Page 72 of Hello Quarterback

I got out of bed and started pulling on my clothes for the day. “Take your time getting up,” I told her. “I’m going to head out for a run around town. Are you good here with Dad and Bryce?”

She nodded, curling the blankets up around her chest. “Do you think they’ll mind if I do a little work?”

I pulled on my socks and shoes as I answered her. “I’m sure they won’t. They know you’re a BFD.”

“BFD?” she asked.

My lips spread to a grin. “Big fuckin’ deal.”

She laughed again, and swear, I wanted to hear that sound for the rest of my life. But it was too soon to be saying things like that. So instead, I kissed her long and hard, giving her something to remember while I was gone.

Pushing me away, she said, “Keep this up and all your cardio will be happening in this room.”

I smirked. “Wouldn’t mind that.”

Rolling her eyes at me, she said, “You’re far too disciplined for that. Go on.” She shooed me with a flutter of her fingers.

It was harder than I wanted to admit to leave her in that room, looking so damn scrumptious with the sheets wrapped around her. But I peeled myself away, walking over creaking wooden floors to the kitchen, where Dad stood over the stove in shorts and a T-shirt, cooking.

I used to think it was so strange, seeing him dressed so casually when he only ever wore jeans and a button-down during the day. Like seeing Clark Kent in sweatpants and contact lenses.

“Morning,” I said.

He turned to me, returning the greeting, and I noticed he had glasses on.

“When did you get those?” I asked him. At his confused look, I said, “The glasses.”

“Oh, these.” He waved the spatula in the general direction of his face. “Eye doctor says I’m getting old.”

I shook my head at him. “Sixty is old now?”

“Thirty was old when you were a kid.”

“Fair,” I replied. I remembered thinking he was so ancient as a kid—but he had only been my age back then.

“Going for a run?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Take some bacon with you.” Before I could protest, he dumped a few pieces into a wad of paper towels and handed them to me. “Toss ‘em when you get far enough away if you need to, but it makes me feel better to know my kids are fed.”

A wave of appreciation for my dad washed over me. He’d raised us five all on his own and still hadn’t stopped worrying about any of us. “Thanks, Dad.” I stepped closer and gave him a hug. “It’s good to be home.”

He smiled at me, then whispered, “You talk with Mia last night?”

Heat colored my cheeks and found the tips of my ears. But I was already grinning like a pig in mud. “Yeah. It’s official.”

Dad grinned, clapping my shoulder. “Proud of you, son.”

Those four words meant more to me than anything. “Thanks.”

He smiled. “Better get going—before that bacon gets cold.”

“Okay,” I said, heading toward the door. I ate the bacon as I walked down the sidewalk and went to my truck. It was a little fattier than what was on my plan, but if full-fat bacon didn’t say celebration, I didn’t know what did.

I hopped in my truck—the keys were still in it—and drove away from the farm. In ten minutes or so, my destination came into view.

Cottonwood Falls Cemetery.

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