Page 13 of Play Maker

Chapter3

Snow’d In

Kolby

The moment I step into her place, I know I shouldn’t have, especially with all that hair flying wild. So hot.

“Jackson or Dad must have started the fire,” she says, walking past the wood stove.

It’s warm in here, not just because of the fire, but in a way that feels like a dream I made up when I was younger, when I tried to fall asleep at night after Dad got heavy-handed and my body hurt. Always made me feel better, the dreaming of when I’d finally get the hell out of that place.

It’s warm and comfortable. Smells like lavender, and lemon, and worn-in flannel. There’s music playing low somewhere— just the kind of silence that echoes. Her coat hits the hook, boots thud against the mat.

I stand there and watch as she moves around like she belongs here. Because she does. This is her world. A world I’ve often wondered about. One that ws the total opposite of that penthouse in NYC.

God. That penthouse.

Deborah had it staged like a magazine spread—everything white and hard-edged, glass vases full of twigs that cost more than a truck payment. We went to college together—Lincoln U. She liked bad boys, and I liked not being alone, and when Covid hit and the world got quiet, we got stupid. We said vows we didn’t mean because it was easier than going home alone.

Going home meant facing the trailer park, the memories of, the fists, the broken-down version of a man who used to make me clean blood off the floor like it was just part of the routine. It meant seeing her name scrawled on legal documents next to his, because she was as fucked up as him and bailed him out twice before she learned better.

And worse than that? It meant no football and facingit—the thing I never say out loud, the memories that finally were silenced by the volume of the game. The secret I left buried beneath cornfields and concrete, and the ones Deb knows about and dangles like a carrot whenever she wants something. Like alimony. Like control.

Her family’s got money stacked ten generations deep, and she still drains me like I owe her the air she breathes. Meanwhile, I live in a townhouse built for rookies and practice-squad temps. Nice place. Nicer than I ever had before, Deb. But never the American dream, not my American dream, anyway.

But here?

In Lo’s silo?

Books stacked under coffee mugs, a candle burning low on the table with a label that probably says something likeSweater WeatherorFirst Frost.I hate that I like it. I hate that I feel like I can breathe here.

She doesn’t look at me as she fidgets with the landline. Her hair’s damp from the snow, and she’s wearing one of those oversized sweaters that fall off the shoulder just enough to make my thoughts wander to what I know best,better than football even. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes sharp, and she hasn’t said a word since we walked in.

Good. Because I don’t trust my voice either.

This is the first time we’ve been alone since the almost-kiss. Before Hart. Before she looked at me like I wasn’t worth the fallout.

And now? Now she’s standing in front of me, real, and exhausted, and just as guarded as I am.

I don’t belong here. I know that. But I’m here, anyway.

She presses the phone to her ear, frowns, then smacks the base with the heel of her hand like that’ll bring it back to life.

I raise an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“Dead,” she mutters, jiggling the cord like she’s trying to resuscitate it. “Stupid piece of crap. Jackson was supposed to fix the connection last month, but—shocker—he got distracted, disappeared for a couple days, like that’s not weird.” Her eyes flick up, annoyed at the phone, the storm, the world.Same.

“I could try calling from the brewery,” I offer, already knowing the answer.

She glances out the window. Whiteout. Wind howling. “If you want to get buried under a snowdrift and eaten by raccoons, be my guest.”

I smirk, liking that she wants to keep me here. “You saying I’m not worth the rescue effort?”

“I’m saying my dad already lit a fire before he left earlier. And this place stays warmer if we don’t open and close the door every five minutes.”

She crosses the room, nudges the iron stove door open, and the glow from the fire floods the space with warm, flickering amber light. It plays off her skin and catches the glint in her eyes and the gold hoop in her nose as she turns toward me with a look that’s equal parts exasperation and amusement.

“Get cozy, Grimes,” she says, grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch and tossing it at me. “Looks like you’re stuck here for a bit.”

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