Page 1 of Game Changer

Prologue

Boone

Leaning against the fence surrounding the family ranch in Willowridge, North Carolina, I watch the dust fly from under the SUV tires as my four brothers head out for a night of debauchery. Me? I’m no longer in the mood to head into the city. Why? I received yet another certified letter from Lindsey’s lawyer. It’s sitting on the desk in the office at the stables because that’s where I dropped it when our carrier, Ron, delivered it a few hours ago while I was helping Mom muck stalls.

Why haven’t I opened it? I know what it’s going to say. They’ve been asking me to sign away parental rights to my girl, Lily, who will be three years old next month, since Lindsey moved from Jersey, where we went to college, back to her family home when Lily was three months old.

I look out over the field. The sun slants low over the pasture, catching on the sleek, muscular bodies of the ten horses grazing there. Ten. It still feels strange to see that many out there again.For years, this land was quieter, emptier, an echo of what it used to be.

Whiskey, a palomino mare with a coat like molten gold, her head dipping lazily as she crops off the grass. She was one of the first I picked. Beside her, Bandit, the jet-black gelding with a star-shaped patch on his forehead. Then there was Blaze, the chestnut with a fiery streak down his nose. He’s the wild one, kicking up dirt one second and grazing the next. A little way off, Sugar, the silver-gray mare, nuzzled up to her pasture mate, Frost, a young gelding who still has some growing to do.

The rest moved as a loose herd, switching spots in a lazy rhythm. Duke, the sturdy bay who could plow fields if he needed to, and Star, a soft-eyed paint whose coat seemed to map out constellations. And at the edge of the group, the two youngest, Thunder and Lightning, played at mock battles, their energy a sharp contrast to the older ones.

Cinder, the elder of the herd, was the most expensive of them all. A twenty-year-old mare with a smoky gray coat that has lightened over the years, now speckled with flecks of silver, like ashes scattered in the wind. Her mane and tail are still an inky black but now have streaks of white, no doubt a testament to what she’s been through.

Her movements are slower now, deliberate but graceful. There’s an undeniable strength beneath her measured steps. She’s the one the younger horses look to for guidance, a steady presence that keeps the herd grounded. Cinder’s deep, soulful eyes hold decades of stories—challenges and the quiet moments of peace she’s now able to return to.

Her galloping days are behind her, but she still enjoys a spirited trot every now and then, showing the herd that age is just a number. Cinder’s fiery spirit hasn’t waned. To me, she’s the heartbeat of the pasture, a symbol of resilience. She’s also the most important one of all.

I was pissed when Mom sold her to begin with. But she told me Cinder was old and probably didn’t have many years, and Lily was young and had at least a hundred. She took it a step further by adding, “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my boys,” then stated, “Tell me you haven’t done the same.”

She knew I had. Hell, I had sold plasma twice a week before Lily was born. My blood literally paid for her crib. I also had two part-time jobs—I bartended weekends and nights when I could and drove for two different ride apps—while training, playing football, and taking a full course load to make sure we had everything we’d need for our child’s arrival.

I continued, even after Lindsey left, to pay for our place because I was sure she’d change her mind and come right back. I worked even more when the season ended, so I was sending her even more money after being told by her parents’ lawyer that the money was not only unnecessary but also a pathetic amount.

Wasn’t so pathetic when I got drafted and received a signing bonus. Everyone, including our mutual friends from college, Max and Mila Steel, who tried everything they could to get Lindsey to stand up to her asshole parents, told me not to send any more until they started following the court-ordered visitation.

I rub the back of my neck as I feel it heating up, a sure sign my blood pressure is rising and I need to expel some energy or stop mind-fucking the situation. Since the boys are now long gone, and I won’t be expelling shit tonight, I refocus by honing back in on Cinder.

The day Cinder was delivered was my seventh NFL game. We were playing against the Colts, and it was almost time to hit the field for the game when a whinny and a neigh stopped me from shutting my locker.

Mom’s ringtone.

I grabbed it and hitaccept. The screen flickered to life, and there she was, my mom, her head resting against Cinder’s neck, her fingers trembling as she stroked her black silken coat.

Mom’s face was something I hadn’t seen before. Her sharp, proud features, always so composed, were undone by something deeper than surprise. Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but the words didn’t come. Her eyes—clear and unyielding all my life—were shining now, tears spilling down her cheeks in trails that glistened against her flushed skin.

She smiled, wide and unguarded, the kind of smile I hadn’t seen since before Dad’s misdeeds were discovered and life got so fucking hard for her. Her hand slid down Cinder’s neck, steadying herself as much as comforting the mare.

“You …” she began, her voice catching and breaking as she turned back to the screen. She laughed, a broken, shaky sound that was as much a sob as it was joy. She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, disappearing from view for just a moment when the tears refused to stop. “You didn’t …” she whispered, her voice thick with disbelief and overwhelming gratitude. She turned back to Cinder, who nudged her gently, as if to remind her she was real.

“I did,” I said softly, my throat tight. “She’s home, Mom. She’s yours again.”

Her laugh broke fully then, the kind of laugh that comes with tears you can’t hold back. She ran her hand along Cinder’s jaw, her forehead touching her nose. Cinder, calm and wise as ever, leaned into her.

“I thought I’d never see her again,” my mom said, her voice trembling with emotion. She turned back to the screen, her tear-streaked face glowing with something more than joy, something like relief or maybe even healing. “You brought her back to me.”

“You gave her up for me,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “It was time I gave her back to you.”

She stared at me for a moment, her eyes holding everything she couldn’t say—pride, love, and gratitude so deep it broke me a little. Then she smiled again, wiping at her cheeks but not bothering to stop the tears.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said, her voice soft and steady now, the way it always got when she meant every word. “More than you’ll ever know.”

And in that moment, standing there in my cleats and uniform with the noise of the locker room fading to nothing, I felt like we’d already won the whole damn season.

In two years, I’ve added more horses, and the pasture is full again, the way it used to be when I was a kid and Mom would stand at the fence and name each new horse like they were family, even the ones that were just boarded here and had names already. But these ten were more than just replacements; they’re a symbol of what we lost and what we fought to get back.

I lean against the fence, the wood rough under my palm, and watch them move, feeling that tension start to release even more. The land isn’t empty anymore, and neither are we as a family. Every hoofbeat, every flick of a tail, every snort and stomp—this is proof that rebuilding isn’t just a hope. Our lives are moving forward, step by step.

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