Page 19 of Griffin

For a minute, it seemed like he was starting to let his guard down.

His shoulders relaxed a bit, and he even offered to handle wiping down the bar top before we closed.

It was nice, watching him ease into things.

The spark in his eye was back. I tried to shove those thoughts away. He was here to work, not to complicate my life.

"Hey, Griffin, what’s this?" Michael called out, waving at a shelf behind the bar where Dad used to keep a few of his prized possessions.

My breath caught for a second as he reached out, touching the signed baseball Dad had gotten back when he’d taken Noah and me to our first baseball game.

The game had been legendary.

Dad had sprung for good seats, and we’d watched in awe as the home team hit a game-winning home run in the bottom of the ninth.

The crowd roared, and Dad held Noah on his shoulders, yelling along. It was one of the happiest days of our lives.

He’d caught that ball when the team threw it to the fans afterward and got it signed by the pitcher.

He used to tell us that ball was a reminder that no matter what the odds, you could pull through.

“Michael, be careful with that,” I said, feeling my heart rate pick up as he held it, his fingers tracing the scrawled signature.

“Relax, I got it.” Michael chuckled, turning the ball in his hands. “Wow, a real signed baseball? Who got it signed?”

My mouth opened to answer, to tell him that story. But then, before I could say anything, it slipped from Michael’s fingers.

Time seemed to slow down as it hit the edge of the bar and plummeted to the floor, shattering the protective glass case around it.

I froze, staring at the broken shards scattered around the floor. The signature on the ball was smudged, the glass case shattered.

It was like watching a piece of my dad’s legacy break right before my eyes.

Michael’s face paled, his mouth opening in shock as he knelt down, hands hovering over the fragments as though he could somehow put them back together.

“Griffin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—” Michael began.

But I couldn’t hear his apology over the rush of anger pounding in my ears.

It was like a dam inside me broke, and months of frustration and pain surged forward.

My wolf snarled, rising to the surface, my hands clenching at my sides as I fought to control the urge to lash out.

I could almost feel the growl building in my throat, an instinct to protect, to defend—no, it was more than that.

It was grief, raw and unfiltered, twisting into fury.

Michael took a step back, his eyes widening. "Griffin, I’m really?—”

“Just stop!” I cut him off, unable to keep the snarl out of my voice. “You have no idea what you just did. None.”

He looked like I’d slapped him.

My wolf clawed at me, urging me to say something else, to let the anger out, but I knew if I let it go too far, I’d regret it.

Every muscle in my body was tense, holding me back from saying things I’d never be able to take back.

I turned to Noah, who had just stepped out from the backroom, his face shifting to alarm as he took in the scene.

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