She nodded, gaze still tracking over the exterior façade. “Right.”
“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to help with that.”
It took a moment for the sentence to land. She started to nod, and then her eyes widened, and her gaze snapped to his face. Her throat jumped as she swallowed. “Really?” Cautious, doubtful, wanting to be pleased.
He reached into his cut pocket and offered her what he’d just picked up on the ride over. The nametag.
It was just a bit of plastic with a pin on the back. But on the front, engraved in sleek caps, wasJASMINE. And, under it,Manager.
“If you’re up for it,” he said, suppressing a smile.
“I…” She sucked in a breath. Pressed one shaking hand to her mouth, and reached slowly toward the tag with the other. She hesitated, manicured nails hovering over his palm. Her gaze darted up. “Really?” she whispered.
“Really. A bar needs a manager, right?”
“I…” For a moment, he thought she’d cry, and he wasn’t equipped to deal with that – shot a glance toward Walsh who only smirked at him. But then she took a deep breath, gathered herself, and picked up the tag. Curled her hand tight around it, knuckles white, like she was afraid he’d take it back. “I…thank you. Oh my God. Thank you. You won’t regret it. I won’t let you down.”
“I didn’t figure you would.”
She squealed, and threw her arms around his neck.
“Oh. Um. You’re welcome.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, and Walsh grinned.
~*~
He still dreamed of it: more often than he’d like to. The field. Sometimes the bright green and the low bleachers of Knoxville High; the scent of popcorn and hot dogs, and the stink of sweat, his uniformed brothers all around him. The blurred faces of students, and parents, and girlfriends. The taste of youth, and success, and hope. That magic hope – that wild, crazy confidence that scholarships awaited. Contracts. Money, and fame, and notoriety, and a spot behind an ESPN desk one day, retired at thirty, sitting on piles of cash, and proud, so proud of what he’d accomplished. No more tumbledown house; no more of Dad’s hand against the side of his head.
He dreamed of the next step, too. Of Kyle Field. Of the tens of thousands; the screaming, the blur of swinging towels, the boom and crackle of the loudspeaker. The Home of the Twelfth Man. The hot lights blasting down on him. The prayers, the huddles. The ball, light in his hands, fingertips sure, his feet quick, quick over the grass. Three-man rush, but he was quicker; aim, and away. Perfect slant. Perfect bomb. Touchdown.
He dreamed of everything he’d thought his life would be. But then he opened his eyes, and he was just Carter Michaels, Knoxville local. A rising star who’d fallen.
A Lean Dog.
A criminal.
Virtually everything about his outlook on life had changed in the last few years. But he still dreamed. And it still hurt, more than it should, to sit on the bleachers by the practice field and watch spring training unfold in all its miserable, sweaty glory.
Knoxville High’s varsity team was dressed out in matching t-shirts and shorts, doing up-downs at the sound of the whistle. The strength coach was a red-faced bulldog of a man, a holdover from Carter’s days here, and between whistle blasts he shouted encouragements that felt like insults. Carter watched and felt a sympathetic burn in his quads and calves; vicariously breathless, skin prickling as if he was the one sweating through his clothes and praying for a breather.
His hand flexed in his lap, remembering the ball. Its heft, and texture; the way it had felt to launch it, and know already that it would land in his receiver’s hands. A perfect throw.
The sharp rap of heeled shoes on the bleachers snatched him from reverie. He blinked, and the team was jogging laps now around the perimeter of the field. The cheering he’d thought he’d heard died away; became the rustle of the spring breeze in the row of pears behind him.
Jazz settled down beside him, legs crossed, one spike-heeled pink slingback swinging lightly in his periphery.
“How was class?” he asked when he turned to her.
The sun was beginning its descent behind her, its rays the fragile lemon of April, fanning out behind her head and shoulders like something from a painting; it gilded her hair, and backlit her face in a way that left her skin glowing. She’d never looked her age, but she seemed even younger now, lately, with a little less mascara, and with a whole lot of enthusiasm for the new direction her life was taking. She was beautiful; a blind man could have seen that.
But that hollow ache behind his breastbone remained.
“It was good!” She beamed. “Only a few more classes, and I can take my test. God, I’m so nervous.”
He’d never seen her smile like this before she started studying for her GED. It was lovely to see her genuinely excited about something. “You’ll pass. All you do is study anymore.”
Her grin shifted into wicked territory, and she hooked her chin on his shoulder while both her arms looped through one of his. “Aw, have I been neglecting you, baby boy?”
Their sex life wasn’t what it had been at first, but he hadn’t been thinking about it, honestly. His cheeks warmed now, though. “No.”
