Intercepted (New Hope #1)

CHAPTER THREE

Mason

She didn't kick me out, so that's a plus.

It's not that I can't afford a hotel. I could even buy another house in New Hope, but I'd rather stay near Mallory and the kids.

I've been on a yacht for nearly seven months, indulging in everything I kept at arm's length while playing football. My body was a machine, a work horse, and I treated it as such. I trained, I ate seven meals a day, I drank gallons of water and whey protein shakes, I studied plays and ran through films.

Fifteen years of treating my body like a temple was followed by months of bingeing alcohol, drugs, and women. I woke up one morning, a warm mouth wrapped around my flaccid cock, my head spinning, and realized I was depressed. Without football, I'm lost. I didn't find enjoyment in anything, so I needed to trace my steps back. And when I did that, I found myself in Mallory Robinson's kitchen, interrupting her before she got to second base with the new guy in town.

That's the only reason she went after him, by the way. No one else in New Hope will go near Mallory with a ten-foot pole. David was the only guy who dared, and now he's dead. I'm not saying that like I had anything to do with his murder. Jesus, I'm not a psycho. No, David was a good cop, he just wasn't wearing his bulletproof vest that night. He was once my best friend. I'm not happy he died—that would make me a worse man than I already am—but I like knowing Mallory is single.

I get out my rental car, looking at the faded brick entryway of Pemberton Academy. It's a Victorian-style building, complete with flying buttresses and wrought-iron windows. The hallways are lined with lacquered wood, the floors a polished stone. Marble statues sit at the ends of bannisters, staring at the miniature WASPs in the making, their eyes hollow and unfeeling.

At least, that's how I remember it.

Grace isn't waiting out front, so I take the gravel path around the building toward the athletic fields. Earlier today, Mallory looked flustered while getting ready for work. She had to teach a class, but Grace's girlfriend Devon is sick, so our daughter didn't have a ride home. I offered to pick her up. Mallory hesitated, then relented with a thank you and a roll of her eyes.

It's only been two nights, but the household dances around me like I'm an elephant in the room, covered with a white sheet. I get it. They don't know why I'm here, and honestly, neither do I. But I'm fucking here, and I'll drive my kids to and from school if it'll help Mallory.

The sound of shoulder pads hitting runners is music to my ears. I step onto the sidelines, pulling a baseball cap over my head. I may not know my children very well, but I know my son is number twelve. He's an incredibly talented wide receiver. Unbeknownst to my family, his coach sends me his films. I've seen the kid make seventy-yard sprints, juking and jumping over defensive linesmen without breaking a sweat.

They're practicing a familiar play. The center hikes to the quarterback, but my eyes are on Aidan. He runs his tree, breaking free from his mark at the last minute. The quarterback finds him, snapping the ball straight into his hands. Aidan completes his run, stepping out of bounds before the tackle.

I grin, clapping along with a few other die-hard parents.

"Is that Mason Reeves?" someone shouts.

Ah, fuck.

Within seconds, I'm surrounded by kids wearing red pennies and football moms patting down their chemically-straightened hair. The cheerleading squad halts their practice as well. Girls with tassels on their sneakers jog over to join the commotion.

People shove markers into my face, accompanied with various objects—a foam football, a Rick and Morty notebook, an iPhone case—for me to sign. Questions are hurtled at me, but most of the parents quiet their children, telling them it's rude to pry. I recognize a few faces, but the adults are far older than me. I was a child when I had the twins, after all. Mallory and I are probably the youngest parents at Pemberton Academy.