The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(87)

“You sure do clean up good,” Chevy says. “Trying to impress someone?”

“Maybe.” I take a last look in the locker room mirror. Worn-in jeans, check. Tousled hair, check. Lucky shirt, check. At least, I’m hoping after tonight I can call this my lucky shirt. And no, I don’t mean like a getting lucky shirt. I wouldn’t expect to go from a kiss straight to Lindy’s bed that quick. But I’d like to think my luck is changing, and that I’m finally starting to make some headway with my wife.

Also, I’d like to try that whole kissing thing again, but without the stadium of people.

Chevy leans against a bank of lockers. The room feels weirdly intimate now that the players have taken their amped up celebrations elsewhere. Only the scent of their body odor and body spray lingers behind.

“From what I saw earlier, I’d say you’ve already impressed her plenty,” Chevy muses, a smile on his face. “Things going well there?”

How to answer that question?

Things are … going. Some days, I think I’m getting through to Lindy. Other days, I feel a little bit like a live-in nanny, handyman, and cook all in one. I’m a regular old Mrs. Doubtfire, only with a Texas accent instead of a British one. I also wear Wranglers instead of a dress and am not pretending to be someone else.

Okay, so the Mrs. Doubtfire analogy only works in the sense that I’m doing acts of service in order to be close to someone I love.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not like Lindy is forcing me to do this. Heck, half the time the woman is telling me to quit helping, quit fixing, and quit paying for stuff. I thought I was being sneaky with a lot of things, but as it turns out, Lindy is fairly observant. Could be that I make myself hard to miss by working shirtless as much as possible.

I’m starting to question the wisdom in what I’m doing. Not because Lindy isn’t worth it—I’d do all this and more. Times a thousand. No, times TEN THOUSAND.

But the other night when we were on the porch swing, I hated hearing her say she feels unequal. I don’t want her keeping some mental tally, feeling like she has to pay it back or pay it forward or pay it any old way. The last thing I want is her feeling like she isn’t enough.

I’ve started to see a bit more of the old Lindy unfurling, but it also feels like she has one eye trained on the door, either waiting for me to leave or to kick me out herself. She doesn’t trust this yet. She doesn’t trust us. She doesn’t trust ME. I know she just needs time. But every so often when she pushes me away, I start to get that low, heavy feeling in my gut, the same one I felt when I lost her the first time. I don’t despair often, but when I do, I go at it hard, and I’m doing my best to kick that creeping feeling back down.

But she kissed you, I remind myself. Tonight. She planted one on you in front of the whole town. So, maybe things are finally looking up.

“I never quite know where I stand with Lindy.” I straighten my collar, then unbutton one more button. “But I’ll take every bit of forward progress I can. Every yard, every first down—”

“A word of advice?” Chevy says. “Leave the football analogies for the field.”

“Noted.” I walk over and tilt my hair toward his face. “Be honest. Do I still smell like Gatorade?”

Chevy shoves me. “You smell like a man who just spent an hour getting ready in a locker room infused with Axe body spray.” He sniffs the air dramatically. “And like someone who is testing the limits of his fledgling bromance. Now, get on home to your wife.”





On the drive back to the house, I let my mind replay the highlights of the day. I loved the earnest hope on the guys’ faces in our pre-game huddle. Though I never relish pulling a player, it felt good replacing Mark Waters—aka Seventeen—the fourth time he tried to run the ball himself instead of passing. Watching his backup, an unassuming junior named Kyle, throw completed pass after completed pass with zero ego also felt phenomenal.

Not much beat the moment we came from behind to win the game—Sheet Cake’s first of the season. It sure was nice having the Bobs nod their approval, even if they did also promise they’d be giving me their notes at practice tomorrow morning.

And those are just the football highlights. All of them paled in comparison to the moment Lindy grabbed my face and kissed me. My foot lands a little heavier on the gas pedal at the memory of her hands, her lips, her closeness …

Unfortunately, I’m not fast enough. By the time I make it home, all the lights are off and everyone is asleep. Even Elvis, in a corner on the porch.

You only had one job, Lucky Shirt. ONE. JOB.

Disappointment floods me as I walk through the quiet house. It’s not an easy crash coming down from the high of Lindy’s kiss and our big win. I was really hoping to talk about what it meant. Or maybe just kiss some more, then talk. Kiss, then talk. Talk, then kiss. Kiss, talk, kiss. Talk, kiss, talk, kiss. The order doesn’t matter, so long as there is talking and kissing. But I guess I won’t be getting either tonight.

Why do I have the feeling that tomorrow she’s going to pretend like the kiss never happened?

I glance at the TV Lindy bought me, a small sign—literally, the thing is tiny—that she cares. When my big flat-screen arrived, I hid it in the barn. Her gift means more than a screen size.

I climb the steps slowly, skipping the super creaky one near the top. Then again, maybe I could use it to my advantage …