FOUR MONTHS LATER…

    “ARE YOU OKAY?” IS THE FIRST THING I SAY WHEN I PICK UP the phone.

    Last night, I watched the TV with a boulder in my stomach as Tripp was helped off the ice. He hadn’t rejoined the game, and I caved to instinct, sending him a message asking if he was okay.

    It took him a day to respond, but he called. And that’s something.

    “Yeah. I cleared the protocol. They said I’m fine. A little banged up, but I’ll be back on the ice tomorrow.”

    I listen to my son casually recount the fallout of a dirty cross-check he was on the receiving end of and grapple with an unfamiliar feeling. It’s protective and enraged all at once. My stomach sinks and my ire rises.

    Even though Tripp is an adult, I’d like to march down to the league headquarters and demand an exnation for how they can keep letting their top talent get rag-dolled like this.

    “And is that goon going to be suspended?”

    He chuckles now. The sound is a blend of amusement and disbelief over my demand for justice—like somehow he expected less from me.

    “Probably. I can’t imagine him not getting a game or two.”

    “I’d give him ten,” I grumble, irrationally hating the other yer.

    Trippughs again now. “Missed your calling working in yer safety, Bash.”

    I grumble at that, still not impressed. “I’ll be checking the news” is all I respond with as I head up the mountain toward Clyde’s property. “I’m going to lose reception right away here, but stay in touch, okay?”

    A beat of silence passes between us. There’s still something surreal about talking with him at all. He already has parents to keep in the loop, and I can’t help but feel like it must be inconvenient to add another one to his busy schedule.

    Still, he responds, “You bet.” And it’s only slightly awkward.

    Progress. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself every time we have a remotely normal conversation.

    The line goes dead right where I figured it would, and I drive up the winding gravel road worrying about Tripp and about Clyde. The thought of him living up here alone with his current health scares me.

    I never know what I’ll find when I pull up to the small log home. Today is no exception.

    “Clyde, what the fuck are you doing?”

    I watch as the older man hobbles around my ck pickup truck, bending over stiffly to inspect god knows what. “Hold yer horses! Kids these days are so impatient.” He shuffles across the snow, a smattering of wiry, white facial hair covering his stubborn jaw as he pants from the simple walk to my truck.

    It’s taking all my self-control to not get out and help him. But the thing about Clyde is that he doesn’t want any help. Convincing him to give dialysis a go was the challenge of my life.

    The passenger door opens, and he heaves his short body into the seat with a grunt. He’s got a wiry but strong build, topped with deeply lined, leathery skin from years spent in the sun (and not believing in sunscreen). It’s actually weird that his kidneys are the issue and not some type of skin cancer. But his doctors assured me that, aside from the kidneys, he’s as healthy as a horse.

    I’m worried about him, though. I can’t help it. I’ve grown attached to the ornery old git.

    “What are you waiting for? Me to die while you stare at me?” He crosses his arms and shoots me a petnt re from beneath his trucker hat.

    I just sigh. Anyone who thinks I’m hard to handle should try helping Clyde. “I’m waiting for you to put your seat belt on.”

    “Pfft. I don’t need a seat belt. I grew up in cars that didn’t even have ’em. And look at me.” He holds his arms out wide. “I turned out fine.”

    My brows drop. “I think our definitions of fine might be different.”

    Clyde’s lips twitch. “You’re so crabby. Still stewing over the wall-punching incident?”

    Now that is something I don’t want to talk about. So I don’t answer. I just re at him. He doesn’t reach for the seat belt, and I’m out of patience. “Fuck it,” I mutter, shifting my truck into reverse and throwing a hand over the back of his seat to maneuver down the long driveway.

    If he refuses to wear a seat belt, then it’s not my hill to die on.

    “Oh, so we’re still pretending that didn’t happen?”

    My mrs mp down on each other. “I’m not pretending shit, Clyde. I’m just internally berating myself for even telling you about it.”

    Of course, the loud noise and the hole in the wall hadn’t gone unnoticed. People came running—Cecilia included. So, of course, Tripp found out too.

    Obviously, I couldn’t admit why I’d had apletely out-of-character outburst.

    Sorry, I’ve been obsessing over your girlfriend for months, blew my shot because, in the fog of pulling an all-nighter, I missed one fucking number, and now I’ll never have her.

    I had to cover and said my frustration over all the years I missed got the best of me. It wasn’t a total lie. It was a frustrating position to be in, but it wasn’t why I lost it and punched a wall.

    Tripp looked shocked. His mom turned and walked away—which was just so fucking fitting. And Eddie tried to cate me.

    I gave Tripp his gift and saw myself out with my tail between my legs and my dignity left in the powder room.

    I headed straight to the airport toe home, thinking my luck couldn’t get any worse. But I’d been wrong. Because there in the terminal, I ran into my ex-wife for the first time in three years.

