The Way We Play (Bradford Boys #2)

Chapter 1

1

Zane

“ G ive me your hand, and I’ll help you.” I place my hand over Benji Maxwell’s small one and guide the plastic brush in smooth circles along the horse’s side.

We repeat the process gently, moving the brush slowly along the shiny, chocolate-brown coat, over powerful muscles until the tension eases from the boy’s shoulders.

His brow is furrowed, and his eyes are focused on our motion. I’ll give him a few more strokes, then I’ll let him do it by himself.

The old thoroughbred blows air through his nostrils, and his large head hangs over the door of the stall. It’s early morning at Second Chance Stables on the outskirts of Newhope, Alabama, and dust hangs in a beam of sunlight streaming through the door. It’s warm for the first day of November.

“You’re a natural with these kids, Zane.” The owner Gloria Fruit stops at the door, cupping her arm around the horse’s neck. “I wouldn’t object if you decided to hang around here full time.”

She’s dressed in knee-length shorteralls and a black tank, and her mousey brown hair is in a ponytail under a tattered baseball cap.

Beat-up, dusty work boots complete her outfit, and her dark eyes crinkle at the corners with her smile. I’ve never seen Gloria dressed up or wearing makeup as long as I’ve known her.

“Look, Ms. Fruit.” Benji’s voice is focused. “I’m doing it.”

He doesn’t get too excited, but the last time I was here, he held his palm under Shiloh’s velvety nose. When his mother saw him looking into the horse’s huge eyes, she started to cry.

I cleared my throat and did my best not to draw attention to them. I’m not licensed in equine therapy, but I help Gloria with her students if they arrive before she does.

“You are doing it, Benji.” Gloria’s voice is low and encouraging. “That’s very good.”

The horse lifts his head, exhaling a playful snort, and I move my hand to the boy’s shoulder.

“He’s nodding because he likes it,” she laughs.

Gloria is at least fifteen years older than me, and she opened this ranch on the outskirts of town while I was still in college.

Her obscenely rich parents couldn’t figure out why their only daughter was more interested in broken-down thoroughbreds than debutante parties and dating the most eligible bachelors in their circle.

They’d taken her to Churchill Downs, hoping she’d meet the son of one of their friends there, but instead she’d spent the weekend hanging out with a female veterinarian, who opened her eyes to several things, including the number of former racehorses headed to the slaughterhouse due to overuse or injury.

As soon as she got home, in her characteristic, take-charge fashion, she convinced her parents to buy the old polo club, which she turned into a shelter for the animals.

Then when she learned about equine therapy, she took it a step further by getting licensed and inviting local parents to bring their kids here to ride and care for the older, gentler horses and only charging what they could afford to pay. Even if that meant they participated for free.

People like Gloria give me hope for mankind.

“Good Morning, Mr. Bradford.” Sandra steps up beside Gloria, letting out a little whistle. “Out here at the crack of dawn, looking like a snack in those jeans.”

Sandra never misses a chance to flirt with me, like all the old ladies in our small town on the coast. The only difference is I know Sandra’s genuinely teasing.

Still, I don’t engage. “Benji’s mom said he woke up asking to feed the pretty horses.”

“Pretty horses, eh?” Gloria’s brows rise. “I’d call that progress.”

“You sure she was talking about the horses?”

“Leave him alone, Sandra. You know Zane doesn’t like flirting, and I need him here.”

My smile is tight, because she’s not lying. I don’t have much patience for frivolity, but I do have a sense of humor, as dry as it might be.

“I’m not going anywhere.” I step back to open the door of Shiloh’s stall.

“That’s a relief.” Sandra winks. “This town needs more tall, dark, and broody former football players with chiseled jawlines and a love of books and special-needs children.”

“I’ve got to get to Miss Gina’s.” A wince tightens my smile when I step wrong, and a spasm grabs my lower back.

Concern lines Gloria’s face. “That old injury acting up again?”

Shaking my head, I take a halting step. “Miss Gina had me moving potted trees around yesterday. They were a lot heavier than they looked.”

“Oh, and don’t forget, he takes care of rich, old blind ladies,” Sandra calls after me.

“Miss Gina’s some tough competition.” Gloria elbows her partner before taking my place in the stall beside Benji and Shiloh. “But I’m willing to share as long as Zane keeps my mornings covered.”

Gloria is not a morning person, something we established up front.

I take the morning shift, welcome any therapy kids who show up early, keep things running until she appears, then I head back to Montrose, the small town north of Newhope where I’m a glorified handyman for Miss Gina Rosario, who lives alone in her historic mansion on the bluffs.

Miss Gina is the last of a very wealthy family, one of the founding families of our town, and thanks to Dylan’s obsession with her massive, Italian-style estate, we’ve become friends. Dylan is also the reason I started working for her after her octogenarian groundskeeper retired.

