He still dreamed of it: more often than he’d like to. The field. Sometimes the bright green and the low bleachers of Knoxville High; the scent of popcorn and hot dogs, and the stink of sweat, his uniformed brothers all around him. The blurred faces of students, and parents, and girlfriends. The taste of youth, and success, and hope. That magic hope – that wild, crazy confidence that scholarships awaited. Contracts. Money, and fame, and notoriety, and a spot behind an ESPN desk one day, retired at thirty, sitting on piles of cash, and proud, so proud of what he’d accomplished. No more tumbledown house; no more of Dad’s hand against the side of his head.
He dreamed of the next step, too. Of Kyle Field. Of the tens of thousands; the screaming, the blur of swinging towels, the boom and crackle of the loudspeaker. The Home of the Twelfth Man. The hot lights blasting down on him. The prayers, the huddles. The ball, light in his hands, fingertips sure, his feet quick, quick over the grass. Three-man rush, but he was quicker; aim, and away. Perfect slant. Perfect bomb. Touchdown.
He dreamed of everything he’d thought his life would be. But then he opened his eyes, and he was just Carter Michaels, Knoxville local. A rising star who’d fallen.
A Lean Dog.
A criminal.
Virtually everything about his outlook on life had changed in the last few years. But he still dreamed. And it still hurt, more than it should, to sit on the bleachers by the practice field and watch spring training unfold in all its miserable, sweaty glory.
Knoxville High’s varsity team was dressed out in matching t-shirts and shorts, doing up-downs at the sound of the whistle. The strength coach was a red-faced bulldog of a man, a holdover from Carter’s days here, and between whistle blasts he shouted encouragements that felt like insults. Carter watched and felt a sympathetic burn in his quads and calves; vicariously breathless, skin prickling as if he was the one sweating through his clothes and praying for a breather.
His hand flexed in his lap, remembering the ball. Its heft, and texture; the way it had felt to launch it, and know already that it would land in his receiver’s hands. A perfect throw.
The sharp rap of heeled shoes on the bleachers snatched him from reverie. He blinked, and the team was jogging laps now around the perimeter of the field. The cheering he’d thought he’d heard died away; became the rustle of the spring breeze in the row of pears behind him.
Jazz settled down beside him, legs crossed, one spike-heeled pink slingback swinging lightly in his periphery.
“How was class?” he asked when he turned to her.
The sun was beginning its descent behind her, its rays the fragile lemon of April, fanning out behind her head and shoulders like something from a painting; it gilded her hair, and backlit her face in a way that left her skin glowing. She’d never looked her age, but she seemed even younger now, lately, with a little less mascara, and with a whole lot of enthusiasm for the new direction her life was taking. She was beautiful; a blind man could have seen that.
But that hollow ache behind his breastbone remained.
“It was good!” She beamed. “Only a few more classes, and I can take my test. God, I’m so nervous.”
He’d never seen her smile like this before she started studying for her GED. It was lovely to see her genuinely excited about something. “You’ll pass. All you do is study anymore.”
Her grin shifted into wicked territory, and she hooked her chin on his shoulder while both her arms looped through one of his. “Aw, have I been neglecting you, baby boy?”
Their sex life wasn’t what it had been at first, but he hadn’t been thinking about it, honestly. His cheeks warmed now, though. “No.”
She chuckled, low and throat, full of promise. “Oh, no, I have been. Poor baby. We’ll have to do something about that.”
His belly tightened pleasantly. “Yeah. Alright.”
She kissed the corner of his jaw, lingering and warm, and he knew he’d have a lipstick print there.
Then she pulled back, suddenly. “Oh! You’ll never guess. I have to show you something.” She leaned away from him so she could search through her bag. She came out holding something small and plastic that she brandished with a flourish, smile achingly wide. She giggled like a thrilled little girl.
It was a name tag, he saw. With her name, and the title of manager, and a little bell logo.
“For real? He gave you the job?”
“No interview or anything!” She laughed again, emotion glimmering in her eyes. She dropped her gaze a moment, traced a fingertip across her name in shiny new all-caps. “Can you believe it?”
He smiled, full of warmth and true gladness. “Absolutely I can, yeah.”
She lifted her head, brow quirked.
“You deserve this. You earned it.”
“Ha.” Her brightness dimmed, like the sun going behind a cloud. “You suck enough dick, you eventually get a job offer, I guess,” she tried to joke, her smile wry – resigned.
“No.” His voice firmed, drawing a startled glance from her. He could feel his jaw set; feel his pulse give a hard, sure throb. This was something that hadn’t changed since his first night with her – that first awful night that had started heated, and slick, and impossible, and thrilling, there with Tango…and had ended with Jazz choking, and Carter ready to strangle Aidan in turn. He’d never felt so wildly protective of someone, not ever, not even when his stupid, misguided teenage heart had found itself fluttering in Ava’s direction. Seeing strong, tough, sex-on-legs Jazz shrink back from a man in fear – the very idea that someone as willing and friendly as her should have to feel fear from a man – had left him damn near murderous.
He still felt that way, even if other things had grown hazy and tangled.
“It’s alright,” she said, quietly, laying a hand on his knee.
He wondered if his protectiveness had ever scared her; if she’d wanted to shrink away from the anger that boiled up in her defense. “No, it’s not. You earned that job because you’re loyal to the club; because you run the clubhouse, and the club girls, and you get shit done. Maybe Maggie’s the queen, or whatever, but the Lean Dogs couldn’t function without you. If anybody gives you any bullshit about sucking dick to get that job…” His hands curled to fists.
“Send ‘em to you?” she asked with a little smirk – one that quickly melted into a truer, softer look. “You’re a sweet boy, and I appreciate it, but you don’t have to go to bat for me, darlin’.”
“Yeah, I really do.”
Gently, she said, “No, it’s okay. I’m not your old lady.”
He started to protest – and she rested a finger against his lips.
“Hush,” she said, her smile soft, her voice sweet. “It’s not your fault. It’s not like you haven’t tried.”
But he’d failed, he guessed. They more or less lived together, and they slept together, and she’d shown up to one of Maggie’s big dinners at the farm on the back of his bike, but it wasn’t official, was it? No ring, no tat, no heartfelt declaration of love. He’d not rescued her from kidnappers, or killed for her. Nor knelt at her feet and offered her forever.
He was a quarterback, but not really, not anymore. He was a Lean Dog, but not an essential one. No reputation, no striking of fear into enemies’ hearts. And he was her old man – but not really. No one saw him as that.