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For the first time since Houston, I don’t have to wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stayed long enough to see him again.

I’m going to find out.

Chapter Twelve

Calliope

Ionly make it a few steps away from the quarterback room before my thumb finds Mom’s ring, tracing the stone exactly where it has always rested against my finger. Having it back should be enough to settle the uneasiness I’ve carried since I realized it was gone, but when I twist it gently beneath my thumb, all I can see are Jubal’s fingers disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

I slow near the end of the hallway, staring at the purple stone while two staff members walk past me, discussing tomorrow’s schedule. Neither pays me any attention, which is probably for the best, considering I’m standing in the middle of the facility trying to understand why Jubal kept my mother’s ring around his neck. He didn’t know it belonged to Mom or that I’d torn apart half my apartment looking for it. All he knew was that I left it behind, and that had been enough for him to keep it safe.

“Oh, come on,” I mutter under my breath as someone coming down the hall glances at me. “Not you, sorry.”

He wisely keeps walking, and I start moving again before I can embarrass myself in front of anyone else. I almost make it to the end of the hallway before I realize I’ve got no idea what I’m supposed to do the next time I see Jubal. Am I supposed to treat him like every other player in this building when I know him in ways I was never supposed to know Dad’s quarterback?

My steps slow as the question immediately produces half a dozen more. There has to be a middle ground between pretending he’s a stranger and acting familiar enough that Dad doesn’t start asking questions neither of us wants to answer. I just need to figure out what that looks like before I accidentally make this situation even more complicated than it already is.

I pull my phone from my back pocket anyway, recognizing that I’m being ridiculous, but it isn’t enough to stop me from doing something about it. The screen lights beneath my thumb as I search for somewhere to put a few basic boundaries before I wander into a situation that gets Jubal murdered by my father. My notes app opens to a blank page, and I stare at the blinking cursor while trying to decide how a person is supposed to turn any of this into a set of bullet points.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard for another second before I lock the phone and shove it back into my pocket. The urge to pull it right back out follows immediately, but I force myself to keep walking, which leaves me with nothing to do except admit that I’ve already started thinking about seeing Jubal again because I want to. Warmth unfurls low in my stomach at the admission. I have no idea what will happen the next time we’re in the same room or whether wanting that next time is a good idea, but for once, not knowing what happens afterward isn’t enough to make me wish it won’t happen at all.

I keep moving toward the front offices before I ruin whatever microscopic amount of personal growth I’ve achieved in the last five minutes. Ahead of me, a door swings open and several overlapping voices spill into the hallway along with a group of players. One of the trainers squeezes between them, muttering threats nobody seems concerned about as I shift toward the wall to let them pass.

“Callie!”

I know the voice before I find him. Easton Kinkade breaks away from the group coming toward me, all six-foot-two of him moving far too fast for an indoor hallway. His shaggy dark-blond hair looks like he’s been dragging his hands through it all morning, and the grin spreading across his face is the same one I remember from high school, even if the broad shoulders filling out his Valor shirt definitely aren’t.

“There you are.”

I barely have time to brace myself before he reaches me. “Why does that sound threatening?”

“Because you know me too well.” He catches my elbow and turns me around with him.

“Easton,” I laugh as I stumble through the first step. “Where are we going?”

“Lunch.”

“I was leaving.”

“Now you’re not.” He keeps us moving with the rest of the players, apparently unconcerned that I haven’t agreed to any of this. “Whit ordered enough food to feed the entire offensive line and possibly a small European nation.”

“And this requires me because…?”

“Because you’ve finally come home.” Easton looks down at me as if I’ve asked why humans require oxygen.

Something about the simplicity of the answer steals the sarcastic response already sitting on my tongue. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he just decides not to make a big deal of it, because he immediately begins complaining about Tuck getting first access to the food and how someone with his complete lack of restraint shouldn’t be trusted with unrestricted access to food.

I should tell Easton I really am leaving, but I fall into step beside him as he leads me into one of the larger meeting rooms. Every available surface appears to be claimed by either a football player or takeout container. Someone has pushed two tables together beneath the whiteboard, and aluminum trays stretch from one end to the other, full of enough barbecue to make Easton’s accusation about Whit’s inability to estimate portions seem considerably less dramatic.

“Finally,” Tuck calls from across the room when he sees us. “Tell King I didn’t take all the brisket.”

“You started taking enough that people were becoming concerned,” Whit says without looking up from the plate he’s building.

“I’m a professional athlete.”

“So are the other twenty people trying to eat.”

Tuck points his fork at him. “Sounds like a supply-chain issue.”