    She looked happy, healthy, remarried, and very pregnant.

    Pregnant. Something she told me she never wanted to be. Something she clearly just didn’t want to be with me.

    Our greeting was brief and awkward, and once the shock of it passed, the run-in only pushed me deeper into the hole of despair that I’d already been calling home. Since then, I’ve done my best not to analyze how I feel about it. And I certainly haven’t told anyone about it. Not even Clyde got that piece of information.

    Instead, I may have fallen back on venting to Clyde about other things. About Tripp and Cecilia and the mess thates with this whole new chapter in my life. And in my most distraught moment, I may have even divulged my misery over the Gwen bombshell.

    Things may have been tenuous between Tripp and me after I put a hole in his mom’s wall, but with persistence, we’ve managed to forge something of a connection. Even if we only talk about work.

    Work is safe. Personal lives are dicey. Gwen is personal. And I sure as shit don’t want to talk to him about her. I don’t even want to think about her.

    With him.

    Clyde’s raspy voice interrupts my spiral. “You should call her.”

    Her.

    I don’t even need to ask who he’s talking about. I scoff and roll my eyes as I pull the truck around to head down the back road.

    Of course, Clyde has to live way the hell and gone—up the back side of the mountain. Something about fewer cameras tracking him. As if anyone wants to track Clyde and his daily puttering around hisnd.

    “Absolutely not. That would be beyond inappropriate.”

    “ording to who?”

    “Everyone, Clyde. Everyone. Especially my son—her boyfriend—who I’m trying to be friendly with. I’m trying not to totally fuck everything up with him, so it might be best to steer clear of that ticking time bomb.”

    He sniffles, wiggling back against his seat. “Seems to me that little prick could use some fucking with.”

    I let out a heavy sigh, but I don’t respond. The worst part is, I agree. Although I barely know Tripp, it’s clear he has his mother’s family’s fingerprints all over him. He’s not all bad, but the silver-spoon, image-obsessed genes are there. I could tell by the way he introduced me to people and the way they patted him on the back with that knowing look in their eyes.

    Like he was downright heroic for weing me back into his life.

    Truthfully, I didn’t care. They can all say what they want about me. But teasing Gwen about her eating habits felt like a backhanded way of criticizing her body.

    And that set me off.

    Because her fucking body. I’ve dreamed of it. Of her. I know I shouldn’t—especially now—but my subconscious is having a grand old time torturing me over what could have been. What I could have had.

    Clyde yammers on about the jet trails in the air, spraying the mountain with chemicals, poisoning the water and the animals. He suspects this is the reason his kidneys are in such rough shape. Chem trails.

    I let him talk. I could exin the science of what he’s seeing, but he would just inform me I’m brainwashed and all too happy to believe every lie the government feeds me.

    Hees by his moniker “Crazy Clyde” pretty honestly. If anyone were going to wear a tinfoil hat, it would be him. I find afort in it, though. The world around me can get turned upside down, and Clyde just… stays the same.

    And who knows? Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m the idiot in this equation. Lately, it definitely feels like I am. The butt of every joke. The perpetual runner-up.

    I pull up to the hospital’s front entrance, and Clyde ambles out of the truck. Our routine is that he heads inside to get started and I find parking before wandering back in there to keep himpany. It’s a rhythm that wouldn’t work in the summer months while I’m constantly away and fighting fires. But it does now.

    Something about him doing it all alone, with no one in his corner, doesn’t sit right with me. So I continue to show up for him. I promised I would, and if there’s one thing I am, it’s loyal.

    Before he can m the door, he pauses and turns back. Watery, blue eyes narrow in on me, more perceptive than he has any right to be.

    “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m going to anyway. So listen up. Just because you got horny at fifteen and that kid has half your DNA, it doesn’t mean you need to let him treat you like shit while you constantly beat yourself up over his existence. And for what it’s worth, when doomsday hits, he’s not invited to my bunker. But you are.”

    Then, with a firm nod, he ms the door, leaving me feeling a mixture of amusement and—strangely—affection.hr

    Bowling is a sess.

    For once.

    And I suppose that’s why West dragged us all to Rose Hill Reach to celebrate with “the girls” as he calls them. Rosie, Skr, and Tabby have paired off with my teammates, which firmly makes me the seventh wheel of the friend group.

    What started as a casual bowling night with West and Clyde has be a hell of a lot more organized. Over the past several months, we’ve picked up two more regr members—ones I don’t hate. Ford, West’s childhood best friend, and Rhys, a stray that our local bistro owner dropped off one day. Don’t know much about the guy, but I like him a lot. He’s not annoying, and he doesn’t ask a bunch of questions. We’ve struck up a friendship that mostly consists of rolling our eyes at West and exchanging to-the-point text messages.

    He reminds me of my friend Emmett, a professional bull rider on the WBRF circuit. He travels a lot, so we don’t see each other often, but when we do, we just pick up where we left off.

