“Cats.” Paul almost grimaces. “I grew up with a cat too, my mother’s cat, and it was as mean as it could be. It didn’t like anyone but her. Needless to say, that cat left a lasting impression on me too.”
They both laugh.
“Okay, question number four: peaceful or playful?”
“Ha!” he blurts. “Paul, I don’t know if anyone would describe me as either one of those. I think I fit more into the perfectionist category.”
“That describes how you are on the field, when you’re working. What about when you’re not working?”
“Come on, Paul—when am I not working?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Off the field, let’s go with . . . private.”
A little too private, if you ask me. There’s never any information about him anywhere. Other than seeing him on the field, there are like zero glimpses into his life, which is unfortunate for me since I have a bad habit of Internet stalking him.
“And our last question, number five: cake or pie?”
Bryan breaks eye contact with Paul and looks at the ground. Leaning forward a little, he rubs his hands together, one side of his mouth tipping up in a smile meant for himself and a memory he’s having, and he answers, “Pie. Definitely pie.”
Marie’s hand flies over, grabs my arm, and I think I stop breathing. He may as well have just declared his love for me in front of a national audience, because there is nothing more perfect for me to hear than him choosing pie. Pie! This man . . . pie—my sixteen-year-old heart whispers, soul mate.
“Pie, you say. Any particular kind?”
He looks back over at the host. “Nope. I love all kinds of pies. In fact, I’ve never met a pie I didn’t like, just some I like more than others.”
“That’s very vague.”
“Well, I should clarify—it’s not the flavors of pie that makes the difference. It’s who makes them, the quality. Once you’ve had the best pies in the world, the rest are just good pies. I’ll still eat them, but they don’t compare.”
“And where can we find these best pies in the world?”
I grip the blanket in my lap hard as Bryan stalls and chooses his words. I so desperately want him to say my name, even though he hasn’t eaten any of my pies in over ten years.
“How about I send you one for your birthday?” he suggests. If it’s me, does that mean he’s going to call and order one? I think I would die. Then again, maybe it’s not me. It’s been a really long time.
“Or better yet, we’ll ask James. I’m certain he’s tasted these amazing pies.”
Bryan grins. “Oh, he has, and without a doubt he’ll tell you where these pies are.”
“He has to be talking about you and your pies,” Marie whispers as my heart pounds harder.
“Speaking of James Jarvie”—Paul flips his cards silently, indicating that their rapid-fire game is over—“it’s nice to hear about the bond you two still have. We all saw firsthand how well you worked together on the field, but we love it when friendships like what the two of you have last long-term. Let’s go back and talk about some of your earlier years. We all know you and James grew up together, but how old were you when you both decided football was the sport for you?”
“We were ten when we started tossing the football around more seriously. Both of us loved the sport, but for me, I’d have to say it was during my freshman year of high school. Our quarterback went down with an injury during a practice midseason, and I was called up from the junior varsity team to see how I would do. I wasn’t nervous under the lights, against the larger players, or in front of the crowd . . . I was in my element. I thrived off of the energy, went out, and threw a seventy-yard Hail Mary pass on my second play. I knew then football was it for me.”
“Look here, folks.” Paul turns toward the large screen behind him, and the pass Bryan just described plays out on the screen. I was there, at that game, and I cried when his receiver caught the ball and ran it in for a touchdown. There had been a collective pause throughout the stands while the ball was midair, and then the crowd roared. See, our football team was historically a losing one. Our town is small, and so was our team, but not that night. After winning, we felt like we were on top of the world.
“Seems you weren’t the only one that night who realized you were going places.” He smiles at Bryan.
“No. The year after, my sophomore year, scouts started coming in. It was exciting for all of us.”
It really was. Scouts were always calling and wanting to drop by. GiGi brought them into the main house, and she did the talking. Bryan’s stepfather never bothered to show up, which was actually probably for the best. GiGi won over everyone she ever met—never underestimate the power of a great slice of pie.
“I bet, and now from what we hear at the network, you’re about to head back to your hometown.” Images of Oakwood pop up and begin rotating on the screen behind him.
Wait . . . what? Hometown?!
Marie lets out a squeak of some sort next to me as I sit up straight and slosh some of the sangria over the rim of the cup and onto my lap.
“Yes, Paul. I am.” He nods, a small smile touches his perfect lips, and then his gaze cuts to the camera and pierces me straight through the heart.
Strawberry-Citrus Sangria
TODAY IS ONE of those days.
In fact, today is the third one of those days in a row. I know what’s wrong; I know what’s coming. I just have to decide if I’m ready.
It started three nights ago with the airing of the interview. I watched it from home, by myself, because I couldn’t bear to have people’s eyes on me. I hate being in the spotlight. I also hate being viewed as anything other than what I am, and that’s a damn good football player. I’m not a puppet, and I don’t believe in the dog and pony show that often accompanies this job. It isn’t anyone’s business where I come from, what I eat for breakfast, who I spend my time with, or how I choose to live my life off the field.
