Page 56 of The Check Down

“Crossword clues,” I explain. “We leave clues and draw the empty boxes for one another’s guess. We build off each other’s words until we run out of space, then we start again.”

I came up with the idea after I discovered the tiny dragons all over the apartment. My first clue—we’ve been invaded—was written underneath a horizontal chain of seven empty boxes. He got the answer correct on his first guess, then drew a vertical grid that contained theRfromdragonsand wroteyou are not a fanas his clue. The answer?Gherkins.

Tucker scoffs, but there’s affection in the sound. “Griff and those damn puzzles.” When he’s loaded the last plate into the machine, he closes the door and uses a dish towel to wipe the counter around the sink. “He got hooked in college. Mom picked up a book of them while she was shopping for his favorite snacks and put it in a care package.”

The kitchen is spotless when Griffin emerges from his bedroom looking like a GQ model. He’s wearing gray dress slacks that hug every muscle so perfectly that I mentally add to the tally of cookie bouquets I’ll send the tailor if I ever discover their identity. On top, he’s layered a dress shirt in the lightest baby blue under a fitted sport coat a few shades darker. And to top it off, there’s a navy and white polka dot pocket square peeking out.

Tucker wolf whistles, garnering an eye roll from his older brother.

Slipping his phone into his inside breast pocket, Griff considers me. “I have something for you in the truck, professor. Walk down with me?”

I gulp down my nerves and slide off the stool, then I follow him out without a word. The entire trip downstairs, I’m convinced he’s going to ask me to move out. He probably just doesn’t want to do it in front of Tucker. Flames of discomfort burn my insides so hot that even the crisp late-October air is no match. As we stop next to the silver Ram, I square my shoulders, preparing for his censure.

When he withdraws a blue gift bag from the back seat—one that readsHound Town Merchand is printed with a picture of King, the Blues’ mascot—my stomach knots in confusion. He dipshis chin in encouragement, his expression easy rather than hard, so I reach inside and pull out a soft navy T-shirt.

“I know you don’t wear jerseys, but I can’t let you go to a Blues game without the proper attire.”

“Th-thank you.” I hug the shirt against my chest and smile up at him.

His eyes are exceptionally blue today.

Having Tucker Lacey as my guide is a lot like being escorted by a rambunctious puppy.

“Ooh, Brynn, hold up. We need nachos.”

I shift the soft pretzel, soda, and box of popcorn I’ve been juggling into one arm to take the proffered tray of pulled pork nachos. Tucker’s arms are laden with hot dogs, a couple of cans of beer, and a personal pizza, along with the funnel cake he insists we’ll share.

I’m so focused on making sure none of these snacks splatter on the concrete that I don’t have a real chance to freak out about meeting Griffin’s family for the first time.

Only when Tucker stops at a door that displays aReservedsign do my scrambled eggs threaten to reappear.

When we arrived at the stadium, I promised Tucker that I’d be fine to find Paige and the other WAGs on my own, but the same bottom-lip pout he used on his brother this morning had me folding like tissue paper.

It’s ridiculous to be so nervous about meeting the Laceys, yet here I am. I’m desperate for his people to like me, to want toknowme. But my anxiety about meeting his family is doubled when Griffin isn’t here to act as my security blanket.

The security guard at the door slaps Tucker on the back. “Tuck, good to see you. Hope your big bro kicks some Devil ass today.” Then he eyes me, one brow lifted. “Who’s this?”

“She’s with us,” Tucker says, adjusting the trays in his arms. “Griff’s cleared it with the team. You should have her credentials.”

The guard yanks his phone from his pocket and consults it. “Ah, Ms. Nelson. You’ve been added to the permanent guest list for Mr. Lacey’s suite. Hope you enjoy the game.”

Holding my breath, I turn to Tucker for an explanation, but he’s already pushing the door open with his foot.

While he greets his family and passes out snacks, I stand back and take in the details of the suite. Two rows of eight stadium seats face a huge window that overlooks the field. Directly behind the seating area is a long, narrow wooden bar with a row of navy leather stools tucked underneath. Three round pub tables fill the main space and are covered with drinks, food, purses, and phones.

“Brynn, come meet everyone.” The youngest Lacey brother has already relieved himself of his snacks and takes mine from me as well.

When he steps away, I’m met with several pairs of curious eyes.

“These are my parents, Donna and Fred.”

Both Lacey parents wear number 89 jerseys and warm smiles. Donna is my height and curvy, with a white-blond bob, while Fred has a silver-gray goatee that matches his hair.

“This,” Tucker continues, “is Shaw, the oldest.”

A striking, but wary, pair of ocean-blue eyes study me as he gives me a subtle chin dip. He’s as handsome as his brothers, and even though he’s the shortest of the three, he still stands inches taller than everyone else in the room, save for Tucker. His hair is several shades lighter, too; the medium-brown strands are cut in a length somewhere between Griffin’s buzz cut and Tucker’s longer locks.

“Brynn, so glad you could join us today.” A lanky older woman wraps my hand in a solid shake. With one look at her features, Ican tell she’s related to Donna, though she’s leaner and her shoulder-length hair is cinnamon colored, streaked with silver. “I’m Aunt Dot or Dottie—I’ll answer to either one. And this is Griff’s cousin, Trixie.”

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