Page 71

“Ossifer, Imna hamm-red. Jush a lil’ tipsy.”

I sighed as I approached the park bench in front of the high school. Erick Schultz wasn’t tipsy, he was wasted. “How long have you been out here?”

He shrugged theatrically. “Don’t know. Missus kicked me t’da curb. I slept here ’cause I didna where to go.”

Troy growled angrily, adjusting the strap of the equipment bag on his shoulder. “I found him like this ten minutes ago. He wouldn’t move, so I called the station. I don’t want the kids walking around the drunk on their way to their lockers. It’s too late for that, though.”

Wood Hollow’s head football coach was usually an easygoing, gregarious guy, but Erick had really pissed him off.

Sidenote: Troy was six three with dark-blond hair, deep-blue eyes, an athletic build, and had been blessed with the patience required to deal with hormonal teens on a football field. He was also exceedingly handsome—and he was a good friend of mine.

We’d met almost a decade ago when he’d first arrived in Wood Hollow to take over the Hornets’ illustrious program, which had been in a slump at the time. See, the one thing everyone in Wood Hollow had always agreed upon was that winning mattered and losing sucked.

Those of us who’d grown up here had hardly noticed the derelict state of our town, but we sure noticed the Hornets’ steady decline and lack of championship banners. Sure, our roads had been chockful of potholes, tree roots had made mincemeat of the sidewalks, and several storefronts on Main Street had cracked windows, crooked signs, or were just plain vacant. But the city had made it a priority to bring on a football coach worth a damn after a dismal five-year slump. Go figure.

We’d pinned our hopes on a hotshot former college star from Michigan State, and hallelujah, the payoff came through.

The Hornets were once again a winning machine, churning out talent that collegiate powerhouses were chomping at the bit to sign to their programs. Our last batch of star athletes had gone on to play for USC, Stanford, Michigan, Texas, and Purdue. That was a big deal. And the town rightfully acknowledged that we had Troy to thank for the turnaround.

It didn’t hurt that new ownership of the mill had coincided with Troy’s arrival, transforming Wood Hollow into an unlikely tourist destination.

Main Street had an idyllic charm now. The road had been widened, the trees trimmed, sidewalks repaved, planters filled with seasonal flowers. There were picturesque benches, and the businesses were flourishing. And thanks to some savvy advertising and some social media influencers who’d fallen in love with Dexter’s Donuts, the lattes at Rise and Grind, and Clancy’s pancakes at Log Cabin Diner, we’d become a tourist destination.

Of course, we were still a blue-collar mill town. It was just that our standards were a little higher nowadays, and Wood Hollow didn’t tolerate middle-aged men sleeping one off in front of the high school. Troy was right to be annoyed.

Besides, this was the third time in two weeks someone had taken a drunk-and-disorderly report on Schultz. I radioed the station and told Nancy I was on site, so there was no need to send an officer out.

“C’mon, Erick. It’s time to go home,” I cajoled, reaching for his arm.

Erick grunted, shoving me away. “Fuck you, La Rue. You think you’re sh-special, but yur not. Betcha can’t catch for shit anymore.”

“You’re probably right.” I passed the pastry bag in my hand to Troy, wrestled Erick to his feet, and pushed him toward the police SUV parked at the curb. “Let’s go. Your ride’s here. You can sleep it off in a cell.”

“Wait. Wait. Don’t ’rest me, man. We’re buddies. I’m cool with you. I didn’t say nothin’ ’bout your dad yellin’ at street signs. I seen your old man yesterday, and he was actin’ crazy, but I didn’t say a word to⁠—”

I shoved him a little harder than necessary into the cruiser and slammed the door, my skin prickling with unease.

Of course, we had an audience: teenagers walking to school, their parents dropping them off, and the football coach on the sidewalk holding the pastry bag I’d brought for my son. It took the patience of a damn saint not to lash out and demand to know what the fuck they were staring at.

I kept my cool, blocking out the whispers and chatter as if it were no big deal. I pointed at the pastry bag.

“Would you mind giving that to Rhys for me? It’s a special request muffin. He’s with his mom this week, but he knows my latte schedule.” I cleared my throat awkwardly and stepped aside, anxious to get away.

“No problem.” Troy shook the pastry bag, his voice sympathetic as he added, “Um, I’m sorry about that. Erick is⁠—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I interrupted.

“Okay. Hey…pre-Halloween party is at my place this weekend,” he called out. “Viggo and Dex’s baby is due any second now, so they won’t be there, but the rest of the usuals will be. And their kids.”

I waved in acknowledgment but didn’t look back.

Christ, my dad would have been fucking mortified to know the town drunk had something to say about his state of mind. To know the people he’d served thought of him as a nutty old man. Or worse…felt sorry for him. I supposed there was solace in knowing it wouldn’t mean a thing to him now.

But it hurt. I felt like the keeper of his memory. An unwitting scribe in charge of preserving my father’s truth…and I was failing. Miserably.

Sadly, the day didn’t get better.

Jed made a special stop at the station that afternoon to ask how well I knew the mountain man. That was after Erick had puked in the cruiser on the way to the station and after his wife had screamed about the audacity of the police arresting upstanding citizens. It was also after Pinecrest’s mayor had called with a beef about the lack of response to his bi-monthly complaint about woodpeckers infiltrating their woods.