The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(59)

Winnie stretches out one arm, examining the soft red and black plaid shirt. It’s too big on her—the sleeves are rolled up and the shirt is knotted at the waist, a black tee barely showing underneath.

She tugs at the collar. “I know, right? It’s growing on me. Must be something in the water. Or in the beer. Over there—Kyoko saved us seats. I’ll introduce you. She’s brilliant.”

Winnie directs us to a row near the center of the room. I’d prefer the back, but at least I get the aisle seat. I can easily escape if needed. Winnie introduces me to her friend, and I do my best to be polite, though I’m honestly running on fumes and done with small talk and, most especially, people who aren’t Winnie.

“Nice job last night with Daniel,” Kyoko says.

I shrug. “It happens.”

Kyoko laughs and hands Winnie two coffees. Winnie tries to press one of them into my hands. “For you,” she says. “To get some pep back in that step, boss.”

I bite back a retort about not being a peppy kind of guy and instead take the proffered coffee. I admit, after a few sips, it helps. Marginally, anyway. The emcee is just beginning when I lean close to Winnie.

“Thank you.”

Her eyes glint up at me as the lights dim a little. “It’s nothing.”

It doesn’t feel like nothing, but I don’t argue with her as the emcee announces the first category. I submitted beer in five categories and was picked as a finalist in two. Though the taste tests were done blind, I can’t help but think my reputation will factor in somehow.

No one in this room thinks I deserve to be here. To them, I’m just a dumb jock clinging to his family’s fame. That’s what more than one article has written about me. A few others gave Dark Horse a positive spin, but the bad reviews always hit harder and stick longer.

I try to quell the stupid hope in my chest as my first category approaches. Maybe I care more than I wanted to admit about the validation this award would provide. It also doesn’t escape my notice how no one goes up to accept awards alone. Even the smaller breweries have three to five people going up to the stage, most wearing T-shirts with matching logos. A team.

Which you’ve been saying all along you don’t want and you don’t need.

What’s more, every time a winner is announced, other groups stand up to offer the winners bro-y back slaps and hugs. I’ve only spoken to a handful of people at the conference, one of whom I threw in a pool last night. I shift in my seat, which suddenly feels too small.

When the Chocolate & Coffee category is up, Winnie leans forward slightly, wrapping her hand around my arm. It’s obvious she found out somehow. I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s too smart for her own good.

They announce the bronze and silver winners. Not me.

That’s it, then. I relax slightly in my seat. If I didn’t win those—

“James,” Winnie hisses.

I grunt, and she says my name again, louder, punctuated with a little shove. “Get up there! You won!”

“What?”

Realization dawns slowly. Too slowly. The room is poised, waiting. Winnie’s eyes urge me to the front, and I see the name Dark Horse projected on the screen. I won.

I won?

I stumble a little as I get to my feet. Winnie whoops, and I debate about whether I should grab her hand and drag her with me, but she gives me a shove and says, “Go on!”

I glance back once more as I leave the row, just as she and Kyoko hop up on their chairs, clapping and cheering. Some guy down the row tells them to sit down, and I hear Winnie snap, “Cram it, you hipster wannabe lumberjack.”

I make what feels like an endless walk to the front with a huge grin on my face, ignoring the people who are clapping politely, maybe even somewhat begrudgingly.

I can’t bring myself to care. Because I WON.

I manage to climb the steps to the stage without tripping over my boots. One of the emcees gives me a genuine smile as he hands me a small gold medallion on a strip of leather. They’re meant to be worn like a bolo, but I simply hold it in my palm, loving the weight of it.

Honestly, after letting go of my football dreams, I never thought I’d have something like this again, this feeling of pride. Of winning. Of doing something significant on this scale. Maybe few people outside this room would care.

But I do. No matter what I tried to tell myself beforehand—I DO care about this win.

“Congratulations,” he says, ushering me on even as they begin to announce the next category.

I almost walk right by the photo op at the end of the stage, a big backdrop with all the sponsors’ logos and the conference name up top.

“Smile,” the photographer orders.

“No.” But I do pause, holding up the award.

It’s then I hear familiar voices cheering and shouting, making entirely too much noise. There’s a whole row in back standing on chairs, clapping wildly and making an inappropriate amount of noise. I do a double take when I realize who they are.

It’s my family: Tank, Collin, Harper, and Chase. I squint as I come down the stairs. They’re all wearing matching black shirts with the Dark Horse logo Winnie designed for the site mock-up. The real logo. Not the unicorns.

My chest tightens as I walk down the steps. I don’t need anyone to tell me Winnie is responsible. She did this. She got my family here. She made T-shirts. I realize when I catch her eye that she’s ditched the flannel, and she’s wearing one of the Dark Horse shirts too.