Page 30 of Play Maker

“We got this,” Hudson says, gripping her shoulders and following her behind the bar.

“You break it, you buy it,” I warn as I head to the door. “Be right back. I need to go grab my charger.”

Lie.

The night slaps cold against my skin as I yank open the back door and begin moving the blanket he hid under when I hear him behind me.

“Didn’t ask you to come out here.”

I shine my phone light around and, sure enough, there it is.

I hand it over without looking at him, already turning to head back inside. But he catches my wrist, not rough, not hard—just enough.

“Stop,” he says, voice barely a scrape. “Don’t act like this, or people will put two and two together.”

I pull my arm back, folding it across my chest. “Then maybe you should stop acting like I gave you cooties.”

His mouth opens, but before he can say anything, his phone buzzes—urgent, frantic.

Against my better judgment, my eyes flick down to the screen.

Unknown Number.

Five missed calls.

One new text:It’s going to cost you.

My blood freezes, but I school my face into blankness and make a little show of brushing past him like I didn’t see a damn thing.

“Good luck with that,” I toss over my shoulder.

I don’t wait to see if he follows.

Inside, the brewery feels too bright, too loud, too alive. I dive back into it headfirst, pouring drinks, tossing jokes, throwing up walls as fast as I can build them.

Across the room, I spot Kolby sinking into one of the leather chairs by the fireplace, beer untouched, eyes locked on the flames like he’s seeing something no one else can.

His truck’s obviously fixed. He could leave, but then remember, until the season ends, the Brewery and the field are about the only place they can go.

* * *

Talk about shit luck, Dallas lost to Philly and, right now, it’s looking like we’re going to be playing Vegas, at home.

When everyone’s glued to the TV, Kolby walks over and slides the full beer over to me.

“Problem with your drink, 68?”

“Not in the mood to drink.”

“Well then, to what do I owe the honor of your?—”

“If you saw the message,”he says, voice low and rough,“it’s not what you think. It’s from someone tied to my ex. She’s trying to bleed me for more money.”

“Isn’t that shit supposed to be reported to the”—I pause to stop myself from sayingcommandosand go with—“security?”

“They don’t need my bullshit added to the mix.”

“You should let them make that decision.”

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