She’d been right. The offensive plays the team was working on weren’t anything to write home about. But they were the ones the kids had been practicing all summer under Coach Simmons’s leadership. There hadn’t been time to reinvent the wheel—not when everyone expected the team to win big on Friday night.
“It’s awfully late, Coach Knight,” she said, deftly changing the subject. “Shouldn’t you be at home, resting up for kickoff?”
He was coaching the game, not playing. Still, this week had been just about as exhausting as if he was expected to suit up and carry the ball himself.
“Bishop needs to be walked. It’s a whole thing, and this is the only time I can do it without people stopping me to ask about the team.”
Calla glanced up and down the street at all the football-themed businesses. “That tracks.”
Jackson couldn’t really go anywhere in broad daylight. He’d learned that lesson real quick. Everyone had an opinion or a game plan that they couldn’t wait to share with him. Other than his morning trips to Huddle Up with Cade, he’d become a hermit in his modest flour-covered house off the town green.
“It’s late for you, too. You’re covering the game tomorrow.” He slid his gaze toward the door to the flower shop. “What exactly is going on in there?”
“It’s my friend Marigold’s annual mum party. I was having a good time, believe it or not, but it turns out I’m sort of terrible at making mums, so I decided to call it a night.” She bent to pick up the dropped flower and gave Bishop a scratch behind the ears before standing back up and letting the limp blossom dangle from her fingertips. “I present this disaster as evidence.”
Jackson shook his head. “I have so many questions.”
She laughed. “You don’t even know what a homecoming mum is, do you?”
“Guilty.” He winced. “You’re not going to tell SportsSphere, are you?”
“It’s a Texas thing. SportsSphere wouldn’t care, I promise.” She laughed again, and the way it lit up her whole face made Jackson want to hang on to the moment as long as he could. Would that really be so bad? It didn’t mean they had to cross any invisible professional boundary line.
“Thank goodness for that.” He grinned, then he gave Bishop’s leash a tug, fully intent on walking away.
No fast cars, no fast women.
But Calla hardly fit into that category, did she? She was different. There was an authenticity about her that drew Jackson in, like gravity. She was unapologetically herself and never hesitated to speak her mind. From the start, she’d been thoroughly unimpressed with him, even before he’d stuck his foot in his mouth at the press conference. Perhaps that’s why the complimentary tone of her column and moments like this one—moments when he felt an undeniable connection between them—meant so much. They werereal.
Football had given Jackson a lot of things, but meaningful relationships weren’t chief among them. And he liked it that way. Aside from a few select teammates, Jackson didn’t let people get too close. It was for their own good, not his. Time and again, he’d screwed up a good thing. Everyone knew that. Heck, there’d been entire television documentaries chronicling his mistakes. That’s how he’d wound up in Bishop Falls to begin with.
He’d never hurt Calla Dunne, though. He knew this for two solid reasons. First, like she’d said, they couldn’t fool around. If they did, it would probably put her job in jeopardy, and Jackson would likely get dumped by his agent.
Second, just the thought of anyone causing her any pain whatsoever made him want to put a fist through a wall.
There goes that earnestness again.
Jackson averted his eyes to the flower shop window where his gaze landed on his reflection. For a bewildering second, he didn’t recognize the guy with the bulldogpanting at his feet. He swallowed and swung his gaze back toward Calla.
“Let Bishop and me walk you home. I need to hear about this mum business.”
Chapter Eight
She should’ve said no, obviously. But for the life of her, Calla couldn’t seem to force the wordsno, thanksout of her mouth. Which was why, seconds later, she found herself walking across the moonlit town green, elbow to elbow with Jackson as Bishop trudged ahead of them at a snail’s pace.
It was going to take a century to walk home at this rate. Under the street lamps of Bulldog Avenue, everything had been fine. Calla had been able to pretend that she’d only accepted Jackson’s offer because of the late hour. Safety first, and all that. Plus he legitimately needed a heads-up on the mum situation before homecoming week rolled around.
But with the soft grass of the town green underfoot and nothing but the moon to light their way, this walk felt decidedly more intimate. And the truth of the matter was that Calla was enjoying Jackson’s company. He’d appeared genuinely interested when she’d told him about the mum party, asking questions like exactly how big was a mum supposed to be (the bigger the better) and if she planned on wearing one to the homecoming game this year (over her dead body). When she’d shown him her sad attempt at the diamondback ribbon braid, he’d insisted it wasn’t all that bad.
That’s when she should’ve known she was in trouble.No one in their right mind could look at her pitiful attempt at mum-making and think it was anything less than a hot mess. Then she’d softened at his kind words without even realizing it. All the while, what he’d said earlier kept spinning through her mind like a favorite record.
Calla, if I was flirting with you, you’d know it.
Well, then.
If that didn’t give a girl goose bumps, nothing would.
She wrapped her jean jacket more tightly around her frame, despite the mild evening. She needed to say something…anything. They were nearly to the water tower, which had been the prime make-out spot back in high school. Calla wasn’t sure if that was still a thing or not. She hadn’t given it a single thought since she’d left for college. Regardless, she didn’t want to tempt fate. Especially now that she was feeling like the smart girl who writes for the school paper and Jackson was the star of the football team who’d just offered to carry her books home from school.