Page 73 of The Check Down

“Mr. Gus. Good to see you.” I shake the gentleman’s wrinkled, papery hand and hug Brynn to my side. “This is my special guest.”

She reaches for his hand. “I’m Brynn.”

His white whiskered cheeks spring up as he welcomes her. “Hello there. Gus Torino.” A twinkle of mischief shines in his eyes as he leans my way. “You’ve outkicked your coverage with this one, Mr. Lacey.”

I huff a laugh. “Don’t I know it. And it’s Griffin,” I remind him for the dozenth time.

Mr. Gus pushes up his glasses, then sweeps a hand to one side. “Shall we?”

As we follow his shuffling gait down the hall, I give Brynn some context. “Mr. Gus has been working at the Blues’ stadium since it opened. He’s been giving tours here for over twenty years.”

“Started as a custodian the year it opened,” he calls over his stooped shoulder. “Mr. Russell personally tapped me to give tours a few years later. I remember when this one was a young whippersnapper.”

Brynn’s eyes widen. “He remembers you?”

“Hard to forget those Lacey boys,” Gus chortles, the sound echoing off the cinderblock walls. “They came several years in a row, like clockwork. This one,” he thumbs over his shoulder, “always came with a list of questions.”

I rest an arm along her shoulders, my chest tightening when Brynn reaches up and grips my fingers. “We got to choose how to spend our birthdays as kids. Whether we wanted a sleepover or a party or special outing. I chose the stadium tour three years in a row. And then Tucker copied me for an additional three years.” I affectionately roll my eyes.

“You probably have my talking points memorized,” Gus jokes.

He leads us throughout the facility, making stops in a couple of the high-end suites, the press box, and both locker rooms. He answers every one of Brynn’s questions and gives us time to explore. When we reach the Blues’ locker room, he steps out to give us a few minutes of privacy, and I make a mental note to bring him a bottle of his favorite whiskey.

“So this is where Racy Lacey suits up.” Brynn wags her brows and lowers to the bench at my locker. The sight of her sitting below the nameplate with my last name and jersey number makes my hands ache with the need to touch her.

I brace my arms against the wooden sides and angle into her. “Every time I came here as a kid, I’d imagine what it would be like to have my name on one of these.”

Dark lashes fluttering, she smiles up at me. “And?”

“It’s even better than I dreamed it would be.”

Not just playing for this team, but being here with her. Like this.

Gus clears his throat from the hall, a subtle cue that it’s time to move on, and we join him. “One more stop on this ride.”

He leads us down the concrete path to the place where my team rallies before every home game. Where we wait in anticipation to be announced over the PA and then charge the field as the stadium erupts.

“This is where I leave you two lovebirds.” He dips in a bow, the wisps of his thinning hair tousled by the breeze from the end of the ramp. “Brynn, lovely to meet you.”

She plants a peck on his cheek that delights the old man.

“Mr. Lacey, enjoy your days off. And don’t let this one get away.”

“That’s the plan, Gus. Thank you for everything.”

With his hands tucked into the pockets of his navy cardigan, he shuffles back toward the main walkway.

An icy chill blasts down the shadowed corridor, so I pull the sides of Brynn’s wool coat together and button it up. “It’ll be warmer in the sunshine.” I head toward the field, and when her shoes scuff the concrete floor behind me, I slip my hand behind my back and wiggle my fingers. Her warm skin presses against mine, and we step out into the November sunshine.

The brightness of the late afternoon sun makes the grass on the empty field look especially green. There’s not a soul in sight as we make our way across one of the end zones, painted navy with the team name in light blue. I lead her all the way to the image of King on the fifty-yard line, then rotate to face her.

“Wow.” Her brown eyes are large as she takes in our surroundings. “This is what you see every week.”

I scan the stadium, trying to imagine the view through her eyes: rows upon rows of empty navy seats climbing sky-high, starkwhite yard lines and hash marks, massive Jumbotrons on either end,Hound Town—a fan section—that dominates one end zone.

Compounded by the roar of the fans, the scrutiny of the media, the expectations, the celebrity, the pressure? It can be overwhelming. And that’s the last thing I want her to be as we figure this out.

“Brynn.” I squeeze her hands, garnering her full attention.

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