Page 1 of Time Out

Chapter 1

Davis

“We’re headed out. Are you coming?”

I tossed my bag over my shoulder and ran my hand through my hair. “I’m not sure, man. I think I’m out.”

Mason Yeets’s jet-black eyes doubled in size. “You’re bowing out of heading to Broadway? But it’s bachelorette season.”

Yeah. I surprised myself with that one. “Nah. I’m good. Think I’m going to head home.”

“But we won.”

So some of us guys had created the habit of partying on Broadway after a win at home. As football players for the Nashville Steel, our stadium was a short ride away from the infamous country bar and rock music-lined streets of Nashville where millions visited every year. Frankly, I thought the street smelled like armpits after a three-hour workout in ninety-degree weather, but that didn’t mean the street wasn’t a blast. And being football players, we were often offered premiere VIP seats and bottle service purely for the purpose of bringing more fans—mostly women in their early to mid-twenties into the bars.

I’d had more than a few hangovers after a night out, but tonight? I wasn’t feeling it.

Made no sense, but there it was. I’d just helped bring my team a win in my very first Monday Night Football matchup, prime time television, in my rookie season. The press couldn’t stop talking about my speed and ability to read the field and block a half-dozen tackles on my way to the end zone.

Typically, that’d have me being the one to offer to buy first round, get the party started. I’d had no problems taking advantage of the perks of finally making it to the pros. And still, even Mason and Cortland pleading with me, along with our backup quarterback, Sam Denmark, making a pouty face in the background, didn’t have me changing my mind.

Odd.

I shook it off and slapped Mason’s shoulder. “Pretty sure you and Denmark can handle it for me. Wouldn’t want to take the attention off you.”

“Shit. You wish. You’re the one who gets my leftovers.”

Probably true. I was too pretty boy to be considered sexy. Too innocent. Too Nebraskan, as my last college girlfriend had told me, whatever the hell that meant.

I spent a few minutes talking with the rest of the players, including our quarterback Cole Buchanan before he headed to the family room to grab his girlfriend, Eden, and his son Jasper. I went to the private player parking lot and slid into my brand-new Tacoma truck. As far as vehicles went, it wasn’t flashy, but my family had rarely been able to afford anything new and if it was, it wasn’t a vehicle of any kind. More likely tractor equipment or clothes or shoes.

God, I needed to shake off this lingering morose sensation. It wasn’t normal. I was the fun guy. The life of the party. I was smart as hell and could use my engineering degree if football didn’t work out, and there I was, crawling through the dark streets of Nashville on my way to my penthouse and somehow—all of the success I’d earned, all the money I made, and the fancy screen on my truck didn’t mean a damn thing.

I was lonely. Ironic, considering I’d just bowed out of a night with guys who were quickly becoming my brothers.

But there was a difference between being alone and lonely… and screw it.

I jerked my truck into the underground parking at my high-rise condo building, climbed out, and hustled across the street to Lou’s.

From Louisiana, Lou claimed to be straight from the Bayou, but where he was from didn’t interest me. His po’boy sandwiches with shrimp and roast beef did.

He was not only the owner, but the main nighttime bartender during the week. Relief swept through me as I entered the bar, televisions playing on two different walls—twelve different screens. Since the game had ended well over an hour ago, most of the crowd that would have been there to watch the game was gone, leaving Lou alone at the bar, wiping off the top of the gleaming granite countertop with very little customers.

I took a seat near the far corner, my back to the televisions. I’d been there. Didn’t need to see the plays or read the criticisms.

“Hey there, kiddo.”

Kiddo. I heard it enough in the locker room. “What’s the good word, Lou?”

His bar had all the best post-game gossip and news.

“Whole damn bar was on their feet with that touchdown you scored.”

“Which one?” I had been pretty awesome.

My second touchdown of the night was a hell of a score, a forty-yard breakaway run when our team went for it on fourth and two. Should have been a quick few yards to set us up for a field goal before I saw the hole in the blockers. Still, I liked needling the guy. He reminded me of my grandpa sometimes, always quick with a laugh, sarcastic comment, and a sprinkling of wisdom.

He whipped his towel at me, laughing as he barely missed. “Kids your age. No smarts, all smart-asses. The one where you hurdled the safety.”

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