Page 45 of Ink Me Three Times
"Pretty much."
We watch their dad do a celebratory chest bump with some guy in cargo shorts. I shake my head.
Then, without really meaning to, I ask, "What about Freddie’s parents?"
Jesse turns toward me slightly, the sun catching the line of sweat at his temple. "He’s not from here."
I raise a brow. "Really?"
"Nah. He moved here for Trina. She grew up in Coyote Glen. He followed her out from Kentucky when she got pregnant. Figured he’d start fresh, build something, be close to her family. Then, you know…" He shrugs. "She bailed."
I blink. "So… he just stayed?"
"Yeah. Said by the time it all went to hell, he’d built a life here. Shop, friends, roots. No reason to uproot her just because Trina couldn’t stick it out."
I glance across the grass again. Freddie’s laughing at something, maybe at that woman’s joke, maybe not. I can’t tell.But his daughter’s coaching a game with wild confidence, and he’s got a community, people who know him, who rely on him. That’s a kind of stability you don’t just throw away.
Even if it started for the wrong reasons.
Jesse claps his hands once. "Alright. Let’s ruin some lives."
"What?"
"We’re up. Final round. Time to bring the pain, Fletcher."
"Oh no."
We walk back to the board, and the mood has shifted. There’s a buzz in the air. Someone cranks up the Bluetooth speaker, blasting something vaguely country pop. The crowd seems to be twice the size now, spilling onto picnic blankets and folding chairs. Kids are weaving through legs, dogs are barking, and I’m sweating in places I didn’t know had pores.
"Leo, Karl!" Jesse yells. "Come on, we got to beat those ranchers."
"Wait," I say, eyes narrowing. "Ranchers?"
Jesse tips his head toward the edge of the crowd. "There. By the fence. That’s Boone Taylor, in the cowboy hat, and his crew. Cattle guys. Competitive as hell."
I follow his gaze.
Boone is standing like a statue, arms folded, aviator shades glinting under the brim of his hat. He looks like the human version of a stern warning sign.
Jesse leans on my shoulders. "Watch out for Silas. The one with the grin and the dimples. He’s trouble with a capital T. The one he’s got in head lock, Rowan Kim, he’s quieter, but he might be one to watch as well."
I nod and swallow hard.
What the hell have I gotten myself in to?
"You weren’t kidding," I mutter. "This is a turf war."
"Oh yeah," Jesse says. "Firemen versus farmers is the biggest rivalry in town. Cornhole just happens to be the battlefield. Blood has been spilled."
"Metaphorically?"
"Mostly."
Leo strolls up then, two beers in hand, calm as ever. "We ready?"
Karl bounds in behind him, curls bouncing, holding a red Popsicle. "I’ve stretched. I’m hydrated. I’m emotionally prepared to carry this team if I have to."
"Bold of you to assume you’re not the weak link," Jesse says, clapping him on the back.