    Now and then, I get a message from him that says, “You still alive?” I give it a thumbs-up. And then, a couple of monthster, I’ll check the standings on the WBRF website and give him shit for not being number one. I get back a “fuck you,” and I also give that a thumbs-up.

    It’s a solid rtionship in my books. And much like Emmett, Rhys keeps things simple—something I like about him.

    The guys walk in ahead of me but draw up short once they get inside because Doris, the owner of the Reach and longtime bartender, calls out, “Last question. It could be a tiebreaker since we have two teams with the same number of points right now. What is a group of unicorns called? A herd, a flock, a blessing, or a rainbow?”

    Ford’s brows knit together as he whispers, “What the fuck?”

    “Oh, a blessing. Duh,” West says with an eye roll.

    I shoot him a scornful re, which only makes himugh.

    “You’re just mad you were thinking rainbow, aren’t you?”

    I sigh. “You’re an idiot.”

    “A happy one,” West volleys with a wink. He bounces on the balls of his feet like a boxer, craning his neck as though he’ll be able to make out the answer from here. “I swear Skr knows this one. She’s got this. When did they start a trivia night? And why does it have to conflict with bowling? This would be so fun.”

    I cross my arms. “This would not be fun.”

    “Rosie would kill me if we started crashing girls’ night,” Ford adds.

    West doesn’t seem put off at all, though.

    Shaking my head, I turn and take in the bar, gazing at the massive floor-to-ceiling windows facing theke. If it weren’t already dark, I’d be able to see the water, the mountains, and the floating dock that serves as a patio in the summer. Inside, the lights are warm and sporting goods ster the walls for decoration. At each table, groups of four huddle together with a bunch of tiny pencils and small scraps of paper littered between them.

    Beside me, Rhys stares at his wife, Tabitha. He’s already an intense guy, but when his gazends on her, that intensity ratchets up even further. Just watching them makes me feel like I’ve stumbled into something private.

    It hits me with a pang in my stomach. Makes me realize all the domestic milestones I’ve missed out on in my life. Not because I’m averse to them, but because I’ve been thwarted at every turn. To avoid any further rejection, I’ve turned my focus to my career, and now it’s like half my life has gone poof before my eyes.

    Watching these boys makes me feel like I’ve missed out on something integral. Something I don’t know that I’ll ever have.

    It’s feeling like that ship has sailed.

    “Who’s that?” Ford asks, though I don’t pay him any mind. He’s new in town and still learning the ropes. I’m too lost in my head to pay much attention to what the guys are saying. Until one single sentence out of Rhys’s mouth stops me in my tracks.

    “That’s my yoga instructor, Gwen.”

    My head snaps toward the table, and my gut drops to the floor beneath me. Because, sure as shit, there is Gwen from the airport.

    Tripp’s Gwen.

    Sitting at a table with my friends.

    In my town.

    The guys rib Rhys about doing yoga, but I’m frozen, mind racing with why she might be here. What she’s ying at. Why this keeps happening to me.

    My heart races uncharacteristically. I’m too fucking old for this shit. My mrs grind against each other as I watch Gwen stand to let Tabby back into the booth. As Gwen slides in beside her, the guys head over there, and my feet move to follow, even though I’m dreading facing her again. Especially after my meltdown at Tripp’s party.

    I stand stiffly as introductions are made, Gwen smiling graciously each time. That captivating twinkle in her eye takes me back to gazing at her over too-sweet margaritas. Then, the moment I’ve been bracing for arrives when Tabby gestures in my direction.

    “Gwen, this is Bash.”

    My lips turn down as I realize I don’t know how she’ll spin this. How are we supposed to exin that we know each other? Thest thing I need is the guys knowing this much detail about the cosmic joke that is my personal life. The silver lining is that Clyde isn’t here tonight to spill the beans.

    Gwen nces up at me from beneath a thick fringe ofshes, that plush mouth just slightly parted as she nervously tucks tinum hair behind her ear.

    “Yeah, actually… We’ve met.”

    I can’t tell if it’s just me or if the entire bar suddenly bes quieter.

    Rosie, Ford’s fiancée, goes wide-eyed, already sinking her teeth into the moment like a dog with a bone. She’s a force to be reckoned with—I know because she’s bargained with me, talking me into taking offseason contracting jobs I didn’t need. If she starts sniffing around, it’s only a matter of time before all the dirty details of my and Gwen’s missed connection wille spilling out.

    “You have?”

    Yeah. Rosie sounds far too intrigued for this to be safe.

    So I opt to jump ship.

    “Yup,” I reply brusquely, trying not to cave under the weight of everyone’s stares while also trying not to gawk at Gwen. “Good to see you again. I’m going to head out. You kids have fun.”

    And with that, I flee.

    Like the down-bad coward I am.