So I squint at Ty. Then I smile.
I could never forget that face.
Or that voice. Or, fine, herderrière—as I learned in French 101.
I’ve come a long way since those foundational courses. My three-week Paris study abroad taught me plenty. Red wine, fresh bread, and the fact that French women really do walk like they know something you don’t.
But I also majored in kinesiology, so I’ve got a scientific appreciation for things like, well...Faith Easton’s walk-away shot.
Lately, the Eastons have been cozying up to the Stinsons—Vansborough’s version of legacy wealth and ruthless politics. The Stinsons own the trailer park where I grew up. And byown, I mean they raised rent on my mom just because they could.
I’ll never forget coming home from practice one afternoon and finding her crying at the kitchen table. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand like it was no big deal. Like she didn’t know where we were going to live next month.
That was the day I decided I’d get out.
Football. Hustle. Whatever it took.
Meanwhile, the Stinsons were flying private and buying up half the town.
“Fucking Stinsons. They jack up trailer park rent to pay for their fucking jets,” Ty mutters, jaw clenched.
I glance around the table—my cousins Josh and Sheldon, and Ty, who’s my cousin and best friend. Mycrew. My inner circle. The only people I trust now that money’s made everything murky.
Ever since I signed that rookie contract, the world’s been divided into two kinds of people: those who knew mebefore, and those who just want a piece of now.
The four of us go way back. We were the kids putting rotten fish under the Stinsons’ porch senior year. Took them five weeks to figure out what the smell was.
I push back from the table. “If she comes back, tell her I want the ribeye.”
Ty nods, and I head toward the bathroom. Try to clear my head.
When I come back, she’s already there—balancing a tray of drinks with a focused, flushed expression that tells me she’s in the weeds.
“Three Town Ales, and a cider for you, sir,” she says, placing the glasses down.
Sir, huh?
My eyes drop to her hand—and the obnoxiously large diamond on her finger. That’s a Daddy’s Money ring if I’ve ever seen one.
She takes our order, scribbles it onto her pad, and turns to leave.
She smells like cherries. Or oranges. Something tropical, sweet, unexpected.
It lingers in her absence.
Sheldon leans across the table, voice low. “That’s her fiancé at the booth behind us.”
I glance past him.
Keith Stinson.
The human polo shirt.
He’s the kind of guy who’s had everything handed to him since birth—legacy college admission, unpaid internships that lead to full-time jobs with fat salaries, a pipeline straight to power and privilege.
I chuckle. “I’ll look at Faith, but I won’t touch. I’ll leave her a fat tip too.”
“You’d like to give herthe tip,” Josh says, grinning.
