament.

“You’d want to go back to those days?” Beau points his beer at the crowd as a techno version of “Dancing Queen” thumps through the speakers.

“You’re nowhere near my old geezer status.” The guy’s only twenty-seven. “It’s too soon for you to be sitting on the sidelines.”

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