Redeeming: Part 1 – Chapter 3

Cooper What time are you heading over to Dad’s today? I’ll meet you there.

—Text from Cooper to Callen.

Cooper stands, leaning against his big ass SUV—his thick arms shoved into the pockets of a pair of cargo shorts, and aviators pulled low, hiding his eyes—when I pull into Dad’s driveway a few hours later. He looks fucking exhausted. I guess that’s what happens when you have three eighteen-year-olds at home. You probably never stop worrying long enough to sleep.

“What the hell, man?” I ask as I walk up to him. “Worried I was gonna ignore Dad’s summons?” Coop smiles and pulls his glasses down to wink at me. Fucker. “Dude, I don’t need another Declan, okay?”

Cooper and I have always had an easier relationship than what I have with Murphy, Declan, or Brady. I think it’s because football isn’t the god Coop bows down to the same way my other brothers and brother-in-law do. He probably could have gone pro if he wanted to, but he only ever wanted to be a Navy SEAL. Well, that and to marry Carys. Yeah. Family is so fucked up.

Being good at football and football being your life are two completely different things.

Some guys live to play. Some play to live. I play to play.

“Nah, kid.” He throws an arm around my shoulder and rubs his knuckles over my head until I shove him off me. “Not my style. Just wanted to spend time with my baby brother.”

I eye him warily. “I just spent a week with all of you at the beach last month.”

We knock three times and call out as we walk in, just to be safe. It’s an unwritten rule you never walk into Mom and Dad’s house unannounced. Not since Murphy walked in on Mom and Dad half-naked on the kitchen table. The one they’ve refused to replace. My asshole siblings like to say that’s where I was conceived. Isn’t family fun?

“Hi, boys,” Mom calls out from the kitchen. She moves around the island in the center of the room and cups my cheeks in her hand. “You look thin, Callen. Are you hungry?”

I’m six feet six and two hundred and fifty pounds.

No one has ever told me I look thin.

“I’m good.” I drop a kiss on her cheek, and my stomach growls from the delicious scent of rosemary sourdough bread sitting on cooling racks stacked on the counter. Mom took up bread baking during the pandemic and is very proud of her sourdough starter.

This room has always been the heart of the entire house, but today, it’s quiet. “Where’s everyone else?”

“I think Dad’s in his office. Declan and Murphy are coming over later tonight. Nattie and Brady were already here,” she tells us with a sad smile.

“Come on, kid brother.” Coop slaps my back.

Everything about this feels off. Stilted. Like someone’s trying to force a round peg in a square hole. Like I’m the only one not in on a secret. “You guys want to fill me in on what the hell is going on?”

Like is Dad finally ready to retire?

I keep my thoughts to myself because I’ve got mixed emotions about the whole thing, even if I’ve been expecting it for a while. There’s something about playing for your father. A different level of pressure put on you by everyone. But none of that has ever bothered me the way playing for Dad bothered Declan. Maybe because I grew up wanting to be Dec and knowing in my bones one day, I’d play for my father.

The press had a field day with it when I was drafted, but I ignored them.

It’s easy to do when you’ve been trained to deal with them your entire life.

Coop knocks on Dad’s office door before he pushes through.

Dad sits behind his desk with game tape playing on the TV hanging on the other side of the room. He seems as tired as Coop as he takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. “Hey, guys.” He looks between Cooper and me and nods as if agreeing to something. Or maybe bracing for impact. “Are you hungry? I think your mother is making lunch.”

“Not really . . .” I trail off, my stomach no longer interested in food.

Nothing about this feels right.

“How about you have a seat, son.” Dad motions to the couches in the corner of the room.

“Could someone please tell me what the hell is going on? Are you retiring, Dad?” I ask, refusing to move. The energy around us is wrong. It’s heavy . . . broken. Every instinct in me is suddenly braced for a fight.

Dad stands across from me, not answering.

Cooper grips my shoulder, and my world falls out from under me.

“You’re not retiring, are you?”

A small sniffle slips past Mom’s lips as she moves into the room, next to Dad. A united front, as always.

I hadn’t even realized she’d followed us in.

“Callen—” Dad stops abruptly. “I am retiring. I’ll be around to help Declan with the transition this season, but the team is his. It’s already been decided with the Kingstons.”

