Page 5 of The Interception
It probably will be, but if anything can take my mind off of the problems at home, it’s a grueling day of drills in the bright sunlight, coupled with humidity that could kill a whale. Granted, I’ll hate it while we’re in the middle of it, but once we stop for the day and I shower, I’ll feel great. Then all the memories will flood back in, the ones I try not to think about in front of my sister. The ones where I knew Asher first, and it was just the two of us running wild through the pecan fields of his grandparents’ farm.Then we grew up, and Sarah Beth caught his eye as more than just his best friend’s older sister.
“Hey man, you all right?” Leo peers down from the side of his car, his door still wide open.
I bite back the emotion that surges forward and nod. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go show these guys what playing football really means.”
“Son, I know you’ve won this thing six years in a row, but I’m not sure this is the year to be playing with your career. You know what the Dawsons expect this year, and if we don’t deliver, it’ll be our necks on a chopping block. They’ll sell the team or shut it down entirely.” Coach Holmes doesn’twantto say no to a couple of missed practices so I can compete in the Bay Bridge Cook-Off, but he’s right. The Timberwolves are in a precarious position this year.
“I’ve checked and double-checked the schedule. I won’t be late for games, only two practices. Leo and a few of the guys have already agreed to make them up with me. I won’t let it interfere with the Timberwolves.”
Coach sits back in his folding metal chair—because to him any degree of comfort is for babies—and grumbles under his breath. He nearly worked us to death today, and he means it when he says no. There is no negotiation, so I have to make sure he has every reason to say yes.
“Listen, it will get eyes on the team again, fill the seats, and maybe that will boost morale. No one feels good playing in a half-empty stadium. With people in the seats again, it’ll feel like something worth fighting for.”
He raises his gray eyebrows and steeples his fingers under his chin, which is an odd position given there are no armrests on which he can rest his elbows. Sometimes I wonder if Coach isone pass to the head away from total insanity, but I don’t dare ask.
“You make a fair point. Last year’s cook-off win got us on the cover of a few magazines despite the lousy year. With the way we’re playing this year, you winning again could really do us well.” He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, drawing out the torture. I need this for Sarah Beth. Another breath and slow exhale. “All right. I’ll allow it but I can’t see you slip. If there is even a hint of exhaustion or distraction, you’re off the competition. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir. You have my word. There will be no distractions, no missed games, and I’ll play like my life depends on it.”
He nods again, and his expression softens. “Kid, I know you will. I’m not heartless, and I know this competition is important to you. Six consecutive wins isn’t something to scoff at, but with your sister depending on you, your primary income is more important. Focus on the long run.”
Unease settles in my chest. If the Timberwolves are sold or shut down, there is no guarantee all of us will find new positions with other teams. Even if I do, there is every reason to believe it would mean moving to another state, away from Sarah Beth, who needs me. And if I didn’t, well, that might be worse. Zero income until Sarah Beth or I find a job. I can’t imagine there are many people hiring stay-at-home mothers of small children or former running backs, so I recommit to making football my priority.
Here’s hoping the cook-off sorts itself out.
Chapter Three
Layne
Driving Andrew’s truck fromSavannah to Charleston was not as unnerving as I had anticipated, probably because I didn’t have my big brother breathing down my neck and reminding me every five seconds that it’s his baby—after his wife and dogs, of course. The convention center where the orientation is scheduled is packed to the rafters with lines halfway around the building. I clutch my information packet to my chest, not daring to lose any of the paperwork necessary to secure my place, even the certificate of acceptance into the Charleston Cattery Conservation Society, whatever that is. I have a bad feeling when I attend the first meeting, I’ll be leaving with a cat.
“We have three lines divided alphabetically,” someone says, shouting over the crowd. A man stands on a step stool, shooing traffic this way and that. I can’t help thinking there must be a better way to organize the flow of people. He frantically points to the signage hanging above three doors, each emblazoned with bright red letters. Scanning them, I note that I should file into the middle line.
I behave like a dutiful school student and get into the correct line, though it bends and weaves around display tables and security check-ins. Admittedly, I don’t have a lot of confidence in my ability to make it past the first round of this competition, let alone into the finals, but I do hope this will be a good experience that will allow me to get my name out there. At this point, I’d take a job waitingtables…again.
“Oh. My. Gosh. Is that Ender Langley?”
I startle when the woman behind me pokes my shoulder and leans in conspiratorially, her light blue gaze locked in on someone in front of us. I follow her stare until mine lands on the face that was spackled on every article I read about the Bay Bridge Cook-Off. He’s not as tall as I imagined, but I’m no shortie. Add in my heels, and I’m just a little shorter than him. His thick, dark brown hair is mussed, probably because he ruffles it constantly—at least every few seconds. Maybe he’s nervous or stressed? I know I am, which is why I keep fidgeting with my hair as well. I realize I’m assessing him a little too well when he turns and we make eye contact.
“Oh, it is him,” the woman whispers. “I hope I’m paired with him, but it’s probably a pipe dream. In more ways than one, if you catch my drift.” She smiles wide, flashing me a mouth full of artificially bright white teeth. I’m too distracted by her comment—and Ender’s soft brown eyesstilllocked on mine—to process much more.
Ender’s eyes shift down to the floor for a blink, then fix on mine again. Oh gosh, I’m staring. HeknowsI’m staring. I blink and look away as if I was merely staring into oblivion and he got in the path. Then it hits me. Paired?
“What do you mean paired with him? For the competition?”
The woman narrows her eyes at me as if I’m a complete and utter moron. “Of course.” Now that she has deemed me toounintelligent to converse with, she turns away and chats up the woman behind her instead.
Partners? I don’t remember reading anything about getting paired in the packet of information Lottie gave me, and I’m not so sure how to feel about it. On the one hand, it might be good to match with someone who has done this before, but on the other, there is a good chance we will clash and nothing will go right. It has been my experience that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, so to speak. I’m excitable, a little messy in the kitchen, and when I’m in the zone, I tend to block people out.
The line moves forward, and I manage to calm my racing nerves. Once my paperwork is reviewed, cross-referenced, and stamped, I head through the double doors. Inside the amphitheater—which is really the Timberwolves stadium temporarily converted to a convention-style center—everyone scatters to find a seat before the official presentation begins. I’ve lost sight of the judgy woman and score an aisle seat that allows me an unobstructed view of the stage.
“If everyone could please find a seat and settle in, we’ll begin in five minutes.” The lighting dims, indicating people had better stop chatting and get moving. I’ll be pleased when this part is over and I can head to the house I’m borrowing. Thanks to Lottie’s friend, I won’t have to stay in a hotel for weeks…or days if I get kicked out in the first round.
By the time everyone is seated, the room is hot and humid. I’m not a fan of Charleston’s swampy temperature, but Savannah isn’t much better this time of year. The weather can’t decide if fall has officially arrived, or if a third summer is appropriate. It wouldn’t matter either way. Afternoons would soar to over ninety with swamp humidity regardless. Georgia pays no mind to the calendar. Apparently, neither does southeastern South Carolina.
My mind is brought back to reality when the speaker steps up to the microphone again. The room hushes, and I glance beside me to see who has taken up a significant amount of space, including the entire armrest. Ender Langley’s eyes settle on mine for a blink before he turns his focus to the stage. Up close, he’s nothing short of model perfection. Which is fine. Totally fine, because I’m here to win a contest, not drool over a professional football player who also happens to be a six-time champion for this competition.
“Welcome everyone to the Thirtieth Annual Bay Bridge Cook-Off! I’m excited that this year’s turnout has nearly doubled, which means a lot more fun for our town and our viewers.”
