Page 13 of Bourbon Bliss
Her eyebrows knitted together. “Since you’re not playing, you’re no longer generating player statistics. There’s nothing for me to follow.”
“Oh,” I said, understanding dawning. “I feel you. You were into my stats, not so much my personality.”
“Precisely. I know very little about your personality.”
“But you know my numbers?”
June nodded. “More than ten thousand six hundred yards over your nine-and-a-half seasons. Eighty-two touchdowns, four two-point conversions. Seven fumbles. An additional two thousand eight hundred ninety-four yards in punt and kick-off returns.”
My jaw dropped as I listened to her distill my career into a chain of numbers. “Wow. That’s… impressive.”
“I know.”
“You just keep all that stuff up there?” I asked, tapping my own temple to indicate her head.
“Yes. I have a natural propensity for numbers.”
“Huh.” This girl was fascinating. “All right, June Tucker. Do you know the stats for a lot of players?”
“Yes.”
“Who else do you know?”
“Would you like a list?” she asked.
There was no sarcasm in her tone. She wasn’t sassing me. I had no doubt that if I said yes, she’d easily rattle off a list of players.
“No, I don’t need a list. I’m just curious how that works. How do you remember so many numbers?”
She shrugged, and her tone remained nonchalant. “I have a high IQ and a nearly photographic memory when it comes to numbers.”
“What about other things? Do you have a photographic memory for stuff other than math?”
“My capacity for recalling information in a variety of subjects is much higher than average,” she said.
“But you’re best at numbers.”
“Yes.”
“That’s very impressive.”
The corners of her mouth twitched into the closest thing I’d seen to a smile. “Thank you.”
I leaned back and rested my head against my hands. I liked this girl. Hoped I’d see more of her—and in a town this size, I had a feeling that was likely.
5
June
The ice cream counter in Moo-Shine’s Ice Cream and Cheese offered twelve different flavors, but I didn’t need to look at the selection. It was February, which meant rocky road. November was chocolate. Peppermint in December. January was strawberry. It was February, so I’d have rocky road.
“Hi there, June.” Penny Waverly, the owner, came out of the back. She was my parents’ age, and Cassidy and I had gone to school with her children. She’d opened the shop a few years after discovering she was lactose intolerant. She had declared she’d live vicariously through her customers, since she could no longer eat dairy.
“Hello, Penny.”
“Hi, June. What can I get you?”
“One scoop of rocky road in a sugar cone.”
