Old Fashioned - Becker Brothers

“I see the Becker brothers haven’t grown up a bit,” Sydney commented.

“We have too big of a reputation to live up to for all that.”

She chuckled. “It does look like they’re settling down, though. Bet that feels kind of weird, huh?”

I followed Sydney’s gaze to where Noah and Logan were leading their significant others up the bleacher steps. Noah held Ruby Grace’s hand — the hand that donned an engagement ring, and in just a few months would have a wedding band on it, too. Logan had his arm around Mallory, holding her at the hip, as if he was afraid she’d tumble backward down the steps if he let her go. I had a feeling it was the growing bump of a belly she had that made him so protective.

And though he wasn’t there that night, I knew my youngest brother, Mikey, was building a new life with Kylie in New York City in that very moment, too.

“Yeah, I guess it is a little,” I admitted, voice soft as I watched them. “But, they’re happy. That’s all that matters to me.”

A longing for something unattainable sent an ache through my chest, and the way Sydney’s eyebrows tugged together where she watched me, I was afraid she’d somehow seen it.

“What about you?” I asked, turning the attention away from me. “You have family here?”

Her eyes shot somewhere behind me, but then she pulled them back to the players on the field. “Yeah.”

It was all she said — no explanation of who or where. But when I glanced over my shoulder, I didn’t need another word. My eyes connected with our Chief of Police — Randall Kelly — who stood at the far edge of the bottom bleacher.

And their daughter stood next to him, her eyes wide with glee as she watched the field.

Randy didn’t look as pleased. He wore a permanent frown, and his uniform, the black threads over bullet-proof vest and shiny gold badge over his heart giving him an air of arrogance and power. He watched me as if I had somehow offended him, so I offered a nod in acknowledgement.

He didn’t nod back.

My brothers and I had our shares of run-ins with the law in this town — mostly over stupid bar fights or fights between ourselves. We were a rowdy crew, I’d admit that, but I’d never had Randy stare at me like that before.

Behind me, a whistle blew, and the sideline flooded with everyone but our team captain, who was already jogging to the fifty-yard line for the coin toss.

With one last glance at the town that came to watch us, I jogged out, too.

The coin was flipped.

And the game began.Three minutes before the end of the third quarter and our team down by three, my star running back limped off the field with what looked like a hamstring injury after a long run.

My heart tripled its pace as he hobbled in, and I sent in our backup for the next play. There wasn’t enough time on the clock to assess his damage before the next play would take place. I nodded to Coach Pascucci, my assistant, letting him know to take over as I rushed to where Sydney was already bent over our player.

“Where’d you feel the pull?” she asked as I bent down next to her. She ran her hand along the hamstring of his left leg, which was in a bent position, cleat planted on the grass. “Here?”

He shook his head, swallowing as he reached down with his own hand and brushed the inside of his thigh.

As in, his fucking groin.

“I think it’s more… here,” he said, and his eyes flicked to mine before he laid back again, closing them altogether in a wince of pain.

I narrowed my gaze, standing again with a shake of my head. “Parker, get your ass up and get ready to go back on that field.”

His shoulders deflated as he looked up at me, but before he could speak, Sydney’s head whipped around, her eyes on me like lasers.

“Excuse me?” she hissed. “He will do no such thing, not until I properly assess the injury in the locker room.”

“He’s fine,” I growled, barely glancing at her before I was barking at him again. “Parker. Up. Now.”

“Do not move a muscle,” Sydney said to him through her teeth, then she stood, jutting her chin up to face me. “I’m taking him back to do a full examination. If he’s fine, I’ll—”

“He is fine,” I snapped. “He’s being a smart ass and faking it to get time on your table. And he will pay for it in practice,” I added, glaring down at a shrinking Parker.

“How do you know he’s faking it?” she challenged. “It could be serious. It could be a strain or a stress fracture or—”

“You’re kidding, right?” I folded my arms as I assessed her. “He limped off the field in a way that indicated a hamstring injury, now he’s pointing to his groin.” I blinked. “His groin, Sydney.”