Page 66 of The Check Down

An overnight trip to his hometown? It seems like a giant step toward a destination I’m still not completely sure we’re headed for. But like every other time he’s asked me to take a chance, my answer is immediate. “I’d love to go to Holly Holler with you.”

“Perfect.” He tucks me into his side again and turns back to the movie.

Before long, the stress and toll of the day threaten to pull me under. I fight the droop of my heavy lids for as long as I can, but eventually—well before Tom and Jane are forced to part ways—I surrender to the promise of a deep sleep, tucked close to the man who’s becoming my favorite person.

Chapter fourteen

Brynn

Igrip the armrests as Paige, oblivious to my anxiety, natters on with updates about her wedding planning through takeoff.

“My mom keeps sending me pictures of bejeweled strappy heels, like I haven’t reminded her a million times that we’re getting married on a freaking beach and I’ll be barefoot. She says she refuses to be barefoot at her only daughter’s wedding.” She huffs. “Maybe I can convince her to wear dressy rhinestone flip-flops.”

Paige and Beau are having a destination wedding after the season ends, with only their closest family and friends in attendance.

When she casually mentions that I should make sure my passport is up to date, I blurt, “Me? Are you sure?”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Of course. We want you there. You’re stuck with us, Brynn. For better or worse.”

I stretch my jean-clad legs, finally relaxing now that we’vereached cruising altitude, and delight in the extra leg room. Leaning closer to Paige, I whisper, “I feel kinda bad about this upgrade.”

She frowns. “Don’t. Let him spoil you, girl. He makes more money than he can spend in his lifetime.”

“But—”

“Listen.” She shifts to look at me directly. “It was weird for me, too, at first. When Beau insisted on paying for every dang thing. But you’re not a jersey-chasing gold digger being frivolous with his money. A little splurge every now and then is fine.” With that, she twists forward, end of subject.

I want to argue that my situation is different. Griffin and I are not dating. I don’t know what we are, exactly. Roommates who Netflix and snuggle? Friends with forehead-kiss benefits?

We need to define our status. Soon.

When we land in Charlotte, a car service is waiting. A first for me.

Another first? This away game. And I’m a nervous wreck. Memphis has only been allotted a couple of suites, meaning both the office staff and the players’ special guests will be in attendance.

Though apprehension still lingers, Griffin has done his best to prepare me for a possible run-in with Jack.

In fact, that’s the only conversation we’ve had time for since Friday night. I saw him briefly yesterday before he left for his Saturday run-throughs and to travel with the team.

So, thebigconversation? The one hanging over us like a bloated water balloon? Yeah, the anticipation has me in a chokehold.

Inside the facility, we follow the crowd of early fans through the concourse and ride escalators up several levels. We’re halfway up the final set to the suite level when a familiar voice echoes from above.

“Yoo-hoo! Moonbeam!”

My heart stumbles, and my head snaps up, my focus darting from person to person. Finally, I spot her. Leaning over the rail, my mother waves frantically. Beside her, my dad holds up one hand in greeting and uses the other to keep her from tipping over the barrier.

Instantly, my cheeks are wet with tears. I bounce the rest of the way up, wishing I could sprint up the remaining steps. Alas, the escalator is crowded, so I must wait. When I turn to Paige, assessing her blurry features from behind my tears, her eyes are shiny, but her smile is knowing.

The three of us Nelsons collide in a tear-soaked hug that lasts for a solid three minutes. My mom coos and murmursmy babyandmy lovein my ear, while my dad pets my hair. I continue sobbing, holding tight, soaking in their love. Yes, we talk every couple of days, and we meet weekly on Zoom, but I haven’t been held by them or smelled their familiar patchouli-infused scents since last Christmas.

I catch my breath and pull back a fraction. “What? How?”

But I already know the answer.

Mom cups my face and uses her thumbs to wipe tears from my cheeks. “Your sweetheart.”

I don’t correct her as a fresh deluge washes away any remaining traces of makeup.

---