Layton

LAYTON HADLEY FINN No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of fiction. Any likeness to real people, organizations, or events is purely coincidental. The Texas Hill Country and its amazing people are real and should be celebrated. They are merely the backgrounds for these figments of my imagination to wander. Copyright 2023 Hadley Finn All rights reserved LAYTON The Rangers, Book 4 Hadley Finn CONTENTS Author’s Note Dedication 1. Watch Me, Pixie-bitch 2. Swagger and Self-love 3. Definitely One Who Wants to Play 4. Horse Shit Decorated in Butterflies 5. Rico, the Albino Pool Boy 6. I’m Fucking Lost 7. Human Origami 8. Flamingos and Moonbeams 9. Clampetts Come to Town 10. A Wink and a Grin 11. Brutal Beauty 12. It’s Just the Le Tigre in Me 13. Ruinous 14. Dusted in Fuzz and Crumbs 15. Zero Shits 16. Past Tense 17. Science Experiment 18. Flaming Hoops to Jump Through 19. Symphony of Anguish 20. Limp Fish 21. VIP List 22. Mom Would’ve Kicked My Ass 23. Satan’s Road Trip 24. Bang and Bounce 25. Rock Bottom 26. Hard Not to Love the Sox 27. Carte Blanche 28. Inextricably Linked 29. Ice Bath for His Balls 30. Very Rivendell 31. Definitely a Ranger 32. Aural Xanax 33. Thick, Chunky Soup 34. Forfeited 35. I’m Safe 36. Poles on Magnets 37. Implodes 38. Bibbi 39. Crystal 40. Things You Never Ask 41. Yoga Rodeo 42. In the Trenches 43. You’ve Been Warned 44. Squeaky Cheese 45. The Material I’m Working With 46. Confession Time 47. A Fucking Lot 48. Complete Sentences, Caveman 49. Brutal Pleasure 50. Best. Blow. Job. Ever. 51. I Love Atlanta 52. Prince Tribute Band Tell Me A Secret Also by Hadley Finn Acknowledgments About the Author AUTHOR’S NOTE Families come in all shapes and sizes. Families of origin to found families… we all need our people. I believe families don’t have to be mom, dad, and two-point-five kids, even if it’s most of what I write. If infertility is a sensitive subject for you, this book may not be best for you right now. If the inability to have natural born children is on your heart and mind, making you weary, skip this story for now. It’s all about family. As I am. And as my family, I don’t want you hurting. Hadley DEDICATION For Kelli and Jenna To old friends and new ones To bad-ass women who support other women To women who believe in strong minds, strong bodies, and strong hearts To watching your businesses thrive because you’re wholehearted and amazing Thank you for bringing Livy so clearly to life And for George Your encouragement means more than you could know Thank you I hope you love your alter ego and his struggle with the Prince Tribute Band ONE WATCH ME, PIXIE-BITCH LAYTON “Don’t laugh, asshole.” “You know I’m gonna. Former rookie of the year can’t stand on his own two feet.” Our center taunts me from his mat next to mine. “I can outrun you.” “But you can’t stand up,” Marshall continues, a little too loudly. He isn’t the picture of grace, but he’s in the pose. A smile splits his face watching me struggle. “Gentlemen.” The admonishment comes from the pixie at the front of the room as she folds into some unnatural shape. “Focus on your core and breathe through the movement. Good. Now let’s move into warrior pose.” We do, fighting laughter as we twist into another shape. “What’s next? Ballet? Maybe the cheerleaders can walk us through dance moves,” I offer. “It would be easier than this shit,” says the voice from my other side. “You’re not lying,” Mattis, our defensive tackle, whispers to Carlson. Only it’s not a whisper. “Gentlemen, show some respect to me and the other participants in the class. If you can’t, you’re free to leave.” Carlson and I, as if we choreographed our moves, step aside, bend to roll our mats, and move for the door. Just as we hit the exit, she says, “I’m sorry to see you’re too weak to participate. I’ll meet you both this afternoon in PT. I’ll text your appointment times and notify the coach that your bodies aren’t up for this.” Say what? I turn and stare, slack-jawed. She just threw down the gauntlet in front of my whole team. I look at our kicker and walk back into class to the back of the room as he slides out the door. I sling my stupid purple yoga mat to the floor and climb on to imitate the instructor. There is no way I cannot create her pose. I’m an elite athlete. First-round draft pick. Freaking NFL rookie of the year, though it’s been seven years now. My body has been honed through decades of two-a-days, workouts, sprints, and weight training. On-season and off, I work my ass off for this body. Without it, I have no job. No income. I need it in peak shape, or I don’t have the life I love. I could shovel horse shit like my family, but that’s not my thing. It never has been. My body takes me to the end zone and when I get there, I feel the absolute fucking thrill of elation. I was made to run. I get paid to run. If they want to pay me to contort into a pretzel, so be it. But no one will tell my coach that my body can’t handle something. Bench presses. Leg presses. Three-hundred-pound tackles into turf-covered concrete. Ice baths. Sprains, strains, and breaks. Contusions. Road rash. Fucking concussion protocols. My body can do anything. I tell myself this over and over as I wobble on one leg, one bare foot resting on my chiseled calf. “Deep breaths and lean forward,” the pixie says. Lean, my ass. If I lean,