Page 95 of Play Maker

I sink into the chair, heart thudding against ribs. My fingers curl around the note like if I don’t hold tight, it might float away.

Because this … this little slip of vulnerability from a man who built his life out of walls and grit and silence, this is everything.

I take my time basking in this love I’m falling, falling, falling into. So happy that I didn’t force myself to feel even when I questioned if I ever would, if I were even capable.

Mom always told me to trust myself because she did. I’m so glad FOMO didn’t take hold …

I take a picture, wearing his hoodie, holding the flowers, and send it with a text.

Me:

Good morning. And thank you. For the flowers. For the note. For wrecking my heart in the softest way.

#68:

You have no idea what that photo just did to me. I was already up, already stretching, already focused. Now I’m wrecked. Again. I love you in my clothes. And in my world. I meant every damn word. No more missed moments, Lo. Not with you. Not ever.

Swoon …

* * *

The Brewery is packed—wall-to-wall people, the hum of conversation about the game, and locals saying how nice it was to have the team back out and about. Every table’s full, the bar’s double-stacked, and the kitchen is swamped.

It’s good. It’s great. Business is booming, and everyone’s hyped for Sunday. But all I can think about isMonday.When this is over. When the noise dies down. When I can breathe without checking a list in my head or fighting off the ache in my shoulders.

I tell myself to be grateful. I am. Still, I wish the season away. Just for a second. Just for rest.

And Mickie knows it.

He corners me behind the prep counter around seven thirty, drops a hand on my shoulder, and says, “You’re done. You’re going home. Don’t argue. Don’t even look at me.”

“I have the bar and tables?—”

“Maggie took your tables, Riley has the bar and is going to train Iz, and yes, she’s old enough. Go.”

“I have?—”

“Home, Brooks. Now.”

So I go. Begrudgingly.

But when I open the door … the scent hits me first—rosemary, garlic, something warm and slow-roasting. Then the sound—music, low and soft, something old-school and smoky. Sinatra maybe. Or Sam Cooke.

Candles flicker from nearly every surface. There are flowers—more wild blooms, and a few roses—in glass jars, mugs, there’s even a small bouquet in a measuring cup.

As overwhelmingly beautiful as it is, nothing is as stunning as the man in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt that clings in all the right places.

Kolby.

He looks up from where he’s turning something in my cast iron skillet, and when he sees me, he smiles. “Welcome home, Lo.”

I drop my keys—literally. They hit the floor with a clatter.

He chuckles and walks over, wiping his hands on a towel before cupping my face in his palms. His thumbs trace my cheeks, like he’s checking if I’m real.

“What is this?” I whisper.

He kisses my forehead. “We’re not doing together alone.”

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