Playbook (The Holland Brothers 2), page 1
PLAYBOOK
REBECCA JENSHAK
CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Rebecca Jenshak
About the Author
© 2024 by Rebecca Jenshak
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without written permission from the author.
Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
Rebecca Jenshak
www.rebeccajenshak.com
Cover Design by Lori Jackson Designs
Illustration by Sarah Jane
Editing by Margo Lipschultz
Proofreading by Sarah at All Encompassing Books and Rebecca at Fairest Reviews Editing Services
This is a work of fiction, created without use of AI technology. Any names, characters, places or incidents are products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental or fictional.
For Catherine.
Thank you for your friendship and for always being the best cheerleader. I’m sorry that there is no murder in this book, but at least the cover is pink!
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thank you for purchasing Playbook. I hope you will enjoy Brogan & London’s story.
Playbook utilizes American Sign Language throughout the story. ASL has its own syntax, grammar rules, and structure that is different from written and spoken English. There are varying thoughts on how to properly write sign language in fiction.
Most of the time my characters are signing and speaking at the same time. For those instances, I chose quote marks and italics. If the characters are not speaking as they sign, it is italicized only.
Additionally, I want to thank everyone who helped me in this process. I tried to write Archer with compassion and care, while remaining true to his journey. Any errors are mine and based on my experiences or those who I consulted with.
ONE
Ihold my breath and adjust the packages in my hand to avoid the stench. When that doesn’t work, I shuffle the red envelope that smells a lot like it was dipped in cheap perfume to the middle of the stack in the hopes of smothering the scent. I can’t tell if I’m successful because the terrible smell is burned into my nostrils.
The line for the mail counter is out the door of the main lobby area and growing. Before I had a PO Box, I was completely oblivious to just how busy this place gets. Don’t people know you can print postage at home now? Who would ever willingly stand in this line?
I guess me. But only because I need to talk to someone.
The room is filled with quiet whispers and heavy sighs. More than one person has commented on the smell as they’ve stepped up to the back of the line. The person directly behind me keeps inching backward, giving me a wide berth and shooting annoyed glances at me as they bury their nose in their shoulder.
I’m next up to be helped, thank god. I can’t wait to drop these packages and get outside to breathe in the fresh air.
“I can help the next person in line.” The woman behind the counter already sounds like she’s had a long day. They opened an hour ago.
Rushing forward, I set my mail on the counter. “Hi.”
She takes a step back and waves her hand. “I guess I don’t need to ask if you’re mailing any perfume today.”
I’m pretty sure that’s judgment on her face. I don’t blame her. I’m judging the person whose mail this is too. Which is not me.
“I don’t need to mail anything,” I explain. “I just wanted to talk to someone about my PO Box.”
Covering her nose with one hand, she moves tentatively back into position. It seems that is as much of an opening to continue as I’m going to get so I proceed.
“I am getting mail for whom I assume was the previous owner of the box.”
“We have a bin where you can place items for previous box owners in the back corner.” Her thin lips pull back in a sort of forced smile that doesn’t feel the least bit friendly, but more like she’s thrilled to move another person out of her line. “Next.”
“No, wait.” I glance back at the impatient person stepping toward me to take my spot and give them an apologetic smile, then back to the woman whose name tag reads, Beverly. “I have been doing that, but it’s a lot. It’s taking up my entire box. I actually talked to someone else last week and…”
Beverly doesn’t look like she wants to deal with my problems today, so I stop talking. I’m going through a bit of a pessimistic phase so sometimes my words don’t come out hopeful or cheery enough to win over friends and influence people. My roommate Alec calls me grumpy, but that’s just a fun word people like to use. I am perfectly sunshine-y under the right circumstances. They’ve just been few and far between lately.
I divvy up the mail into two stacks. Mail addressed to me—a couple of envelopes that look like junk mail and a package I’ve been expecting with the most amazing red shoes inside—and everything else. Then, I motion in front of the stack not for me. “This is just from the last two days.”
Today’s bounty includes a dozen envelopes, two bubble mailers, and a small box. All of them addressed to Brogan Six.
Beverly arches a brow and picks up the one on top. It’s a brown box, fairly small, and taped together with clear shipping tape stamped with little red hearts. It looks like it could be a Valentine’s Day present, if it weren’t August.
“I will take care of them,” she says with a sigh and a begrudging look in her eye. Who said customer service was dead?
“Thank you. And is there any way to stop future packages from being put into my box? I’m the only person on the contract so if they aren’t addressed to London Bennett, they aren’t mine.” I aim for a cheery tone, but I can tell I’m not winning any points with this woman by continuing to stand in her line and speak. No matter how friendly.
