“Don’t kiss me either,” she hissed. “I haven’t read my contract for awhile but I think it has an express clause that I can’t make out with seriously hot private detectives at football games or during any other school activity.”

His body went still as his mind tried and failed to sort through how f**king great it felt that she referred to him as a “seriously hot private detective” at the same time he wanted, with no small amount of desperation, to laugh out loud for a long f**king time.

Instead, he joked, “It’s good they had the foresight to include that in your contract.”

“I’m not being funny, Layne,” she warned.

“You’re wrong, Raquel,” he replied.

At his words, she went smack into stare down which, unfortunately for her, Layne thought was cute.

Therefore, he asked, “Your contract says you can’t make out but does that mean I can’t kiss your neck?”

“Yes!” she hissed.

“Your forehead?” he went on.

“Yes!” Her voice was rising.

“Your nose?”

“Layne, this is not amusing.”

He smiled. “Wrong again, sweetcheeks.”

“Two seconds and you’ll have ice cold pop over your head,” she threatened.

She wouldn’t do that. She used to threaten all sorts of wild retribution but she never did it. Their fights might occasionally get physical but only in good ways. She’d once accidentally squirted his t-shirt with ketchup but only because she was yelling while holding a ketchup bottle at the same time gesticulating and she’d done it by accident. The hilarious look on her face after she’d done it had led to him laughing so hard he nearly split a gut, Rocky doing the same and, shortly after, them f**king on the kitchen table during which he transferred the ketchup on his tee to hers.

This memory had while she was pressed against his front served to sober him so he dipped his face even closer and whispered, “Everything is gonna be fine, Roc, swear.”

She stared into his eyes several long moments before she nodded.

He let her loose from his front but kept his arm around her neck and led her to the boys. These being Colt, Colt’s best friend Morrie who co-owned the local bar, J&J’s Saloon, with Colt’s wife Feb, Loren Smithfield, the local ladies man who stayed a ladies man even when he was legally bound to only one lady (and he’d been that way three times), a decent guy on the surface but underneath pure ass**le, Ricky Silvestri who owned most of the car dealerships in the county and who famously f**ked around on his wife so she divorced his ass but he was equally famously still in love with her, trying to win her back and spectacularly not succeeding, that said, Layne thought he was a decent guy who was paying due penance for a very bad mistake, and Joe Callahan, Colt’s across the street neighbor, a well-known, highly-respected security specialist, a serious badass and the man Layne hoped like hell Jasper didn’t piss off when he eventually started dating Cal’s stepdaughter.

They approached, the boys giving Rocky smiles, all of them friendly except Smithfield’s which was overt and made Layne expend some effort in trying to stop himself from ramming Smithfield’s teeth down his throat, and then they settled at the fence. Rocky started eating her hotdog and his eyes went to the field.

Jasper was a starter and had been since halfway through his freshman season. It was extremely rare for a kid in this ‘burg – a haven of all sports but especially football since the team had either gone to, or won, State nine times in the last two decades – to make the varsity team in his freshman year but Jasper did it playing tight end. Now he played tight end offense, linebacker defense, he was being scouted and Layne hoped to all hell someone pulled his boy in on even a partial ride because his grades sure as f**k weren’t going to get him into college.

Tripp had surprised him by following in his brother’s footsteps. He made varsity too, even though he was a freshman. Layne knew his son was good, had seen him play in junior high and before and he’d always shined so bright the other players didn’t exist on the field. But that was always playing with kids his own age, therefore, Layne thought the high school boys would chew him up.

They didn’t. Tripp became everything not Tripp on the football field. Not yet as tall as his brother, but faster, more agile and cold as ice. He was playing wide receiver and when he was on the field his focus was so intense, it was clear the world outside those one hundred yards ceased to exist.

If Tripp bulked out, which he probably would in the next year, he’d have to find a different position. For now, that was where he was which was unfortunate. Coach Adrian Cosgrove’s son was a senior, a wide receiver and not a great one. Tripp hadn’t played much because Cosgrove wanted any scouts there to get a look at his boy. Layne suspected this would be unpopular because whenever Tripp played, it was clear he could run circles around Cosgrove’s kid. The rabid Bulldogs fans who lived and breathed high school football did not care about Cosgrove’s kid, they cared about winning and they would not put up with nepotism for long. Cosgrove further wasn’t liked because, since he moved up from assistant coach to take over for the beloved, long-time head coach three years ago, the ‘dogs hadn’t gone past regionals. He was feeling the heat and nasty rumors about Cosgrove’s temper were spreading. Layne didn’t know if they were true, and neither Jasper nor Tripp shared, which Layne reckoned was another item for a future agenda for breakfast conversation.

Unfortunately, this all became evident in the second quarter when Cosgrove’s son went off the field for a play, he sent Tripp in and then Cosgrove called a passing play. If he wanted his boy to shine, this was an asinine decision because Tripp was damned good but when he wasn’t on the field, their passing game was garbage. Even if another receiver was open, every long pass was thrown to Cosgrove’s son, who hadn’t caught a single toss and had even been intercepted twice. The only passes caught were short shots, nabbed and run by Jasper.

Therefore, when the ball was put in play, Tripp shot forward, got open within seconds and the quarterback, under some pressure, let fly. The ball was thrown high but Tripp jumped at least three feet in the air, arm extended to the maximum, tagged the pass, pulling the f**king thing down with his fingertips. He tucked the ball close, ducked his head, deflected two tackles and ran forty-three yards for a touchdown.

The crowd went berserk, every last one on the purple and white side, including Rocky standing in front of him. With her arms straight in the air, she jumped up and down on her fancy-ass boots, her ponytail swinging wildly right in his face, she was screaming her lungs out without even a freaking hint of the decorum a high school English Literature teacher should display at a school activity.