“Appreciate the faith.”
Beau leans calmly against the wall, making it impossible to argue with him. “He’s not wrong. You’ve been here five minutes, and the internet’s already debating whether you’re the future of the team or the next PR crisis.”
“Correction,” I say, taking another drink, “they’re calling me entertaining.”
“You’re a walking headline, Kyle.” Cooper sighs into his coffee. “You always have been.”
I bite back a smile, even though we all know it hasn’t always been the good kind of headline.
“At least he’s good for ratings,” Cole adds, his grin sharp and easy.
“Keep talking. Maybe they’ll start a nostalgia tour for washed-up centers.”
Cole presses a hand to his chest, mock offended. “Ouch. The rookie bites back.”
“Can we not fight before lunch?” Beau smirks over the rim of his cup.
The room hums with familiar laughter, but it twists under my skin anyway. This is what we do: throw jabs to hide the bruises. Cole’s grin is pure older-brother arrogance, but I can feel the truth underneath it. He doesn’t mean harm. He never does, but every time he jokes about me being a headline or a risk, it stings because it reminds me how easily I’ve become both.
I grin back because that’s the only way I know how to stay part of this. If I stop smiling, if I let anything real slip through, the room changes. The tension creeps back in, and I don’t want that from them. Not when all I’ve ever wanted is to be seen as one of them, not the brother they have to fix or defend. So, the mask always stays on, practiced and perfect.
“Relax, nobody’s betting you’ll tank before the season starts. Well, nobody in this room, anyway.” Coleleans back in his chair, stretching an arm across the back like he owns the place.
“Touching. Man, do I feel the brotherly support.”
“Hey, don’t start crying on me.” He grins. “I left my tissues in Michele’s purse.”
That earns him a laugh, even though I don’t mean it to. The sound surprises me, and for a second, the edge in my chest eases. We didn’t use to be like this. For most of my life, Cole and I could barely get through a meal without taking verbal swings at each other. Then he went and fell head over heels for my best friend, and somehow the universe decided to make it work. Now he’s the one I can talk to. The one who gets the pressure, the noise, and the constant fight to prove you’re not the family’s second choice. If anyone understands how it feels to screw up and still try to do better, it’s him.
“Tell Michele I said hi,” I say, half smiling. “And that she could’ve done worse.”
“You’re damn right she could have. She almost did. Remember when she thought you were cute?”
“Still am.”
“We all know that’s debatable,” Beau murmurs as he takes a seat, a smile tugging at his mouth.
I look at him, and something in my chest softens. Beau’s always been the steady one. The peacekeeper, when the rest of us were too busy crashing into each other. He’s the one who kept track of holidays, who texted reminders to call Momma, who made sure nobody disappeared for too long.
He’s the same as always, shoulders relaxed, voice carefree. But when he reaches for his coffee again, I see the faint tremor in his fingers. It’s small, almost nothing, but my stomach tightens anyway. A reminder that no matter how solid he looks, he’s still fighting battles the rest of us can’t see.
“Still can’t believe you kept your diagnosis a secret as long as you did,” I say, before I can stop myself. The words come out low, sharper than I intend.
Beau’s eyes lift to mine, calm and unreadable. “Yeah. Me, neither.”
He doesn’t flinch or get defensive, which just makes it worse. Part of me wants him to. I want him to admit it hurt that he didn’t let us in. But he won’t. Not Beau. Not when he’s spent his whole life carrying everyone else.
I shake my head, the words rough in my throat. “You have us, Beau. You didn’t have to carry it alone.”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t answer. We’ve had this non-conversation before. It always ends the same—both of us staring at the same spot on the floor, trying to understand how a guy who’s so good at saving everyone else forgot how to ask for help himself.
And yeah, I’m still angry. It lives low and sharp in my gut because I recognize the instinct. Hold it together. Don’t let anyone see you crack. If you never admit you’re hurting, nobody can treat you like you’re broken.
“You’re lucky Alise is more stubborn than you.”
The smile he gives me is small but real. “Don’t I know it.”
He’s right. If it weren’t for Alise, I don’t know that he’d be standing here. She’s the only person stubborn enough to go toe-to-toe with him and win. I still remember Cooper’s retirement party. Beau hitting the ground. Alise on her knees beside him, eyes red, voice shaking as she told the paramedics she wasn’t leaving his side. Even after they worked through the fallout, he tried to push her away again. Said he was afraid of what she’d think, seeing him like that.
