Not that he’d spent much time thinking about her. That—she—was ancient history. Once the shock of losing her had worn off, anger had kicked in. He’d welcomed it—until it had all but consumed him. Then…that’s when he’d hit rock bottom. Pulling himself together had meant shutting out destructive tendencies. Emmy, and the slew of emotions and thoughts she stirred up in him, had fallen into that category. After he’d learned his triggers and boxed them up tight, he’d closed that damn lid and never opened it again.
Until now… Well, this morning had been a surprise. More like a shock. A one-time fluke. Nothing more.
Her band, Three Kings, was probably doing some concert or something. Football wasn’t the only thing that happened at the stadium, he knew that. But in the six years he’d been playing for the Houston Roughnecks, he’d never ru
n into a single performer.
Of course, it would have to be Emmy.
Then again, he was normally in Houston. But their stadium was in the middle of some multimillion-dollar renovation, so the team would be spending most of the season here in Austin. His hometown. Emmy Lou King’s hometown.
“You coming in?” Aunt Mo’s voice jolted him back to the present.
He stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Your shoes out front?” Aunt Mo called out, the steady beat of her footsteps coming down the hall. The moment she saw him, she shook her head. “Look at you, Brock. Did you swim here? Go on, find something dry to wear before you catch pneumonia.”
“Not just worried about your floors after all?” He grinned.
She rolled her eyes and offered up her cheek. “Don’t you give me any sass, young man. You give me a kiss and get yourself changed for lunch.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He kissed her cheek, headed down the hall to his old room, and closed the door behind him.
“I made you some brisket to take home. And some meatloaf.” She was on the other side of his door. “I remember you said the boys liked my oatmeal cookies, so I made five dozen for you to share.”
He tugged off his wet clothes, shaking his head. “I’ll take them to training, Aunt Mo.” She was always baking things for the team; it was her way of “making sure those boys had some old-fashioned cooking to remind them of home.” That was Aunt Mo. As soon as training, preseason, and games dates were posted, she knew. Her large print calendar was marked up with a rainbow of permanent marker ink. Aunt Mo never missed one of his games. She was a die-hard football fan. No, she was his fan, and it meant the world to him.
“Good.” She paused. “And if there’s any left over, you can share with them Connie.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell Aunt Mo his agent was a vegan. And a health fanatic. He’d only ever seen Connie eat salad. Without dressing.
“Connie could use a cookie or two. She’s all skin and bones. You tell her to send Trish over here so I can teach her partner how to cook.”
“I’ll tell her.” He chuckled, tugging on some jeans, socks, and boots, and pulling on one of the starched button-up shirts hanging in his closet. He ran a hand through his hair and pulled the door open. “Better?”
“It is.” She hooked her arm through his. “Come on and eat. I’m guessing you didn’t have a proper breakfast?”
He’d told her most of his meals were prepared for him by his trainer—something she’d clicked her tongue over. But it took a hell of a lot of effort, and about nine thousand calories a day, to stay in peak shape. Being six five and almost three hundred pounds of muscle wasn’t easy. “I ate.” At six a.m., he’d consumed five eggs, oatmeal, wheat toast with peanut butter and honey, an apple, and a banana. At eight a.m., he’d eaten near as much. Six meals a day, every day. All a necessary part of his fitness regimen.
“Not enough, I’m sure.” Aunt Mo patted his forearm. “Sit yourself down and tell me what’s what.”
This was his Wednesday routine. Most Wednesdays, he’d fly his Cessna 350 from wherever he was to Austin, then make the drive to the family ranch. At eleven thirty sharp, Aunt Mo had lunch waiting. Some days, he brought some teammates along—and Aunt Mo loved that. She’d cluck over them all, remind them of their manners, make them clean their plates, and send them all off with a hug and invitation to come back anytime they liked. And since the team was in Austin for the time being, he suspected his teammates would be looking for an invitation sooner than later. That was Aunt Mo. When his mother had left them, it was Aunt Mo who had stepped up to take care of him and his father. She saw a need and she filled it, no questions asked.
“Anything new and exciting happening?” She started pulling serving dishes from the top oven and putting them on the hot pads placed all over her nice linen tablecloth. “I could use some excitement. Any word from the doctor?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.” The likelihood of him starting the season on the bench was pretty high. And it frustrated the hell out of him. But a torn ACL could be a career-ending injury so, as hard as it was, he’d follow the doctor’s orders.
“Well, now, that’s fine.” She was just as disappointed as he was—not that she’d let on.
“Things running smoothly out here?” After he’d signed his first contract, he’d spent a substantial portion on buying up the land surrounding his family’s three-hundred-acre ranch—adding another nine hundred acres. Aunt Mo considered it wasteful. Brock considered it a smart investment.
“Why wouldn’t they be?” she asked, frowning at him.
He grinned, shaking his head. Fair question, considering the crew he’d hired to manage the livestock and property knew what they were doing. Not to mention the two full-time security guards at the gate who also monitored the house and grounds at all times. Something else Aunt Mo didn’t approve of. He shrugged. “Making small talk.”
“When you should be eating.” She sighed.
He peered into one cast-iron skillet. “Roasted sweet potatoes.”