Page 63 of The Check Down

I clear my throat and find my voice. “Mr. Newman, that is inappropriate and has nothing to do with Thomas Hardy.” His ruddy complexion flares as he side-eyes his peers. “Now, in our last session, we discussed Hardy’s use of imagery in his poetry…”

Somehow, I wrestle the train back on the track and finish the lecture. It helps that I’ve taught this course several times and know it well. But as soon as the last student exits the classroom, I snatch my phone from my desk.

I bypass several waiting texts and tap on the search engine. When I enter Griffin’s name and hitgo, the breath I’ve been holding whooshes out. The first few news items are football related. My blood pressure is just starting to lower when I see it, a few stories in. A grainy picture of the two of us at the zoo three days ago, our latest Memphis Magic outing.

I click on the article.

Rather than a celebrity gossip site, this is a sports gossip blog titledBallers’ Baes.From what I gather as I peruse it quickly, its sole purpose is speculating about professional athletes and their significant others. In the picture, Griffin’s placing a roaring lion hat on my head, and I’m beaming up at him. The article’s titledRacy Lacey’s New Lady Love?

This is not the first time a photo of the two of us has appeared online, but it is the first where my face is clearly visible. In the few others I’ve found, my head’s down, and my hair is hiding my face, or Griffin’s blocking me from view. He was hyper-vigilant when we first started hanging out, I think out of respect for my relationship with Jack. But now that I’m single, neither of us bat an eye when we see cameras pointed our way. This was bound to happen. But the timing could be terrible. Because what if it chokes the tiny bud growing between us before we have a chance to nurture it?

I slide my thumb up the screen, dismissing the app, and tap on the message icon, where a red circle signals that I’ve missed several texts. My stomach plummets at the name at the top of the list.

Jack

What the fuck, Brynn?

Racy Lacey? Seriously?

Do you know his reputation? Were you fucking him before you dumped me?

I can’t believe you’d stoop this low. With an athlete? On MY team? You hate sports. How’d you even meet him? At that fucking season-ticket event?

Five fucking years, Brynn. And you threw it all away for a showboating fuck boy. Hope he screws up every damn one of your sandwich orders.

I’m still subtly dashing away tears as students file in for the next class.

It’s pouring when I leave campus. What a perfect way to end this hell of a day.

Though swimming my usual thirty laps would soothe my anxiety, all I want to do is get home.

It’s Halloween. I’m still nursing the remnants of a hangover. My ex-boyfriend flayed me via texts. And my situationship—as Paige calls it—has grown more complicated.

I even cried over tea time with Helen.

I want to change into warm pajamas and eat a huge bowl of popcorn while I watch a comfort movie. MaybeSeven Brides for Seven Brothers. OrBecoming Jane, which I’d definitely shut off right after the main characters run away together.

But the tall, handsome tight end who’s counting my every step up the stairs has other plans. As soon as I clear the top step, I’m wrapped in his arms.

The sensation is as good as I remember. Griffin Lacey gives excellent hugs. The perfect combination of gentle and strong.

“How was your day, professor?” He rests his chin on my crown.

“Awful.” My words are muffled against his collarbone, but I don’t pull back as I list the day’s hardships. “All-day hangover. Might still have it, honestly.” His chest bounces with a chuckle, but he holds me tighter. “Halloween on a college campus.”

“Hard pass.”

“Right? And one brave freshman had the audacity to wave the zoo picture around and ask about it during class. Do you know about the zoo picture?”

“Mm-hmm.” The sound vibrates through his chest and into me. “Seth sent it earlier. I’m sorry.”

Now it’s my turn to squeeze. “Don’t be.”

He rubs up and down my spine, the movement a balm, making me sag further.

“It was going to happen sooner or later.”

A grunt. “What else?”

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