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So instead, I call the guy who has been my best friend since high school.
He picks up right away. “Grayson Nash. To what do I owe the pleasure of an actual phone call?”
“Beckett Maxwell,” I say even though nobody calls Beck Beckett except for his mother…and me. “I’ve been a bit remiss in my correspondence. Fucking sue me. I’ve been a little busy playing football.”
He laughs. “Didn’t you choke in the playoffs like two months ago?”
I sigh as I think back to the game that ended our season too soon. “I wouldn’t call it choking, exactly, but I suppose the season has been over somewhere in the neighborhood of two months.”
“Two months and this is the first call,” he mutters. “You must have big news.”
“I’m moving to Vegas,” I say.
“You decided to hang it up?” he guesses.
“Nope. I decided to sign with the Aces for a year and see how things play out.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Congratulations, man. You mentioned you were leaning that way once Lincoln ended up there. You’ll be playing with Asher, too?”
“His suspension will be over by the start of next season, so yeah. A Nash will be on one side or the other when the ball is snapped every play.” I take another swig from my bottle.
“Now you just have to get Spencer over to the Aces, and the Nash brothers will be running that city.”
“Ah, Spence is soft, Linc’s married, and Asher doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. I’ll be the one running it.” My voice is firm, though I can’t argue that it would be fun having all three Nash brothers playing for the team the eldest brother is coaching.
“Do me a favor out there since you’ll be the King of Vegas, okay?” he asks.
“Anything for my oldest friend.”
He chuckles. “By oldest, I know you mean the length of friendship as opposed to my age.”
“Well, you are nearly an entire year older than me,” I point out. “Now come out with it. What’s the favor?”
“My little sister is in Vegas. Keep an eye out for her, would you?”
“Your little sister is in Vegas?” I ask. The last time I saw little Ava Maxwell, she was probably fifteen years old and she wore braces, blue eye shadow, and cat sweaters. “Isn’t she like fifteen?”
“She graduated from UNLV three years ago, Gray. She’s twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five?” I practically spit. I didn’t realize she was only seven years younger than us. When I was twenty-two, fifteen felt a hell of a lot further away than twenty-five to thirty-two sounds. “Jesus. When’d we get so goddamn old?”
“Speak for yourself, man.”
I laugh, though the truth is I feel older and older every time I step out onto the field. Wednesdays are getting tougher and tougher since they’re sort of like Mondays for players. The aches and pains are more intense than they used to be. I’m partaking in more massages and more ice baths than ever.
At first I pretended like it wasn’t because of my age. As I look ahead to the next season, I see myself getting more excited about being on a new team, being in Vegas, and playing with my brothers than I am about actually getting into my gear and guarding wide receivers all season.
I shake off the thought. “You got it. I’ll check in on her.”
“No funny business. You know I’ll kick your ass.”
I laugh as I think back to braces, blue eye shadow, and cat sweaters—and the threat from a guy with a dad bod versus a guy who plays in the NFL. But he’s right. I do know how protective he is of his younger sister, especially since he had to step in and take responsibility for her once they lost their father back when we were sophomores in high school.
“No worries,” I finally say, cringing at the mere thought of hooking up with my best friend’s baby sister.
Chapter 2: Ava Maxwell
Food Network and Doritos
