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“How’re you feeling?” Emberleigh asks.
“Good. I’m tired and I’m over this summer. Don’t do summers. Plan every pregnancy to deliver in April. Promise me. Feeling like a brick oven all the time is not where it’s at.”
I hum the melody to ‘Brick House’ as I watch Colt. He’s working some kind of no-bake cheesecake into his skin and eyelashes and doing a happy dance at the same time. When my eyes leave his, I realize that everyone at the table is staring at me.
All conversation stops. I look around, from face to face wondering what I’ve missed. “What?”
“‘Brick House’?”
“The Commodores are awesome. The song is epic. No explanation required.”
“Brick,” Eli starts.
To be met with Bright’s delayed and spot-on, “House.”
From there, Brax begins the chorus and the table erupts in song. Willa grooves in her seat as behind me, the door clicks closed. Exton approaches his wife. “What did I miss, dragon slayer?”
Pop circles the table and sits in his chair, grabbing a mug of coffee. “Brings me back.”
“I’m sorry, Pop,” I offer.
He nods, turning his gaze from me to Exton. Mine do the same, but what’s passing between them is outside of my understanding.
THIRTY-ONE
DEFINITELY A RANGER
LIVY
August is tough. Preparation for the season is in full swing. We’re operating with all hands on deck. Medical evals are needed for all players. Peak physical condition athletes with one bad spin or snap, a play gone wrong, or a tackle that lands too high or too low can land in my office or on my table. The workload is intense and changes daily.
My yoga classes are full, sometimes with bodies and all the time with egos. Men who know they’re elite in one sport, assuming it can’t be that hard if a woman can do it.
Marshall still takes his practice seriously. He’s older than the bulk of the players and protecting his body, one class at a time.
He’s become the man who corrects attitudes and behaviors when the punks who think they “have arrived” leave their egos unchecked when they walk in the room.
Five o’clock has long since come and gone. Seven days on as we prep for the season means I have no clue what day of the week it is.
So when my phone rings, I don’t even look at the screen. I grab and swipe. “Livy Morgan,”
“Miss Morgan, my name is Braxton Ranger. Do you have a moment we can talk?”
Wait. What? I pull the phone away from my face to see a Texas number and shake my head as if that will reset my brain.
“I’m sorry. Can you start again?”
“I’m Braxton Ranger. Layton is my brother. May I have a few minutes of your time?”
“Sure, Mr. Ranger. What can I do for you?”
“Well, that’s to the point. So I will be too. I want to hire you to help my brother’s recovery.”
“Mr. Ranger—”
“Braxton.”
“Braxton. I have a job. We’re in the throes of kicking off our season. I’m not seeking other employment.”