“See you tomorrow.” I give them a brief wave.

The doors are off my old Jeep Wrangler, and the wind swirls around me as I head back up the scenic drive to town. Live oak trees stretch heavy limbs over the two-lane road, creating a shady tunnel, and my mind travels back in time.

Our parents moved us here because our mom loved being near the ocean, and our dad liked the friendly people. He said it was a place he felt at home. By contrast, I’ve always been an alien in the middle of a family of extroverted siblings.

Jack is the most like me, but Garrett started talking and never stopped. I’ve never known anyone with a personality as big as his body, and he’s massive.

My siblings got it honest from our dad, but Mom understood me.

She told me it was okay to be alone, to read, to walk away from the noise when the house got too busy. Sometimes she’d walk with me along the bay. We’d watch the waves rippling on the quiet shore. We’d stop and watch the turtles sunning on logs.

We’d watch the huge silver and black egrets slowly spread their wings wide and lift off the ground like massive gliders over the water .

Mom said I reminded her of her father, but I didn’t understand. Weren’t girls supposed to grow up and marry men like their dads? I’d read that somewhere. She said not to believe everything I read.

As always in November, my thoughts go to that Thanksgiving-Day football game, and my shoulders tense. We were having fun, goofing off, but every time, I beat myself up for not being smarter.

Dylan shouldn’t have been out there. She was too small to be on that field with all of us towering over her. It’s a rough game, and to make matters worse, she was as competitive as Garrett and Hendrix.

When Jack passed me the ball, I didn’t even see her right beside me. She shouldn’t have been able to keep up with me, but she was so strong. She had worked so hard.

I can still hear the crunch of bone when we hit the ground. I can still hear her cries of pain and loss.

They were the same cries I made when I was caught under a three-hundred-pound lineman in the fake field goal play that ended my football career.

When I broke Dylan, ending her dreams of dancing forever, I said I’d never forgive myself. I couldn’t forget the look on her face when the doctor told her she could still dance, but going en pointe or completing the elaborate jumps and fouettés she had to do as a professional were now impossible.

Lying in my own hospital bed in Baltimore twelve years later, her soulful brown eyes fighting tears were all I could see when the doctor told me my career as a kicker was done.

Dylan says she never held what happened against me, but I knew it was only a matter of time before karma evened the score. It hurt, but nothing hurt as much as that Thanksgiving Day.

I didn’t lose a dream, but I did lose the only thing I knew how to do.

The sound of dance music wafts through the front door of our house when I pull into the gravel driveway and put the Jeep in park. I’d only planned to stop by and pick up my tools, but Jack’s truck is parked out front with several boxes stacked in the bed.

Rachel’s brother Edward has a small one in his arms, and he’s frowning as he carries it into the house.

The tightness in my shoulders hasn’t eased from my unwelcome trip down memory lane, and I’m still limping when I follow him inside to where the music is playing louder. It’s some kind of dance song with trumpets and voices shouting like a cheer.

“Why are we moving all our things in here if we’re only staying a few days?” Edward’s tone is flat.

I’ve only met the kid one other time at Halloween, when he and his sister stopped by the house during trick or treating.

Rachel had just returned from an emergency trip to Birmingham with her brother in tow and nowhere to put him. Dylan offered to let them stay with us in our big family home until they could find their own place.

It’s only Dylan, me, and Dylan’s fiancé Logan Murphy here now. I didn’t want Rachel sleeping across the hall from me, but I’ve given up on arguing with my little sister.

When her dancing dreams ended, she pivoted to running our family restaurant Cooters & Shooters and helping or finding help for anyone and everyone in need.

“We’re not moving everything—just the things we need until we find our own place.” Rachel appears in the hallway and my stomach tightens.

She’s really pretty, and she has an annoying habit of asking questions and offering to help fix everything. It’s bad enough when Dylan does it, but Rachel is new and new is irritating.

“We don’t need all these books.” Edward looks into the box, and Rachel lifts out a tattered, black paperback with pale hands holding an apple and Twilight on the cover. “ Au contraire, mon frere —books are life! ”

“Are you speaking French?” His nose curls, and I notice he doesn’t meet her gaze.

I hadn’t picked up on that when they stopped by at Halloween. I only noticed he talked quickly, as if he were an actor in an old-timey gangster movie. He’d called himself Eddie Nashville.

Rachel said he had gotten into some kind of trouble at school, and her grandmother couldn’t keep him anymore. Naturally, my little sister swooped in for the rescue.

“Zane! What are you doing here?” Rachel startles, taking a step back.

Her green eyes blink wide, and her cheeks flush. She looks down at her tank top and leggings before looking up at me again, her blonde ponytail bouncing.

