Page 1 of Tactically Tied

CHAPTERONE

The smell of smoked brisket and sizzling bacon filled the air as Jed Winchester wiped his hands on his apron. It was Thursday night at Grits and Grub, and the place was packed to the rafters. Of course it was. It was football season. The clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter filled the space, competing with the roar of the football game playing on the flat screens mounted above the bar.

Jed glanced up just in time to see the QB take a hard hit, the sound of helmets colliding making him wince. The crowd at the bar groaned in sympathy, some slapping the bar top, others muttering about bad calls. It wasn't a bad call, just par for the game. The leader was the one who took the hits.

Jed dug his thumb into his lower back. His bones ached in solidarity. He wasn’t young anymore. He’d been on his feet for more than half his life, and as much as he loved it, the grind of running a kitchen was starting to get to him. Cooking could be just as punishing as football—a game he used to love and a life he'd nearly pursued if his culinary passion hadn’t won out.

The grill hissed behind him, and Jed's nostrils flared as the smell of something slightly off hit him. He turned just as one of his line cooks plated up a burger. Everything about it was wrong—the patty was too well done, the cheese unevenly melted, and the fries soggy. His gut twisted and not in the way it did when he was coming up with a new recipe. This was something else. Disappointment.

Jed wiped his hands again and strode to the pass, grabbing the plate before it could make its way out to the dining room.

"Hey, Dane," Jed called over his shoulder, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the kitchen noise. "You wanna tell me what this is?"

Dane, a lanky twenty-something who’d been with him for a year, froze mid-chop, his knife hovering above a pile of onions. He glanced at the plate in Jed’s hand, then back at Jed’s face, swallowing hard.

"Uh, that's the Winchester Burger, Chef."

Jed raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Is it? Looks more like a high school cafeteria special to me." He tilted the plate, pointing to the fries. "Soggy. And the cheese? Barely melted. You know how we do things here."

"Perfection or nothing."

Jed slid the imperfect food into the trash bin, leaving nothing behind on the plate.

Dane's face flushed. "Sorry, Chef. I’ll redo it."

"We’re not a fast-food joint—quality over speed, remember?"

"Yes, Chef." The call didn't come just from Dane. Every person on the line in the kitchen uttered the phrase with military precision. Jed's dad would've been proud.

Jed walked back toward the kitchen pass, rubbing the back of his neck. He hated snapping at his staff, but it had to be done. Everything had to be just right. Every plate, every garnish, every fry. His drill sergeant of a father used to bark orders the same way—except instead of a kitchen, it was in the barracks. Instead of burgers, it was at soldiers. And Jed? Well, he’d learned to run a tight ship long before he’d picked up a chef’s knife.

Being the son of a drill sergeant meant there was no room for mistakes. Failure wasn’t an option, and mediocrity? It wasn’t even a thought. Jed had spent his childhood marching to his father’s rigid cadence, learning the importance of precision and discipline. When other kids were riding bikes, he was practicing his salute, learning how to make his bed with corners so tight they could bounce a coin. By the time he hit high school, it was expected he’d follow in his father’s footsteps—go through ROTC, then straight into the military. Jed did what was expected, but deep down, his heart wasn’t in it.

Not that he didn't respect the structure, the discipline—it had shaped him—but while his friends in ROTC dreamed of the front lines, Jed dreamed of the kitchen. He preferred the warmth of the grill to the bark of commands, the smell of spices over gunpowder. His real education began in Home Ec, where he mastered knife skills and the art of perfecting a roux. It was a world where the pressure to succeed came from the love of creation, not the threat of consequence.

On weekends, he’d sneak away to his grandfather’s backyard. Grandpa Jedidiah Winchester Sr. didn’t have a restaurant, but he might as well have. His grill was legendary. People came from miles around just to taste his barbecue, crowding around the massive pit, waiting for their turn to sink into the smoky, sweet, sticky sauce that put other local spots to shame. Jed felt more at home there than anywhere else in the world—the hiss of the grill, the smell of charcoal and wood chips, the way his grandfather’s secret sauce thickened over the heat until it clung to the meat like a second skin. That was where Jed found his true calling.

But his father had other plans. “Military first,” his dad had insisted, the way he insisted on everything. Jed did what he was told, signed up, and served his time. He didn’t regret it—it taught him things, hardened him, gave him the resilience to face whatever came his way. But every day in uniform, he dreamed of the kitchen. Dreamed of carrying on his grandfather’s legacy, of turning those backyard cookouts into something bigger.

So the day he got out, he left the barracks behind and hit the food world by storm. Every dish he made was in honor of his grandfather’s memory, every seasoning a nod to the lessons learned over that old grill. The control he exercised in the kitchen was less about perfection and more about respect—for the food, for the process, for the people who had come before him.

A loud cheer from the bar broke through his thoughts, the crowd celebrating as the QB finally made a comeback, throwing a perfect pass. Jed glanced up, catching a glimpse of the game, but his heart wasn’t in it. Not anymore. These days, the thrill of the kitchen was all he had. And even that felt... off lately.

"Isn’t that him?" a beautiful blonde whispered loud enough to be heard over the television and cheers.

"Yeah, that's him: Jed Winchester, the Culinary Casanova," said the chestnut-haired siren beside her.

Jed grimaced at the nickname. Would he never live that down? The playboy image had stuck to him over the years, a reputation he hadn’t exactly discouraged. It kept things simple—women came and went, and no one expected more from him than a casual fling. It was a role he’d cultivated out of necessity, a shield to hide behind. But it was just that—a role. The truth was, there’d only ever been one woman he was really into.

And she wasn’t into him. Or so she’d said.

The chestnut siren made her move, sliding over with a confident smile. "Hey there, Jed. Big game, huh? You watching?"

He leaned back, offering a polite but distant smile. "Not really. Too busy in the kitchen."

Jed pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the double doors that led to the back of the restaurant. The blonde and the siren blinked, clearly expecting more of a response, but when none came, the blonde glanced over her shoulder at her friend, who gave her an encouraging nod.

"Well, we were thinking... maybe after the game, we could grab a drink? If you’re not too busy, that is."

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