And I know it isn’t her fault that the previous owner forgot to forward his mail, but it doesn’t seem like that much to ask that the PO Box I pay for each month contains my mail.
In the two months I’ve had the box, it’s always contained more mail for Brogan than for me, but it’s gotten worse. This is the third time I’ve talked to someone. I’m sure they have bigger problems to solve, but it’s annoying. My box isn’t that large, so they put my packages in another box and leave the key in my small metal bin. It’s twice as much effort. And sure, that’s not really that big of a hassle, if the packages were actually for me.
They almost never are. And they’re odd. His name is written in neat, loopy feminine penmanship in red or pink pens, covered in lipstick kisses or spritzed with perfume. Brogan Six is either a teenager with several pen pals or is having a dozen relationships with women by snail mail. An old-fashioned love affair. It’s almost romantic. Except for the smell. I suppose if I were going to spray perfume on a love letter, I might be tempted to use my oldest, cheapest bottle. But now I know better. Only the expensive stuff for my future pen pal or nothing at all.
I have no idea when I might get to use that very important life lesson since the closest to a love letter I’ve written or received lately is the automated thank you for your order text I get every time I order DoorDash, but I’m tucking it away for the future.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Beverly says. It isn’t the “It won’t happen again” I hoped for, but it’s something. She places the packages for Brogan behind her and then uses hand sanitizer. Good idea, Bev.
I shove my mail in my purse and thank her. My fingers are crossed that I won’t be intercepting any more mail for my former box owner. How has he not realized he’s no longer getting his mail? Maybe he was separated and moved out of his house, hence the need for a PO Box. He found some women to fill the void while he tried to win back his wife, and then she finally took him back and he moved back in and forgot all about his harem of pen pals.
It’s a long shot, I know. My dad is in family law, so I know the statistics of married couples staying married. Or separating and then working it out. Still, I hold on to that image as I head to brunch with my sister.
I drive with the windows down, letting the hot air whip through my hair and remove the stench from the mail depot. Not a small sacrifice since it’s already over ninety degrees outside. We’ve reached peak Arizona summer when the only pleasant time to be outside is when the sun is down.
At the restaurant, the hostess leads me out to a back patio where, to my surprise, my parents, sister, and her boyfriend, Ben, and his parents are all already sitting.
Sierra stands and rushes to greet me. “Lo Lo.”
The familiar nickname she’s used since we were kids makes me smile.
“I thought it was just us,” I say, moving in to hug her. I wave at Ben over Sierra’s shoulder and then the parents.
“I’m sorry. Ben has been wanting to get both of our families together and it finally lined up where everyone was free. Don’t be mad.” Sierra wraps her arms around me tightly, and all the tension from the morning and the post office debacle melts away. Sierra is goodness and light, and hugs from her always make me feel better. Even when she blindsides me with a family get-together. I could never stay mad at her.
“Oh.” Sierra makes a choked sound and steps back. She scrunches up her nose. “New perfume?”
“What? No.” I drop my face to the front of my dress to sniff. I don’t smell anything. I mean, I can definitely still smell the perfume from the mail, but I thought it was just lingering in my nostrils—not on me.
My sister scrutinizes me carefully with amusement dancing in her blue eyes.
I groan. “I thought it would dissipate by now. You can really smell that?” I ask her, wondering how I’m going to de-stench myself. I don’t have any spare clothes in my back seat. Maybe another spin in my car? I’ll be soaked in sweat, which is arguably worse.
No, I take that back. This smell is horrid.
“Did you get accosted by the perfume spritzer at the mall?” Sierra moves another step away from me with a pained expression. Ben has moved from his seat to stand beside her and he wraps an arm around her waist, smiling at our interaction.
“I went to grab my mail before work,” I grumble as I fan myself.
She waits a beat for more of an explanation. “And they were what? Fumigating the place with Chanel No. 5?”
As if Chanel could ever smell like this. This is more like those knockoff fragrance mists in the makeup aisle at a department store. The AXE body spray of women’s scents. Only worse.
I reach into my purse for my makeup wipes. Maybe I can rub it off my skin.
“It’s a long story and I’m starving.” I start to move toward the table to take a seat, but my sweet little sister steps in front of me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, laughing and glancing at Ben. “I don’t stink that bad.”
Okay, maybe I do, but I’m too hungry to care.
“I need to tell you something.” Sierra tips her head down, looking guilty.
