Bean's eyes widen. "But aren't youmovingto Gilberton?"
"They've got stores here, haven't they?"
Haven't they?
Probably should have done a bit more research before signing the contract. Then again, I probably shouldn't have signed the contract in the first place. Not that I've had offers flying in. No major league club will touch me after what Belinda did. How did I go from winning back-to-back NFL Coach of the Year awards to…this? Head coach for a minor league team that hasn't been able to get off the ground in more than a decade.
I'm only five months out of rehab and haven't seen my girls in more than half a year. I'm a mess, and in no way, shape, or form should I be coaching anyone. But bills to pay and all that. Belinda may have done her best to destroy my life, my reputation, my self-worth, but I'd work in a fucking coal mine if it meant providing for my girls. They're the only thing that kept me going through my darkest times. If it weren't for them, I honestly don't know if I'd still be here.
Bean shrugs. "Cool. Well, if you're all set, let's go. It's only a thirty-minute drive to town, which should be about enough time for me to fill you in on all the town gossip."
Twenty minutes later, we're over halfway to Gilberton, and boy, can this kid talk or what. I'm pretty sure I could sit the town trivia night and wipe the floor with everyone.
I've learned all about The Leafy Nook where he works and makes most of the custom furniture for, and, if I'm in need of anything, be sure to call him.
He tells me about Kimball, his boyfriend and my defense coach. How he was the first hire made by the new team owners, Beau and Rein, since he's good friends with one of them. If Bean is privy to all my attempts to worm my way out of coming here, he doesn't let on.
When we cross over a nondescript bridge, he fills me in on the massive feud between the Winklemanns and Katonas and how everyone in town is on the Katona's side because the Winklemanns are assholes.
I interject with, "But isn't Rein a Winkelmann and Beau a Katona?"
He interprets my question as caring rather than simply clarifying, and it takes us down the road of a family rivalry that started when Gilberton was nothing more than swampland.
Don't get me wrong, Bean is a lovely guy and all, but by the time he pulls to a stop, my social battery is red.
I glance out the window. For some reason, he's parked in front of a funeral parlor. I'm aware I don't make the best first impression, and I have a (deserved) reputation for being a hard-ass, but I think offing me is a bit extreme.
"Oh, one thing I forgot to mention," he says. "The accommodation the team organized for you fell through. But don't worry, you can stay with my bestie, Tex, Kimball's younger brother, until the team finds you something else."
I take in the stone-fronted building tucked between two maples, a sign outside saying Manning Funeral Home, and flick my gaze up to the compact apartment above it. A small balcony with mismatched chairs and wind chimes hanging from the eaves is nestled beneath a sloped roof. Soft, warm light spills out from inside.
"Your friend lives here?"
"Yep. His uncle owns the place, and he's in the process of taking it over."
"Taking it over?"
Bean nods, and his jaw tightens just enough to tell me he’s about to let me in on something more important than which of the two Dunkin’ locations is the "good" one. "Tex is a good guy. One of the best actually. So don't judge him for what he does for a living, okay? He gets that a lot, and it sucks."
I keep my lips sealed. I know a thing or two about being judged unfairly, when people make their minds up about you based on false, maliciously intended allegations. It doesn't just suck, it destroys you and can cause you to spiral until your life is so out of control you don't recognize yourself anymore. If my new roommate works in a funeral parlor, I can handle that.
"Got it," I say as we get out of the car.
Well, I get out of the car. Bean rolls the passenger window down and tells me he needs to get back to The Leafy Nook.
I grab my small suitcase from the back seat. He takesoff, and I make my way up the narrow side staircase of the funeral home, the wind chimes growing louder with each step.
One question keeps rolling around and around in my head: What the hell have I gotten myself into?
3
TD
I give the door one solid knock, reminding myself not to make any prejudgments about the guy. When it opens, I realize I've failed. In the few seconds I waited for Tex to answer, my mind filled with an image of what he might look like. I'm ashamed to admit it involved dark clothes and black eyeliner.
But nothing about the young man standing before me screams goth.
His face is warm and striking, light-brown eyes catching the light and medium-brown curls brushing his forehead in a way that makes him look friendly before he even speaks. His body’s filled out in all the right ways, solid without trying too hard. He’s dressed in a fitted flannel and dark jeans.
