However, I check in case it’s my mother. Instantly wishing I hadn’t, my lawyer’s name scrolls across the screen. I let it go to voicemail, but instead of the telltale ping of a message, it rings again.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“Hi, Greyson. It’s Nancy, Mr. Brown’s assistant, from Michaelson and Brown,” she says formally with my full name as if we still use wall-mounted phones without caller ID.
“Hey, Nancy.” My voice is scratchy from disuse.
“I have some news regarding the matter that was brought to your attention several months ago. The one you requested Mr. Brown look into. We are still waiting for a final sign-off from the judge, but it looks like it’s a solid claim and is going forward.”
Her words come at me slowly, as if through a fog. People describe clouds as soft. Sure, they look like cotton fluff. But there’s no substance. It’s just vapor. I’m in the clouds. Surrounded by them and not in a good way.
“Okay. Well, whatever needs to be done. I’m in the offseason and plan to go back to Michigan, so my mother will be there to help.”
“How nice. I’m sure she’s excited about this development.”
She would be if she had any idea how much our lives are about to change. I manage a grunt in response.
“Listen, there’s just one little matter. Because your residence is in Michigan and we’re working with Massachusetts courts as well as the custodian’s home State of New Jersey?—”
I lose track of what she says next, distracted by how something like this could’ve happened. How I let it. I’ve spent hours and long nights trying to understand, beating myself up, and struggling with guilt. The only saving grace is that I’m trying to make it right.
“We’re looking at about another ten days, two weeks, max. I hope you understand.”
“Yes, of course,” I reply, not having any idea what I’m supposed to understand because the day Ted Brown called me personally to explain the complicated situation is still catching up to me.
“We’re working hard to obtain an exception to the clause that you have to be married and will be in touch in the next couple of days. I hope you enjoy the rest of the afternoon, Grey. Thank you for your time.” Nancy hangs up.
The line goes dead. And that’s mostly how I feel, except for one major detail that I can’t connect to the rest of the situation that prompted the call.
I belatedly whisper, “I am married.”
A faint ringing sounds in my ears and follows me down the stadium steps, through the tunnel, and into the Bruisers’ locker room, where I shower. I cannot fathom life if this doesn’t work out favorably. But my hands are tied at the moment, and I know my lawyer and his team are doing all they can to make it right.
In a haze, I wander through the hall and find Chase saying goodbye to three Bruiser Babes. I have a vague conversation with him about bachelorhood and a reality show while he talks to his sister on the phone.
Between Bran being declared MIA and my ex royally messing up and then taking off, I’ve detached, rendering me empty, checked out.
And that’s how I find myself in the team lounge, trying to figure out how I got here. Not literally, because I’m not that fargone, but preoccupied with the fact that I’m about to take full custody of my son if all goes favorably with the court.
“We could glue his hands together while he’s sleeping,” Declan’s mischievous voice breaks into my thoughts and I snap to attention.
With these guys, you can never be too careful or let your guard down. I taught them well, even though I can no longer muster my inner rascal.
Chase, our quarterback, sits down near me and I eye the rest of the guys carefully, well aware they’re conspiring.
Declan is the wide receiver and the mastermind of whatever misdeed they’re hatching.
Connor “Wolf” Wolfe earned that name on and off the field, where he plays safety—fathers look after your daughters because they are not safe around him.
Rylen, the running back, is on his honeymoon. As far as they know, he’s the first among us to get hitched.
Then there’s me, the linebacker ghost with secrets, brooding over here in the corner—at least I hear Declan mutter some version of that about me.
All the same, I pick up on what they’re putting down about pranking the newbie on our team.
“Dude, he’s our new center. We kind of need him to have use of his hands,” I say in a flat tone, but mean it to be practical.
“Yeah. Coach Hammer says his hands are gold.” Wolf grumbles because he’s a show-don’t-tell guy like me.
