Page 89 of Her Goal
“She is.”
“Or that she’s special.”
“That too.”
“That they want to spend time with her and cheesy stuff like that,” Beau says as if the conversation is crossing his comfort threshold.
Come to think of it, I don’t know of Leah ever dating. Not that I’ve been keeping track.
“How’d you get so insightful?” I ask.
“It helps to listen.” He points to the television, frozen with the puck slicing toward the goal. “And watch … carefully.”
“Got it.” But there’s no way I can pay attention right now.
Beau asks, “Is the thing keeping you from focusing on this game tape, a gut feeling or jealousy?”
I cock my head, tapping into my thoughts, but the stirring in my chest gives me the answer to his question.
“Are you having an intuitive feeling that things aren’t going well on their date or do you want her for yourself?” Beau clarifies.
“Both.”
He wags his head toward the door. “Go. Call me if you need backup.”
Without second-guessing myself, I dart for the hallway and holler, “Thanks! I owe you.”
Although Leah protested about the “blind date” with a Knight because it was obvious she wasn’t clicking with the guys from my former teams, I’m glad I set it up for them to meet at the Cobbiton Harvest Carnival—at least she’s in public with Grimaldi. The guy is a leech.
However, when I finally get a parking spot after circling the streets surrounding Aracorn Field because all of the yards and paid parking areas are full, locating them is going to be like trying to find a corn kernel in a box of pebbles.
Flashing lights crisscross overhead, competing with the autumn leaves. The air smells like cotton candy, wood smoke, and mechanical grease from the carnival rides.
Artisans set up stalls with crafts. The Junior Scouts—which I always longed to be part of—has a display highlighting the badges they’re working on. People on horseback walk on the main drag along with moms and dads pushing strollers. Kids race around, and teen couples meander, awkwardly far apart on their first date, or cozying up away from the prying eyes of their parents.
A pop song battles with gleeful screams from the rides to the faint strains of a live country band in the background.
As I do a second lap, passing the jack-o’-lantern carving contest display again, I see a familiar bright blond head of hair disappear into the Fun House. When I reach the entrance, a pimply teenager holds out his hand.
“What?” I ask.
He points to the ticket hut. “It’s three tickets for admission.”
There’s no time to stand in line if I don’t want to lose sight of Leah. I slap a fifty into his palm and then rush up the rickety metal steps. The gleeful shouts from the swinging Viking ship, beeping sounds from the games, the chorus of the song played by the live band, and the din of chatter fade as I walk up the rusty steps.
A familiar, greasy voice slithers toward me. “I’ll tell you if you come back to my place.”
“But I never asked to know your first name,” Leah’s smoky tone says from behind a neon panel of cut-out geometrical shapes that glow.
I could Kool-Aid Man my way through the wall, but this place doesn’t seem like it passed the construction code and I’d hate for it to collapse on us. The air is stuffy in here and smells like dirty laundry. My concern about Leah’s safety ratchets up when I stumble over a trap door on the floor. This place is a death trap.
I squeeze past a group of teenage girls in the spinning barrel with swinging disks hanging at the other end, coming dangerously close to my head, and enter the house of mirrors section. I see four Leahs. No Five. I’ll take all ten.
Leah number three backs up. The others warp. It’s dim and with the strobe light, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s a reflection.
“You’re coming home with me. No arguing. I’ll make it worth your while,” Grimaldi says.
“I’m not interested. This was a mistake.” That’s distinctly her, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from.
