Page 39 of Sealing the Deal

Flic must sense me watching because she looks up, her blue eyes meeting mine. The rest of the world seems to narrow to the space between us. The barn goes quiet. The air thickens. My gaze drags against my will down to her full lips.

Then I’m stepping back, fast enough that Bramble shifts in the stall. I try to push the moment aside, squash it down, as a shadow crosses the doorway to the barn. I’m almost grateful to see Dylan’s huge frame striding toward us. He’s changed into sweats with the Stormhawks logo blazed across them.

“And here I was thinking I’d scared you off.”

Flic laughs. “Bramble is doing a better job than you.”

“I’ve got training in the city,” Dylan says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

“Training?” I ask. “I thought you were retired.”

“I am,” he says easily. “I coach kids,” Dylan continues. “Some of them don’t have the money for training. Others don’t have parents who show up. Football gives them discipline, focus, and a place they belong.”

“The Stormhawks outreach program,” I say, remembering reading about the different initiatives the Stormhawks run to support the city, and the coaching program run by Dylan.

Dylan nods.

“I’d love to see,” I say. It’s true, but that doesn’t stop the weight landing on my shoulders again. I wish I could say the future of the Stormhawks was certain. But it’s still a long way from being anything close. My investment in the team has saved the Stormhawks from bankruptcy but it’s a short-term fix unless something in how the team is run changes, especially with the fans unhappy and the sponsors threatening to walk. I think of the management meeting this morning. Everything is in jeopardy, including the outreach programs.

“Sure,” Dylan replies. “But I don’t allow spectators. You come, you play.”

Flic grins. “Looks like you’ve just got two new helpers.”

“Three,” Mad announces, appearing beside Dylan in a Stormhawks jersey, carrying a netted bag of footballs as big as she is. “Can I ride in your car, Grayson?”

“If it’s OK with Dylan,” I reply.

Dylan gives a playful eyeroll and grumbles something about expensive taste, which Flic and Mad take as a yes, and ninety minutes later, I’m standing in the middle of a snow-dusted field, attempting to throw a football with a nine-year-old called Oliver. I’m good at a lot of things. I know how to make concrete and glass feel human, how to turn empty space into something people want to live in. I understand buildings the way some people understand music. I know how weight distributes, how light moves, how to make something strong without making it ugly.

But of all the things I’m good at, throwing a football isn’t one of them. It’s like the ball has developed sentience purely to humiliate me. I grit my teeth and put everything into the next throw, and just like the one before it—and the one before that—it leaves my hand with confidence only to wobble through the air and veer off course. Oliver doubles over laughing with Flic and Mad, who are throwing a ball beside me.

Flic calls out. “I knew your football knowledge was weak, Grayson, but I assumed you could throw a ball.”

“Yeah, so funny,” I reply in mock-grump that only has them laughing harder.

When Oliver tosses it back. I stretch, fingers brushing the leather… and miss it completely. Damn, I really suck at this.

“Or catch one,” Flic adds, her phone in her hand now, and the whole group are laughing. I laugh, too. These kids, like Mad, don’t give a damn that my name is Ashborne. All they care about is football and having fun. For the first time in a very long time, I relax.

I’ve been a lone wolf for most of my life. It’s safer that way. Cleaner. But standing here in the cold, with numb fingers and a stupid grin on my face, there’s no denying that this is starting to feel a hell of a lot like belonging. And when I look up and find Flic watching me—her expression softer for a split second before she schools it back to a scowl—I feel it again. A pull I haven’t let myself feel for a very long time.

SEVENTEEN

FLIC

FLIC: Everything OK?

SONIA: For the 10th time, YES. The bar is standing. No fires. No riots.

FLIC: That sounds like something someone says right before a fire.

SONIA: Do I need to remind you that I’ve run biker bars? I once broke up a fight with a pool cue and a look. Your bar is FINE. These boys are teddy bears.

FLIC: So I should stop asking?

SONIA: Enjoy the game before I block your number.

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