Page 7 of Presley's Christmas Catch
Brock:Already at the throne room battle scene. You?
The throne room? That’s nearly three-quarters through the book. I glance over at my nightstand, where I’d laid down my open book at page 175, not even halfway through. The first book is by far the shortest in the series. If Brock beats me through this one, I’ll never catch up.
Presley:Psh. Almost done, rookie.
I smirk at the lie, but I have all night, and Brock is an early riser. (Too many texts at five a.m. for my taste, even if they are from him.)
Brock:
Presley:Shhh, please. Reading.
I grab my book and my phone, splurging by opening the QuickEats app so I won’t have to waste time figuring out food. By the time I’m settled comfortably on my couch, book in hand, my late lunch is on its way.
CHAPTER 4
BROCK
I don’t know why I’m so intent on beating Presley through book one, but I almost don’t go down to football camp like I told Tim I would. I mean, I didn’t say I was going to be there. Just gave him a thumbs up, which could totally mean that I got the message.
But spending all day reading isn’t something I’ve done for years, not since before college, and I’m antsy by the time six rolls around. Working out with the high schoolers will be the break I need. I can order a quick dinner from the diner for me and Mom to pick up on my way home and get a couple more hours of reading in after she goes to bed. With her early shifts, she’ll be asleep by eight.
Tim’s grandson, Mason, runs up to me when I walk onto the field where the team is stretching out and chatting in small groups. Tim’s son, Chase, got married right out of high school and had a baby right away with his high school sweetheart. Mason has been following Tim around to football practices and games since he was little. The twelve-year-old gives me a high-five when I walk up. He’s just starting to grow, shooting up to five foot six and proud of it. He measures himself next to me, like he does every time he sees me.
“Getting close to your shoulder,” he claims.
I hold back a laugh. I’m still well over a foot taller, but I’m not going to burst his bubble. “Any day now, bro.”
A few kids on the team wave or call out to me from where they’re stretching. I’ve been coming to their camps and summer stuff for a while, so they’re comfortable. The younger kids stare, and I’m never sure if it’s because of my size or because they know who I am. Left tackles aren’t usually the guys who get the glory on ESPN, although I have gotten my fair share of press, thanks to the power of memes.
I stop by where Kaden Jacobs is stretching out his arms, and he pauses to hold out his fist to bump mine. “Kaden, impressive,” I say, eyeing the way he’s bulked up since last year.
He grins. This will be his second year starting center for the team, and it’s obvious he’s taking that seriously. He must have gained thirty pounds since I saw him last, most of it muscle. “Did everything you told me to. Looked up that meal plan and stuff. U-Dub wants me to commit.”
I slap him on the shoulder. “And?” I ask. University of Wyoming could definitely use an athlete like Kaden.
“There are other schools interested, so we’ll see.” He wipes at his forehead with his shirt, already sweating even though the workout hasn’t even started. It’s hot, hovering over eighty, and the sun won’t set for another couple hours, so no relief in sight.
The eagerness in Kaden’s eyes sparks excitement in my chest. I remember when the colleges first started calling when I was a junior, UW among them. It was the first time I felt like I was accomplishing my goals.
“Kaden. That’s awesome.”
“INCOMING!”
I hear the shout only seconds before arms wrap around my waist and someone attempts to throw me to the ground. I do stumble since the attack took me by surprise and because I’m laughing so hard.
“Ugh.” Colby Sutton shakes his head in disgust as he stepsback. “I thought the element of surprise was on my side this time.”
“You almost had me.” I size up the sophomore safety and receiver. In a small town like Little River, a lot of the boys play both defense and offense. “The good news is that most of the receivers you’ll be tackling won’t be nearly three-hundred pounds. Also, try double-teaming me with Cade next time. Could work,” I say, nodding toward his twin, who’s strolling up behind him. The boys rib Colby for thinking he could actually tackle me. I’m still chuckling when I approach Tim, who stands about ten yards away from where all the boys are warming up.
“Ready for training camp?” Tim asks when I reach him.
“Yeah, enjoying my time here though. Where everything is a lot simpler.” Get up. Work out. Read books. Hang out with my mom. See some of the guys from high school. Enjoy the way the air is crisp and clear here and smells fresh. I’ve never doubted that I’m retiring back here someday.
“You’re looking really good, Brock. Remember that,” he says. The familiar dad-tone in his voice makes me believe it. I wish he was on staff with the Devils. My temper would be a lot easier to handle. It helped in high school that Tim always knew exactly what to say or when to sit me down because I was about to boil over. He’s known me most of my life, almost like a dad, so it makes sense that he can read me like that. I don’t know the Devils coaches as well, and it makes things harder.
I thought when I grew up the world would seem more fair. Like the farther I got from my dad leaving, the easier it would be. But more frustrations are always in the wings, pushing at me until I’m overwhelmed, and it all comes spilling out. Sometimes with a hard tackle that people comment on or me throwing my helmet on the sidelines. Sometimes with me running my mouth to reporters. And with the last few seasons with the Devils being frustrating for everyone, a lot of stuff is pent up.
But I’m trying hard to be the cool, calm guy that Tim is. Iwant him to be proud of me. Besides, I owe him. He sacrificed so much time for me when he didn’t have to.
