Page 7 of The Check Down

“Oh, pooh,” she waves him off. “He’s still my baby. You’re all still my babies.”

I step up close and wrap her in my arms. “Hey, Mom.”

After a tight squeeze, she pulls back, eyes shining with tears, and palms my scruff. “So proud of you, Griff.” The rest of my people circle up and form a cocoon around me, like they can protect me from the shit show of the game they witnessed.

Always a man of few words, Dad gives my head an affectionate rub. “Tough game, son,” he murmurs. Then he steps back to let Tucker close in.

He’s my little brother in age and height only. Though he stands a couple of inches shorter than me, he almost lifts my feet off the concrete when he hugs me, the ferocity of it forcing anooffrom my lungs.

“Damn, seeing you in those blues today made me fucking emotional, bro.”

“He wept like a damn baby.” Shaw’s deep voice cuts in.

Tucker and I turn in unison to face our older brother. With a smirk, he shoos Tucker out of my arms, then leans in to give me a perfunctory bro hug—the pull-in with one hand and a smack on my shoulder blade is a Shaw specialty.

He’s the least emotional of us Lacey boys. Since we were kids, I’ve only witnessed him lose his shit once.

Hope I never see it again. It was brutal.

No, these days, Shaw operates at a low simmer that makes most folks steer clear.

“You catch a case of the dropsy down in Georgia?” He regards me with narrowed eyes. They’re bluer than the gunmetal hue Tucker and I share with Mom. He’s got Dad’s eyes, a piercing, clear blue the color of the Caribbean.

“Shaw, don’t be a dick.” Trixie shoves him with one arm while wrapping the other around my back. “You’ll get ’em next week, Griff.”

I hug her back and tweak one of her ginger pigtails as her mom sweeps in for a hug of her own.

“Uncle Roo would’ve been so dang proud today,” Aunt Dottie whispers in my ear, her voice quivering with emotion. Her husband, Trixie’s father, passed away ten years ago, but the thought of him never fails to stir emotion.

“Thanks, Dot,” I choke out past an unexpected knot in my throat. Fuck, I miss that red-headed, larger-than-life force of nature. My Uncle Rooster was one of my favorite people on the planet.

I catch Trixie’s watery eyes over my aunt’s shoulder but huff a laugh when they roll to the ceiling the second a heavy arm slings across my shoulders.

“Griff, gotta say, having our own suite softened the blow of the game’s outcome.”

I smack Camden Little’s abdomen with the back of my hand. He and Tucker have been joined at the hip since kindergarten. The guy might as well be a Lacey, too.

“Yeah, it was good?” I look at Mom for confirmation. My one nonnegotiable request when the Blues made their offer was that my family have a reserved suite for every home game.

“It was perfect.” She nods her affirmation, her bleach blond bob bouncing.

We stand in silence for a moment. Their expectant, hopeful gazes settle on me and weigh down my shoulders like sacks of feed.

“Well, best be gettin’ back.” Dad rubs the Blues logo covering his belly with one hand and jingles his keys in the other.

I swallow hard. “Yeah. Thanks for coming, guys.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it, Griff.” Aunt Dottie clasps Trixie’s hand, and they both beam at me.

“Fuck, why am I about to cry again?” Tucker tilts his head back and massages his eyes. “We’ll see him at home in a couple hours.”

Laughs echo off the concrete wall.

“Stop being a goddamn wuss.” Shaw’s tone is gruff, but he grips the back of Tuck’s neck in a fond hold.

“Shaw Morgan, watch your mouth,” our mother scolds. Like most southern mamas, she hates when we curse. We Lacey boys swallowed enough soap in our teen years to clean a pigsty.

After my aunt reminds us all to drive safely, we say our final goodbyes, and my family starts up the ramp toward the parking lot.

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