I drag a hand over the back of my neck and head for my truck while Maddox yells something at one of the receivers about lazy footwork. The late evening air is cold enough to bite even through my quarter-zip, the stadium lights glaring over everything in that way that makes the whole place feel half sacred, half hostile.
Usually, an evening out here clears my head.Tonight, it just leaves more room for the problem.
I should go home.
Penelope is with Dana for a few hours, and technically, I could use the quiet to get ahead on work, answer emails, look over preliminary numbers, or do any one of the fifty things currently trying to kill me. Instead, all I can think about is having a drink, which is how I end up pulling into the lot behind Pearson Beers twenty minutes later.
The brewery sits warm and golden against the dark, all exposed brick, black steel, and the kind of quiet confidence that comes from money used properly. It suits Cole. He built it after clawing his way back from the kind of mess that would have buried a weaker man, and there are still nights when I walk in here and remember exactly how close he came to losing everything.
Cole Pearson is one of my closest friends and has been for years, which is unfortunate for me, because although friendship with Cole comes with perks — loyalty, honesty, a willingness to show up no matter how ugly things get — it also has one very,veryspecific downside: the bastard sees too much.He always has.
I head inside and get hit with the usual wall of sound: music low enough for conversation, glasses clinking, people laughing, the steady hum of a place doing exactly what it was built to do. A couple of people notice me before I make it halfway to the bar.
That part of my life never really went away.
Football did enough damage to my joints and enough favors for my face that I can’t grab a drink in public without somebody deciding they need a photo for their cousin, their boyfriend, or their dad who still talks about the Broncos like it’s a religion.
So I stop, smile, shake hands, sign a receipt, then a napkin, then the front of somebody’s credit card because apparently we’re all just improvising now.
By the time I finally reach the bar, I’m already more tired than I was ten minutes ago.
Cole is behind it, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a dark henley stretching across his shoulders. He looks exactly like he always does—put together, unreadable, and like he’s already three steps ahead, like if you didn’t know him you might assume he’s a bastard, and if you do know him you understand that the bastard part is selective.
He looks up, takes one glance at me, and reaches under the bar for a pint glass. “Rough day?”
I pull out a stool. “That obvious?”
“To me? Yeah.” He sets the glass down. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re about to annoy me with a personal problem and pretend it’s not personal.”
I sit and brace one forearm on the bar. “Beer.”
He sets down the glass. “Bad enough for a beer, huh?”
“Bad enough for five, if I’m honest.”
He eyes me for a second, hesitating, as if maybe he needs to worry about me falling down the same hole he barely crawled his way out of.
“I’m fine. Pour the damn drink, Cole.”
He reluctantly does, sliding a pint toward me before leaning both hands on the bar. “Dana texted. Said you dropped Penny off with her.”
I nod. “Yeah, just for a few hours. Sorry to stress out your wife a little more.”
“I’m sure I’ll get an earful at home. Speaking of which, how’s Pen doing? I know she’s good at ours, but we don’t see everything.”The question is casual. The look he gives me, though, isn’t.
“She’s okay,” I sigh, taking a sip before dropping it back down on the coaster. “I had to fire her nanny.”
Cole’s expression sharpens. “What happened?”
My jaw tightens uncomfortably. “Just bullshit. Not paying close enough attention to Pen, not playing with her anymore, calling out over and over again at the last minute, meaningIhave to rush mid-meeting to pick up my kid from school.”
Cole says nothing, just waits, watching me like he’s expecting more.So I keep going.
“Halsey, of course, has been no help with the whole thing. She’s never any fucking help.” I scrub my face with my hand, trying to wipe away the irritation, but god knows that isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. “She can disappear for days when it suits her, breeze back in with a toy and a smile, and somehow still act like I’m the difficult one. Penelope’s old enough to notice now. Old enough to start keeping score.”
