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My phone rings, and I sit up, slapping the bed looking for it, a strange feeling filling my chest. The feeling that maybe it’s her. I frown when I see Case’s name on the screen.
“What’s up, Riley?”
“Harvey’s at eight.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. See you.” He ends the call. Short and to the point, but really what else is there to say? We just spent three solid weeks together.
Looking at the clock, I have three hours before I have to meet Case. A nap is in order. Kicking off my shoes, I swing around on the bed, resting my head on the pillow, and close my eyes. As soon as I do, she’s who I see. The fire in those green eyes as she shot me down. I can only imagine that same fire is in her eyes right now. I smile at that. She’s not going to know what hit her.
Game on, sweetheart.
Game on.
At ten minutes till eight, I’m typing in the code to the back entrance of Harvey’s bar. The room is quiet, except for old man Harvey himself wiping down the bar.
“Landon,” he greets.
“Hey, Harv, how’s it going?” Harvey is in his late sixties. He opened this bar over thirty years ago and has gained the trust and respect of the Trojans during that time.
“I’m this side of the sod, so I can’t complain.” He chuckles. “How was training camp?”
“Team’s looking good this year.”
“Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
Harvey knows me well. “Yeah, Case talked me into a drink.”
“How are your folks?” he asks, wiping down the bar that I’m sure doesn’t need to be wiped down at all. A habit he’s picked up over the years.
“Good. Loving retired life.”
“You’re a good son,” he tells me. “I’m sure they appreciate all that you’ve done for them.”
“They sacrificed a lot for me growing up. It’s the least I could do. And keep that on the DL. You’re going to ruin my street cred.” I grin at him.
He throws his head back in laughter. His deep, husky voice from one too many cigarettes is comforting. Familiar. “Like you’ve got street cred,” he counters.
“Damn, cuts like a knife,” I say, holding my hand to my chest as we both laugh.
“What else is going on with you?”
“First night of freedom.” I don’t mention Emma or how she continues to shoot my ass down. I need to wrap my head around it before I start getting any kind of outside influences.
He studies me. “And?”
“And nothing.” I shake my head. Harvey is like a damn therapist, always wanting to pull the juicy details out of you. Only he pries your soul open with booze, and before you know it, you’ve spilled your guts to him in the span of a couple of hours. I’m convinced he has some kind of bartender superpower or some shit.
“There he is.” Harvey looks over my shoulder to where Case saunters into the room.
When I say saunters, it’s more of a glide, which is odd for a man his size. As the team’s center, Case Riley stands at six foot five and weighs in at two hundred and ninety-five pounds. He’s a big man, and the fact he can stroll anywhere is a surprise to everyone. He’s damn good on his feet despite his size.
“You missing me, Barker?” he asks, sliding into the seat next to me at the bar.
“You called me, remember?”
“Three weeks, Barker. Three weeks we’re in lockdown, and you want to chill at home.” He shakes his head as if he can’t believe I would want to stay in for the night. If he’d ever slept on my Hastens mattress, he would understand. It’s extravagant but so worth it. As football players, we need to take care of our bodies. That includes a good night’s sleep. A man can’t scrimp on his mattress, not in our profession.
“I missed my bed.” I shrug.
“You and that damn bed.” Case shakes his head. “How’s the crowd?” He motions his head toward the main bar area as Harvey slides a Corona in front of him.
“Busy, but then again, everyone knows that training camp is over. You know how they are. Any chance to catch a glimpse.”
“You’re a good man, Harvey,” Case tells him. “It’s nice to be able to get out of the house, have a beer, and not be swarmed.”
“What?” I turn on my stool to look at him. “You feeling all right, bud?” I ask. Lifting my hand, I place the back of it against his forehead, just like my mom used to do when I was a kid. “No fever.” I smirk as he swats my hand away from his face.
“Fucker,” he mumbles under his breath. “So…” He takes another long pull from his bottle of beer. “What’s the latest?” he asks. I’m not sure if he’s asking me or Harvey, but I choose to think it’s the latter and keep my trap shut about Emma. I really don’t feel like taking his shit tonight. My ego has been hit enough today.
