Where we come to a stop.
An older woman with a sleek gray bob glares at us from our porch like we’re pissing on her favorite pair of slippers.
I step forward. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“I’d like to speak to Rider Kingston. Is that you?”
Something about this woman sends a jolt of anxiety through me. Maybe it’s her steely gaze or the rigidness of her shoulders, but whatever it is, it’s unnerving.
Tank clears his throat. “Can I ask what this is in reference to? You see, we get a lot of female fans offering their wares, looking to meet Mr. Kingston. I serve as a buffer to filter the riffraff.”
Offering their wares? Riffraff?
“Ignore him.” I shake my head. “He’s been reading his girlfriend’s Regency romance novels again.”
“They’re damn good, son.”
“I’m Rider,” I say hesitantly. “How can I help you?”
Those rheumy eyes take me in, starting at the top of my head and ending with my scuffed-up boots. Internally, I bristle at her judgment, which is as clear as our team’s neon scoreboard. It’s the way everyone in my hometown looks at me. Like I’m shit on the bottom of their shoes.
“You can bring me my great-granddaughter, Poppy.” She sniffs. “I’m prepared to fight for custody.”
That’s when my whole world tips over and comes crashing down.
53
RIDER
This is not going well.
Mrs. Hildebrand perches at the very edge of our couch. She’s about two minutes from clutching her pearls.
Surprisingly silent and motionless, Tank and Olly sit next to me. I figured it couldn’t hurt to have a couple of people on my side in case this woman starts making threats again. Tank messaged Bree, so she and Poppy are on the way over.
“You mean to tell me my granddaughter dropped off the baby in the middle of a frat party?” Mrs. Hildebrand screeches.
Andnow she’s clutching her pearls.
“We’re a football team, ma’am, not a fraternity,” I note as calmly as possible. Given that she came in here guns blazing with talk of trying to get custody ofmydaughter, I’d say I’m doing pretty damn well. I suppose all of that time in front of the media and doing interviews is keeping me from losing my shit. “She dropped Poppy offat the endof the party. It was pretty late. I was already asleep, and my roommates got me up when they found her.”
Mrs. Hildebrand shakes her head in disbelief. “I never should’ve left her alone.”
“Who? Your granddaughter?” When she reluctantly nods, I continue. “Can I ask where she went?” I swallow back the tacos that are doing their best to spew up my gullet. “Her name is Cricket, correct?”
Please, God, let her name be Cricket, or I’m about to look like the dumbest motherfucker who ever existed. Just the other day, Olly told me he remembered a few details from that weekend, and he seemed to think the woman who brought the brownies was named Cricket.
It’s either Cricket or Cicada, and I’m praying it’s not Cicada.
After a hard eye roll, Mrs. Hildebrand sighs. “That’s what her friends call her. She thought ‘Margot’ was too highbrow.”
Margot. I let out a breath. Finally, I have a name. “So… Margot…Hildebrand?”
Her head cocks to the side. “Do you really know nothing about my granddaughter, young man?”
Well.
I know that Cricket makes one hell of a drug-laced brownie that could knock out an elephant, but I’m thinking Grandma here doesn’t want to know that.