“I live here.” My jaw is tight, and I’m not interested in her hair or her body or her bright green eyes.

“Yes, but I thought you’d left for the day.”

“I need to pick up my tool kit.”

Her face lights, and I can tell she’s about to say something I won’t like.

“Perfect timing! Give me just a minute to shower, and I’ll ride with you to Miss Gina’s.”

“I’m not staying that long.”

“Good, because I don’t need that long!” she sings out, dashing up the stairs. “We’ve been moving all morning, so I just need to get the sticky off me. I’ll be right back.”

Shifting my weight causes me to wince, and thankfully she doesn’t notice. I tear my eyes off her round ass bouncing as she jogs up the stairs. I swallow a groan, wishing I didn’t have to follow her to get what I need.

“What is this music?” I gingerly take the stairs, doing my best not to give any indication my back is aching.

The last thing I need is her to offer free massage therapy again. As Miss Gina’s new nurse slash assistant, we’re basically co-workers, and I do my best to avoid being around when they’re doing things like yoga or water aerobics. Rachel has more curves than I want to think about.

“It’s RuPaul!” she calls out before slamming the bathroom door. “Drag queen music is the best! It’s about surviving and being strong and optimistic.”

“Does it have to be so loud?” I shout from across the hall as I pick up my canvas tool bag.

“She’s always loud,” Edward grumbles.

“She’s come to the right place.”

Today he’s wearing a threadbare They Might Be Giants T-shirt, and I notice he’s quietly humming to himself.

“I like your shirt.”

He looks down. “Their songs are like little stories. Like ‘Particle Man,’ critics try to make it about science versus religion, but John Linnell said it’s strictly about the characters in a literal sense.”

My eyebrows rise. “And John Linnell is?”

“The songwriter.”

“I guess he’d know.” My brow furrows when I notice an unusual, smoky-herbal scent. “Is something burning?”

“Sage. Rachel says it clears negative energy and promotes healing.”

“Sounds like bull sh– pit to me.”

“ Schpit .” He repeats the word frowning. “I’m not familiar with that word.”

I do a quick sweep of his size and weight. He’s skinny, but he’s as tall as Rachel, and I understand why his grandmother would be concerned if he has started to have episodes or fight, although to be honest, he doesn’t seem like the fighting type.

“I misspoke. I think burning sage is bull spit.”

Hesitating, I lift a framed photograph off the dresser and my jaw tightens. Talk about bullshit.

It’s a man whose face I haven’t seen in a long time. Not since I was a boy, and my parents decided to open a restaurant on the bay. A man who caused a lot of pain and disappointment for my parents, and someone I never want to see again.

“Why do you have this picture?” I can’t keep the anger out of my tone.

Edward takes a step away from me. “That’s Papa.”

My brow furrows. “Your father?”

I don’t know how much Edward can be trusted with the facts, and I look across the hall to the bathroom.

I’m not sure when I noticed Rachel’s loud singing of RuPaul’s song “Supermodel” stopped, but at that moment, a dull thud sounds from the other side of the door.

“Stay here.” I order, hustling across the hall.

“Rachel?” I bang on the door, but only the noise of the shower responds. “Rachel, are you okay?”

I knock harder, but again, it’s only silence. My jaw tightens, and I look down, listening to the spray of water as a cold realization filters through me. She’s in trouble.

“Rachel!” I try again, shouting louder and banging my hand against the wood.

I don’t want to do this, but I don’t have a choice. Grabbing the handle, I hit the wooden barrier with my shoulder. The door shudders, and I do it again. It only takes once more before the door yields, flying open.

Staggering into the small, steamy room, I see Rachel on her knees in the shower. She’s holding one of the silver bars we installed to help me after my injury.

Her eyes are closed, and her shoulders heave like she’s having difficulty breathing.

“Rachel?” I grab a towel, opening the door and stepping into the spray.

I’m worried she has a physical condition I don’t know about—how could I know? We only started working together a few months ago, and we don’t talk about our personal lives. I didn’t even know she had a twelve-year-old brother until a week ago .

“Edward, bring me a glass of juice!” I shout.

I’m pretty sure he’s able to do that, even if he’s only been in our kitchen a few times.

“Rachel?” Reaching out, I turn off the water, and my lips tighten as I drape the towel over her naked body, doing my best not to look at her.

She has a beautiful body—ivory skin, perfect, large breasts and a small waist. I swallow hard not wanting to find her sexy as hell, but damn . Rachel looks good in clothes. She looks like a fantasy naked.

“I’m okay,” she whispers. “Dizzy… Need a minute.”

Relief twists my chest, and I guide her onto her butt with the towel placed over her front, up to her chin.