Page 58 of The Check Down

Griffin

“All right, all right, quiet down!” Coach Mundy stands in a circle of football players in various stages of undress. The mood in this locker room is electric. “That was a team win out there. All three phases did their part to get us that victory.” He’s drowned out by a round of shouts and whistles, but considering there’s a huge grin alight under his thick mustache, he doesn’t mind. He gives it a minute, and when the pandemonium dies down, he holds his hand out, and Dobbins sets the game ball in his palm. When he holds it high, the room goes silent.

“This game ball goes to an undeniable asset to this team. He played a heck of a game out there today. We’re blessed that he suits up in blue every week.” Dramatic pause. “Eight catches. Sixty yards receiving. Two TDs.” Another pause, and Greenway prematurely smacks my pads. “Week eight game ball goes to number 89!”

Hoots and applause echo off the walls as Coach hands me the football.

I soak in the moment. Breathe it in, hold it tight, memorize it.This. This is what I fought like hell to get back to. Not the accolades, although those are hella satisfying. But the thrill of victory and the harmony we create when we battle for that win together. When a shared love of this game forges individuals into an unstoppable unit.

Football. It’s the fucking love of my life.

Greenway and Jefferson start a “Racy Lacey” chant, and they’re joined by almost every man in here. It’s tradition for the game ball recipient to make a short speech, so as I stand from the bench in front of my locker, the room quiets once more.

“Uh…” I clear my throat, choked up by my unexpected emotion. “Thanks so much for this, Coach. Means a lot to me.” With a deep inhale, I forge ahead. “This is my eleventh year in the league—”

Someone—pretty sure it’s Sweeney—coughs “Gramps.”

I wait for the responding chuckles to fade before I speak again. “So this is not my first game ball. But it might be the most special. I grew up not far from here, and I’ve bled Memphis Blue since I was a kid.” More cheers. “If someone had told nine-year-old Griffin that one day he’d play for this team, he…well, he was a bit of a shit, so he probably would’ve called them a fucking liar.” More chuckles. “It’s a privilege to wear this uniform, to know my family is here watching. But today’s victory was a team win. Special teams, y’all were fire today. Defense? Damn. No fucking quit against one of the best offenses in this division. And my offense—” Deep hoots and whoops sound out all around me. “Without y’all, I sure as hell wouldn’t have been open so that the best damn QB in the National Football League”—I hold a fist out to Beau for a bump, and the locker room goes wild—“could target me. Hell of a game today, boys. Blues on three!”

After the locker room celebrations, I grab a quick shower and dress in the clothes I arrived in hours ago. My least favorite part of game day is next—the press room. But when I play like I did today, the task isn’t nearly as painful.

Standing behind the podium, I scan the room of print and digital reporters. Jack’s probable dalliance, Andrea, is sitting in the third row. Man, I wish I could ask Kasey—the Blues’ media manager standing to my left—to skip the blond’s questions.

Kasey nods to a reporter in the front row, and the Q & A session is underway. I field questions about the team, my shoulder, and specific plays that led to the win. Before I know it, Kasey says, “Last question,” and points to a man at the back of the room.

“This was your best game of the season so far. What would you say was the difference today?”

I study the wood grain of the podium, stalling. I’ve given them plenty of highlight-worthy soundbites in the last few minutes—and they’ve all been the truth. Today’s win wouldn’t have happened without incredible contributions from all three units.

But…

Did I have extra motivation today?

A slow, secret smile pulls at my lips as I angle in closer to the microphone. “Yeah, I might’ve had a good-luck gem here today.”

Gem. BrynnAmethystNelson.

Knowing she was watching? Fuck yeah, it motivated me.

The memory of her face when she discovered I knew about her naughty voyeurism last night. And the enticing blush that spread from her gorgeous face all the way down her neck and chest, disappearing under the fluffy white terry cloth.

Fuck. I’m half hard behind this podium just thinking about how those luscious swells strained against that towel. And when she pulled that Blues T-shirt out of the bag and beamed up at me, bright as the goddamn sun, I had to hightail it out of there before I yanked her in and tasted the lips that’ve starred in every one of my water-logged fantasies.

Right now, I can’t wait to see her sporting Memphis blue. With any luck, my peeps convinced her to join them in the family zone for our after-game meet up.

On my way down the corridor, I pass the GM Shane and his asshole of an assistant, but I pay them no mind. Thank fuck they’re heading toward the offices, away from where Brynn is hopefully waiting.

When I reach my crew, I search for her. It only takes a moment to find her, as if she’s a beacon. She’s off to the side with Trixie, who’s no doubt regaling her with embarrassing stories from my childhood. Brynn is absolute perfection, wearing the colors of my heart like they were created just for her.

I stoop to hug Mom, and when she holds me close, the three words she murmurs warm me: “We love her.”

Of course they do. Who wouldn’t?

Following on the heels of that warmth, though, is an icy tendril of panic.

Because the reason I haven’t let myself pursue this woman was shot to hell today. One reporter called it my best game of the season, but in all honesty, it was my best game in acoupleof seasons. Rather than causing my game to suffer, her presence kept me focused in a visceral way.

When my cleats hit that turf, I wanted nothing more than to impress her.

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