Page 50 of Perfect Alpha

“I’ll play with you when I’m done drinking my coffee,” Hannah promises.

“But Mama,” Aidan whines. “Uncle Cade better.”

I don’t even try to hide my grin. “That’s right,” I agree. “And don’t you forget it, buddy.”

Heading to my truck on a gloriously free Tuesday to spend time with my best friends is exactly what I need, and the tension is already easing from my shoulders.

I took an extra weekend shift from Steve for the privilege of being around on Bobby’s day off, and it’s completely worth it.

When I learn that Mrs. Henderson made what we call a “farmer’s breakfast” with coffee the way it should be – hot and black – my mood becomes infinitely better.

“Hey, boys.” I join them at the kitchen table adorned with a sunny yellow tablecloth. I immediately steal a piece of bacon off Gavin’s plate.

“Don’t forget I can kick your ass,” Gavin warns, “and there are two of me.”

“I still have nightmares and ask the heavens why therearetwo of you,” I quip, leaning over to steal a piece of Bobby’s bacon, too. “More food for me to take, I guess.”

Mrs. Henderson laughs and starts preparing a plate for me, while Mr. Henderson pours me a coffee.

“Mornin’ Cade,” he greets me.

Their house is also my home, and I have countless childhood memories of running wild through their acreage, while Mrs. Henderson watched from the wraparound porch or through the giant window in the kitchen.

Bobby renovated the entire house and had additions built when he made the major leagues. A chef like his mother deserves to have an amazing kitchen and enough room to prepare her feasts. It still has warm oak paneling and locally made accents, like the handcrafted grizzly bear cookie jar, but the appliances are sleek stainless steel with a huge granite island.

“You eat my food, you’ll work for it,” Bobby growls.

“I’m good for it,” I promise. We plan to spend the day working the ranch before heading out for an evening hunt.

“What time are you leaving tomorrow?” I ask.

“I’m catching the red-eye because Bernie is forcing me to meet with the massage therapist bright and early tomorrow morning.” Bobby rolls his eyes at the mention of his coach. “Fucking bullshit.”

“Language,” Mrs. Henderson warns.

I hide a smile behind my coffee mug. No matter how old we get, Mrs. Henderson won’t tolerate swearing at her table.

“Sorry, Ma,” Bobby replies sheepishly.

The Knights have a slew of physical and athletic therapists on staff, and only Bobby would find a way to complain about being treated like a god.

“Did you get hurt?” I ask innocently.

“He’s just old,” Gavin laments. “I’m the younger twin.”

“I’mnotold,” Bobby snaps. “And I don’t think six minutes counts asyounger.”

At twenty-eight, Bobby is far from the oldest quarterback in the league, but commentators have already started asking how much longer he can keep performing at peak condition. The problem with being at the top is that the only way to go is down, which won’t be an easy pill to swallow.

“People talk shit all the time,” I reply, trying to keep the peace. “They know nothing, man.”

“I’m fine,” Bobby insists. “It’s just my stupid hamstring.”

“Is that why you’re such a pussy with deadlifts?” Gavin provokes with a shit-eating grin. “Have you even cracked three-hundred?”

“Language,” Mrs. Henderson sternly reminds her sons.

Mr. Henderson sets a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Let’s head into town, sweetheart.”

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