I grip the chair for balance, not a fucking doubt in my mind that isn’t the bomb he’s dropping. That was just the warning shot.

“Why are you retiring, Dad?” Unwelcome anger courses through my veins like it always does when I’m preparing for a fight on the field. A fight for the ball. For the play. For the win. If you’re not fighting for it, you don’t want it bad enough. And this . . . this right here feels like the worst kind of fight. The kind you don’t ever recover from. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Dad’s eyes close as he presses his lips to Mom’s forehead before he looks at me and Cooper. “I’ve got cancer, son.”

Caitlin Some people stress clean.

Others stress eat.

I stress bake.

That’s what happens when you grow up with a baker as a mother. I rarely crave sweets. Coffee—yes. Sweets . . . not so much. But something about the act of baking. The formulas in the recipes that need to be followed precisely . . . Most I know by heart. The familiar movements I could go through with my eyes closed. The memories of sitting on Mom’s counter with my hands in cookie dough while she iced cupcakes. The whole thing calms my mind when nothing else will.

I guess that’s why my kitchen looks like something out of the Great British Bakeoff when my phone vibrates. Where is it? It’s not hard to find when I see the trail of flour moving next to my glass canister.

Bellamy Are you up and showered?

Caitlin Are you my mother?

Bellamy I mean . . . your dad is a total DILF, so there are worse women to be.

Caitlin I hate you.

Bellamy You love me. Now get showered, get dressed, and get your shit together. I’m about to go into surgery and just wanted to check on you. You gonna be okay?

Caitlin When am I ever NOT okay?

Bellamy Last night?

Caitlin Twat waffle.

Bellamy I prefer French toast.

I look around at my mess and decide maybe I should have made French toast instead of chocolate chip cookies. Hmm . . . there’s still time.

Caitlin I’m okay. I’ve already taken the dogs for a run and showered, and now I’m eating a perfectly healthy dinner.

Bellamy The dogs don’t run, and neither do you. And you wouldn’t know a perfectly healthy dinner if it smacked you in your face. You’re baking, aren’t you?

Caitlin Whatever. I’ve showered and gotten dressed. That’s as good as it’s getting today.

Bellamy Triple chocolate fudge cake?

Caitlin Ha! No. Chocolate chip cookies.

Bellamy Now who’s the twat? You should have made them yesterday so I could have one.

Caitlin You shouldn’t have left me.

Bellamy Tits up, you spicy little burrito. You’ve got this. Take the problem by the balls and yank.

Caitlin You’ve got to stop with the Instagram reels. They’re warping your brain.

Bellamy Whatever. You like them too. They’re funny.

Apologize to him, Cait. Let me know how it goes.

Caitlin Tell Momma Wilder I said hi when you get to Maine tomorrow.

I shove my phone into my shorts pocket and look around at my mess.

Maybe rage cleaning would have been more effective.

Meatball pops his head up from where he’s been sleeping next to me for the past hour and stares at the door before I hear someone fumbling with the key, followed by a distinctly Callen curse. I guess it’s time to face the music.

I wait another minute, but unease washes over me when there’s still no Callen.

“Come on, Meatball.” I shove his chubby body off me and watch as he stretches into downward dog and slides off the couch in slow-motion, then trots over to the door where Cupcake is two steps ahead of him, already whimpering.

What the hell?

With my hand on the doorknob, I check the peephole, but there’s no one there.

Huh . . . Maybe he changed his mind and decided not to come home.

Great. I guess I screwed up so bad he doesn’t want to be alone with me.

Cupcake scratches at the door and whines, and Meatball sits his fat ass on my feet.

The needy little fucker is always like this whenever Maddox is gone.

“He’s not here,” I tell the dogs and try to kick Meatball off, but he’s a legit sixty-pound lump, and if he doesn’t want to move, he’s not moving. “Okay. Fine. I’ll check,” I growl, then roll my damn eyes because I am, in fact, arguing with a dog.

I crack the door, and it pushes all the way open as Callen’s big body falls backward into the foyer. “What the hell?”

Callen opens his glassy green eyes as he lies flat on the floor, confusion dancing in his dazed eyes. “Hey, kitten. What are you doing up there?”

“What the hell, Callen? Are you drunk?”

Meatball licks his face, and Callen licks him back.