“You mean something other than you turned our monthly brunch into a family get-together?” I smile at her. “It’s fine, but if Mom and Dad start lecturing me about my job or ask when I’m going to ‘find a nice boy like Ben,’ I’m telling them about the time you snuck out and stole Dad’s car when you were fifteen.”
Her jaw drops. “You wouldn’t?!”
No, I probably wouldn’t, but I feel better just bringing it up.
Sierra is two years younger than me. I’m supposed to be the responsible one, the role model, leading by example and all that but I’m more like the cautionary tale to her happily ever after. She always had better grades and did better at sports and got along better with our parents. She didn’t even have a bad hair phase in middle school.
She and Ben have been dating for over a year and she just started law school while nannying on the side. She’s this wonderful, incredibly responsible, smart, twenty-two-year-old, following in our father’s footsteps.
She’s annoyingly perfect. I adore her more than anyone in the world though so it’s hard to hold it against her.
“I need a cocktail.” I sigh.
“On it.” Ben turns toward the bar.
Sierra gives me another smile steeped in nerves.
“I’m fine,” I assure her.
“Okay, but you might not be when I tell you the rest.”
“The rest of what?” I feel my brows pinch together and the start of a headache.
“Ben’s family is here.”
“I can see that.” I smile at her, then look past my sister to where Ben’s parents are sitting side-by-side at the table. A little closer than most couples and smiling more. They always look so in love. “I like Ben’s parents,” I tell her. “It’s fine. Really. I promise to go easy on the bottomless mimosas.”
“Not just his parents,” she says slowly.
It takes my muddled brain a moment for her words to sink in.
“Who else is joining—” My question is cut off when a familiar dark head steps up behind my sister.
Sierra glances back at him, then whispers to me, “Please be nice.”
White-hot anger spreads through me as I come face-to-face with my ex-boyfriend for the first time in two years.
“Hey, Lo.” He puts one hand in his pocket and keeps a foot of distance between us, but it still feels too close. He’s in a black dress shirt and pants like he’s heading to the office instead of brunch in the scorching heat. Always immaculately put together no matter the cost. I forgot that about him—or at least pushed it from my mind.
“Chris.” I force his name between gritted teeth.
Ben steps forward and thrusts a glass of something in my hand. I down it quickly. Champagne. It feels all wrong for this moment. I glance quickly at the table and all eyes are on us. Our parents have the decency to look away, but Sierra and Ben keep staring with anxious, hopeful expressions.
“I’m going to head to the bar and grab another drink,” I say to no one in particular.
I breathe a sigh of relief after I slump onto a bar stool and order a Bloody Mary, but it’s short-lived when Chris comes to stand in the spot next to me and sets his phone down on the bar like he’s planning on staying awhile.
When my drink comes, he hands his card over to the bartender to pay for it and asks for the same thing.
“Thanks,” I say begrudgingly, then as dryly as possible add, “This totally makes up for the last time I saw you.”
In bed with another woman.
As only Chris can do, he ignores my remark and leans against the bar. Cool and casual. “So, how’ve you been?”
I want to roll my eyes at his question. How have I been? Like we’re old friends catching up instead of exes who vowed never to speak to one another again. Or I vowed it anyway.
“Well, I was fine until you crashed my favorite Saturday of the month,” I say with fake cheer. No sense in pretending like I’m happy to see him. He knows I’m not.
He cranes his neck around and a look of disgust crosses his face before he rears back. “Oh, wow. Someone here smells like they bathed in bad cologne.”
My cheeks heat. Perfect. The first time I see the lying, cheating spawn of Satan, I smell and have windblown hair. Not that it matters. I don’t have any dream scenarios that include him seeing me and wishing he hadn’t let me get away.
“Oh shit,” he says, reading the embarrassment on my face. “Is that you?”
His lips quirk up in amusement.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, teeth gritted.
“Ben asked me to be here,” he says by way of explanation. For all his terrible qualities, I know he’s good to Ben, so that’s something.
While I’m debating on what to say or do—tossing my drink at him would just waste a perfectly good Bloody Mary—Chris tries to engage again.
“So who is the guy?” he asks.
“The guy?” He’s not making any sense, and I’m seconds from telling him to get lost, but then I spot Sierra out of the corner of my eye. I can manage a civil conversation for her. Just this once.
“You only ever wore perfume at the beginning of our relationship. Kind of like dressing up or making any effort at all with your appearance.” The way he says it all so even-toned, like that’s not the most asshole thing he’s said (and he’s said a lot of asshole things), is truly mind-blowing.
