Page 73 of Play Maker

I clear my throat, eyes locked on his. “I just want you to know I never went looking for her.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“I came here to earn a spot on your line, and that’s what I’ve done. But somewhere between then and now … she became”—I run my hand through my hair—“everything. I’m not taking this lightly. I’m not trying to disrespect you. Or your family. I know what she’s worth.” I pause, the words sticking in my throat, but I push them out. “I’ve been falling for her for so long that anything before that doesn’t matter. And I’ll protect her, cherish her—all of it.”

He watches me for a long moment, not judging, just weighing. Finally, he speaks.

“One day,” he says, voice steady, “you might have a daughter.”

That stings a little more than I expected.

“When you do,” he continues, “and you love her the way Jade and I love ours … you’ll know. You’ll see her fall, or cry, or chase after something you can’t protect her from, and your whole world will freeze.” He steps forward, hand gripping my shoulder. “And then, one day, a man will walk into her life, and you’ll know if he’s worth a damn by how he looks at her when she doesn’t see it, by how he stands when she’s storming away, by what he says when there’s no one to impress.”

His grip tightens slightly. “I’ve seen the way you look at my daughter, Kolby. I’ve seen the way you fight for your place in this world. I’m not angry.”

Relief claws its way up my chest, but I don’t move. Don’t breathe. This is too easy.

“You’re a good man,” he says. “And I think, if you stay that way, you’ll do right by her.”

I nod, jaw tight, throat tighter. “I will,” I tell him. “I swear it.”

He offers a small smile, claps my shoulder once more, and then walks off toward the tunnel.

Not approval. Not permission. Respect. And damn if that doesn’t mean more than anything I’ve earned on a football field.

I’m still standing there, staring down the tunnel, trying to get my head right again, when a sharp whistle cracks through the air.

I turn toward the sound.

Jackson’s posted near the edge of the building, shoulder hitched against the wall, a smug-ass grin spreading across his face. “You’re riding with me, Grimes!”

I lift a brow. “Is that an invitation or a threat?”

He shrugs. “Depends. You planning on doing anything that’ll get you murdered before playoffs?”

“Not today.”

He jerks his chin toward the lot. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Once in his truck, he asks, “You vested in this tourney, or you wanna take a break from Hart’s man cave and sleep in a real bed?”

“I’m good wherever.” Good? An understatement. I’m better than I’ve ever been.

He throws his vehicle in drive, and we head out, past security, heading in the same direction Ryan and I did last night.

The first thing he says to me is, “Saw your boots by the door that night of the storm.”

I bite back a laugh.

“Thought about calling ‘olly olly oxen free,’ but figured I’d spare Lo for feeling called out.” He chuckles. “Watched you sneak out, squeeze your giant ass in the back of that Jeep.”

“It was a bumpy ride,” I admit.

“Hope it’s smoothed out.”

“Yeah, I think it has.”

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