Oh. My. God.

He lifts his hand and pinches his fingers together like he’s trying to show me an inch, but in reality his thumb and pointer are smooshed together. “Just a little bit. Wanna help me up?”

I look him over, trying to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to get him up before I grab his hand. This is never gonna work. “Come on, you big oaf. Let’s get you up.”

I tug, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he smiles a sloppy smile. “You know it would only take one pull, right?”

I kick his butt. Not hard. Even I’m not that mean, but seriously . . . what the hell?

“I just tried to pull, Sinclair. Your fat ass didn’t budge.” I yank my hand away, but he doesn’t let go.

“One pull and you’d be down here with me, kitten. One time. Just once.”

Holy shit.

Callen’s grip on me tightens. “It would be so easy to give in.”

Ummm . . . what?

This time when I kick him, it’s hard.

“Oww.” He wraps a hand around my ankle, and a shiver runs up my spine. “Kitten has claws. That wasn’t very nice, Caitie.”

“Jesus Christ, Callen.” I pull my leg away from him and yank my hand free. “Get up, and I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

In a move that shouldn’t be sexy but really . . . really is, Callen stands and somehow picks me up with him, then leans me against the wall. My breath catches in my throat as he strokes a hand over my hair. “That’s an urban legend.”

“What?” I ask, completely confused. What the hell is happening right now?

Callen drops my feet to the floor, then wobbles a little, and I grab the front of his shirt to steady him. “Coffee doesn’t sober up a drunk. It just gives you a wide-awake drunk.”

“I don’t think that’s what urban legend means, Sinclair.” That sloppy grin from moments ago turns wicked, and I can’t stop my body from taking notice. And based on the way Callen is looking at me, my reaction isn’t lost on him. “What’s going on, Callen? This isn’t like you.”

His smile vanishes, and he takes a step back out of reach, then turns away from me and walks away.

What the actual hell?

“Callen,” I call out and follow him down the hall and into his room, like one of the dogs. “What are you doing?”

He strips out of his shirt and tosses it on the bed. “I’m taking a shower. Wanna join me?”

I mean . . . the logical answer is yes. But yes isn’t an option. Not now.

What did he say this morning about taking advantage?

Concern creeps it’s way in . . . I’ve watched this man for years, and this isn’t like him.

“You gonna stand there gawking, kitten? Or are you gonna join me?”

He shoves his shorts down his legs, thankfully leaving his boxers on. But oh my, I now know why every woman in a fifty-mile radius wants to fuck Callen Sinclair. And his tight black boxers do very little to hide the very big reason. His shorts get tangled around his ankles, and I see it all happening in slow-motion before either of us hits the bed.

Callen stumbles, trying to step out of his shorts, and I reach for him, trying to steady him again. But this time, instead of staying put on his feet, he tumbles backward onto his bed, taking me with him, and I land with an oomph on his chest. And instead of either of us moving, we both lie frozen in place, holding our breath.

“You’re so damn beautiful, Caitlin,” he whispers as his fingers play with the long strands of my hair hitting his face, and I could cry. I’ve spent so many years wanting to hear those words from this man. But not like this. Not after last night and this morning.

Is this because of that?

Did I do this?

Without giving myself time to overthink it, I push up out of his arms. “All right, Romeo. No shower for you. I think it’s bedtime.”

I pull his shorts off his ankles, yank his comforter down, and move his legs under it. But it’s like trying to move dead weight. “Help me here, Sinclair.”

Callen blinks, and his eyes clear. “Stay with me, Cait.”

“What? You can’t be serious.” My heart cracks, and I want to scream.

Where has this Callen been for years, and why the hell does it only come out when one of us is drunk?

“It’s been a shit day.” He swallows, and his green eyes plead. “I don’t want to be alone.”

My hand shakes as I gently brush his hair away from his face.

Is it possible to love and hate someone equally?

Because this man is all I’ve ever wanted . . . but not like this.

Not when he doesn’t know what he’s doing or saying.

Not when he has no clue he’s breaking my heart.

“Just let me lock the condo up, okay?” I run my thumb along his brow, and he closes his eyes and relaxes. “I’ll come back after.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” I whisper back and know there’s no way I’m making him sleep alone tonight. I might not get a minute’s sleep, but I’ll be doing it right here.