Page 6 of Fall With Me
“Finn!” a male voice shouts. “Are you okay? You gotta watch where you’re going, buddy.”
Oh joy. This must be Carter’s guests.
“I’m sorry!” wails a little boy’s voice.
Standing straight with Darrell’s grip on my forearm, I inspect my sticky situation. Brown soda stains my white shortsand runs down my legs, pooling into my shoes. A large red cup is on its side, the lid popped off, leaking brown soda and ice under my feet.
Lovely. Not only will my body be sticky, my feet get to marinate in soda all night.
“I’ll go get more napkins,” Carter says.
I take in the disaster, barely holding back a growl.
“Are you all right, Chloe?” Elaine asks, passing me a wad of tissues, her brows bunching together.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. Are you okay? My son didn’t mean to knock into you,” a male voice asks. The tone, the way the man says “ma’am” sounds somewhat familiar, but not enough for me to place why.
Ignoring him, I pat at the mess. At least it wasn’t some drunk, uncontrollable fan. But I’m still not pleased with the start of game day.
More napkins get put in my hands. “Really, we’re so sorry,” the man says again. “Finn, apologize and pick up your cup, please.”
“I’m sorrryyyyy,” the little voice cries through a sob.
My heart twists in my chest. I glance at the little boy who’s trying to pick up slippery ice and sweep his soda back into his cup. He sniffles as he unsuccessfully cleans up.
I’d set my nachos under my seat when I stood, and now they have puddles of soda all over them. Plopping the wad of napkins I used to clean my legs off onto my ruined dinner, I take in the little one who drenched me.
The boy looks at me. Fat tears stream down his face. The slightest hint of baby fat is in his cheeks. My guess is he’s somewhere between seven and nine.
His beautiful brown eyes are big, lined with dark, thick lashes I’m completely jealous of. Mine are long because I use lash serum, but they have nothing on this kid. Bet he uses those to get whatever he wants.
“I really am sorry about this,” the man says again.
I huff out a breath and tear my gaze from the repentant kid to his dad. For the second time today, my heart stops beating. I don’t appreciate the way I react to seeing this man. It doesn’t stop beating every time I notice a hot guy. So why now? Why twice in one day? What is it about him that makes me feel things I don’t want to feel?
Also, holy cow!Newbieis Carter’s new hire? For real? What are the chances? I stand and my head tilts slightly to the side as I glare at Newbie. No…he told me his name. Racking my memories, I finally remember it’s Dawson. “I whooped your a—uh…backside earlier today. Are you using your kid to get back at me?”
“No!” Dawson’s eyes are as wide as the goalposts on the field. “I didn’t recognize you until you faced me. I would never—”
I hold a hand up, stopping him from freaking out. “Chill. I was joking.” Kind of.
“This is awkward.” Dawson chuckles nervously, his cheeks showing a hint of pink. “I’m sorry about the mess and your clothes. I can pay for dry cleaning and new shoes.”
Carter scoots down our row, both hands full of napkins. They get shuffled from one person to the next until they’re in my hands.
Doing my best to soak up the remaining soda sticking to me, I give up. Water is the only way to get this stickiness off. “It’s fine.”
“What about a new plate of nachos?”
So they can get ruined a second time? “Nah. I’m good.” Turning to Darrell, I say, “I need to head to the restroom.” And away from my crazy reactions to Dawson and his clumsy kid. “Can I squeeze past?”
“Of course, sweetie.” He pats my shoulder.
I do my best to run as well as I can in a row of stadium seats to the bathroom. With every step, my shoes squish. So,sogross. Annoyed I’ll be sitting in sticky wet clothes for the next four hours until I get home, I scrub as best as I can. It’s no use. My shorts stay brown and my shoes are soaked through.
Way to start the football season.
I’m standing, stretching my back by twisting my shoulders during halftime. My feet are wrinkly and gross from sitting in sugary brown crap the past hour and a half. Finn, the boy who ruined my night, keeps trying to talk to me. I’ve answered him politely, but I don’t ask any follow-up questions. Kids and I aren’t a good combination.
