Page 124 of Dream Chaser
Dad clears his throat. “Is this … for a reason?”
“Yes. No. I mean, it’s mostly because a and Grandpa love it. But also for the boys who live here. We figured, if they can’t play, they should at least get some entertainment on big game eve from the people who know they were the real winners.” I hold up my phone. “And Riley’s pregnant and insistent on ‘soothing the vibe’ all day, and if I didn’t show up with the cowbell and your sweet-and-savory spice blend, I’m pretty sure I’ll be disowned.” I suck in a breath. “And yes, you both still have to come tomorrow, too. We’re having a pre-watch party at the brewery, and closing before the game so everyone can watch in private. No chance ofleaked videos of any of us screamingkill themor shit talking the refs and league.”
There’s a pause.
Then Skinner speaks, voice low, teasing. “You’re doing a harmonica concert with a pregnant woman, a fiddle-playing retired rock star, and a cowbell. For your grandparents. At a brewery. With spice rub and sweet and savory dip as the mission-critical items?”
I lift my chin. “That’s what you took from all that?”
He grins. “I just want to make sure I understand what I’m signing up for.”
I want to tell him he doesn’t have to come, but seriously, if this doesn’t send him running for the hills—or the airport, or a witness protection program—then nothing will.
Mom, bless her, doesn’t even flinch. “I love this. Let’s get everything together.”
Dad mutters, “I’m bringing earplugs.”
“Rude.”
Griffon links his fingers behind his neck. “I’ll be front row.”
Mom and I are in the back mudroom, sorting through the old closet where the extra gear’s always been kept—jam jars full of screws, two decades of extension cords coiled like sleeping snakes, and somewhere under all of it: the instruments.
I dig out the tambourine first, shake it once to check for spiders, then hand it off. “One musical mood enhancer, check.”
Mom laughs. “God, this takes me back. Didn’t you once ‘accidentally’ bring this to school for show-and-tell three years in a row?”
“Allegedly,” I mutter, leaning into the next crate. “Besides, it wasn’t show-and-tell. It was ‘free expression.’”
She chuckles but doesn’t push; just starts dusting off the cowbell like she’s prepping it for an art exhibit. “You were always the ringleader of these performances. Even before you had rhythm.”
“You saying I have rhythm now?”
“I’m saying you fake it well.”
That earns her a grin.
We’re halfway into the closet, elbow-deep in memories and scuffed-up cases, when she finally speaks again. Softer now. “That boy’s been through it.”
I pause mid-reach. “Yeah.”
She crouches beside me, placing the cowbell gently into the open tote. “And the way he shared it? That wasn’t for show. That was someone who’s been carry something heavy. It would be crippling for most … Showed unimaginable strength.”
I nod slowly. “Vulnerability, too.”
“And how does that make you feel?” she asks, tilting her head.
I blow out a breath and sit back on my heels. “I didn’t plan on this. Him. Any of it. I’m still … figuring out how I should feel.”
She nods, not pressing. Just listening. We always talk best like this—doing something with our hands while everything else sorts itself out in the air between us.
“Do you trust him?” she asks.
I don’t even have to think. “Yes.”
“Do you feel like yourself around him?”
I hesitate then admit, “More than I expected to.”
