Page 17 of Hard Rain

Then his attention shifted toward Whip and the beers from the cooler.

“You been feeding him?” Crash asked.

“When I have to.” Whip slid a bottle toward Axel and nodded. “Besides, feedin’ strays builds character.”

Axel scowled at him and cracked the beer open. “Explains a lot about you.”

Crash’s mouth twitched briefly. Not quite a smile. Close enough.

Then his dad leaned both forearms against the bar and studied Axel for a second too long.

Whip recognized the shift immediately.

Marshal look.

The one that quietly cataloged exhaustion, bad sleep, old injuries, and lies without needing anybody to say a word first.

Hell, he’d used that look himself plenty.

“You sleeping at all?” Crash asked.

Axel’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly before he took another swallow of beer.

“Yeah,” Axel said.

It was bullshit.

Whip knew it. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet late at night. Either in the kitchen for snacks or pacing from insomnia.

Crash clearly knew Axel was lying too.

But the older man only grunted once and nodded toward the empty stool nearest the bar.

“Sit down before Whip starts hovering weird.”

“Come on,” Whip said, nudging Axel away from the bar toward the wall of old football photos near the dartboards.

He jerked his chin toward one plaque.

“Still crooked.”

Axel followed his gaze.

The state championship plaque still sat mounted beside a row of faded framed photographs and old football banners from Fern High. One corner leaned slightly lower than the other like somebody had slammed into the wall hard enough to shift it years ago and nobody ever bothered fixing it afterward.

Dust clung faintly around the edges beneath the neon beer lights.

“Thought your dad said he was gonna straighten that thing,” Axel muttered.

“He says that every year.”

“I heard that,” Crash called from the bar.

Whip took another swallow of beer while Axel scratched once at the back of his neck like neither of them had said a damn thing.

After a moment, Whip wandered closer to the wall.

Every time he came here, the old newspaper clippings framed beside the plaque drew him.