Then, as if it was an omen, two nights ago there was a record-breaking storm for the number of lightning strikes to hit the ground. The leftover electricity left a buzz that permeated the dense humid air right up until last night’s season opener. We won our game, and I should have been elated, but for some reason I just wasn’t. Sure, I was happy about the win, but the adrenaline rush that usually comes after a victory like that one just wasn’t there. Instead, I watched my teammates explode around the locker room afterward, and rather than heading out with them to celebrate, I decided to drive home, sit on the back porch, and stare out at the night while thinking of her.
My best friend’s sister.
Ever since James came to visit over the Fourth of July, I can’t stop thinking about her. Yes, I have thought about her every day for the last ten years, but this is different, and lately I feel consumed. The only thing I can come up with is that during our four years of college, I spent every day with him, so even though she wasn’t there, he was, which eased the ache of missing her. It wasn’t until he left for the Navy’s aviation program after graduation that the emptiness really set in. Suddenly, they were both gone, and I had to learn to live without them. Seeing him again after such an extended period of time apart reminded me of that loss and reignited my deep yearning for her.
Lexi.
One would think because James and Lexi are siblings, they would look similar, but they are polar opposites. He’s tall; she’s short. He’s loud and outgoing; she’s mostly quiet and reserved. He has dark features and she has light, but despite their differences, it’s their eyes that suck me in. Both have pale green eyes that are all-knowing and have a way of piercing me straight to my core. I know it’s weird, and even though I was always with him, his eyes made me feel like I was with her. If he was around, I felt like she was, too, and somehow that was enough.
Now, I’m not so sure.
While sitting on the back porch, I listened to our song of the sounds of the night; that’s what she used to call it. Always constant and never changing, the m
elody has become a comfort to me, and every night since I was ten years old, I’ve slept with the bedroom windows open. It was mainly because she liked the window open, but also because it calmed me when I felt trapped in a life I so desperately wanted to escape.
My mother died when I was ten. I’ve never known who my father is, so I ended up being stuck with my stepfather. He made it very clear that I was unwanted baggage from her, an inconvenience to him, which is why I spent most of my childhood dreaming about what I needed to do and what it would be like to leave him, to leave that small town. I couldn’t wait to get as far away as possible, and I swore over and over again I would never go back.
However, ever since the day I left, it seems I am constantly doing or seeking out little things that remind me of the place I once called home, even though it never really felt like home. It was just a temporary experience I had to endure in order to move on to the next chapter of my life. I’m continually surprised when I find comfort in things like the sound of cicadas and the smell of grass after a late-day summer shower. The reality is, it all just comes back to her. Do I find comfort in those things because they remind me of home, or is it because they remind me of a time in my life when I was with her?
Well, I never really was with her, and years later, it’s the one regret I can’t get past, even though I did it all for a reason.
Now, I find myself in an interesting predicament, because I want to see her again. No, I need to see her again, but how do I do that after all this time? I walked away from her ten years ago and never looked back. I left her without even saying goodbye.
The thing is, I never wanted to say goodbye to her. I still don’t. It would feel too official and too final, and I liked knowing our relationship hadn’t ended, knowing she was out there somewhere. I know I hurt her—how could I have not? Maybe one day I’ll get the chance to explain, and maybe one day she’ll understand.
Now, here I am today, and practice was brutal. They think it’s funny to tell us we should feel fortunate they let us sleep in and start practice at ten instead of the usual six o’clock in the morning. The only problem with this is that by ten in the morning in Florida, it is just plain hot outside. The sun is pounding down and the humidity is almost unbearable. I know I can handle it, though; I’ve been playing football in the south for the last eighteen years.
Reid and I walk back into the locker room together, having run a few extra drills after the team left the field. After joining the Tarpons, he quickly slipped into the role of being my go-to wide receiver, just like James was in college. The more we work together, the more I can feel the magnetic draw to his hands. The ball just seems to leave mine and slip right into his grip. It feels so good.
Off the field, Reid and I also formed a bond that most people don’t understand. He’s quiet, just like I am, and because of that, we gravitated toward each other. Neither of us particularly cares for the fame and flair that comes with being an NFL player. I understand why most of the guys choose not to hang out with us; I can imagine that trying to hold a conversation with us is a lot like watching paint dry.
Walking up to my locker, I see there are two pie boxes sitting on the bench in front of it. I pick up the card on the top box and read that it’s from a fan. All of them are from fans, and when I say all, I mean all. Yesterday there were twenty-six pies dropped off for me, another four this morning when I arrived, and now here are two more. The guys think it’s hilarious, but that hasn’t stopped them from wandering into our cafeteria to eat them. There’ve been homemade pies, Village Inn pies, Mike’s pies, Publix pies—you name it, we’ve had it.
Except for Lexi’s pies.
“Are you excited about heading home?” Reid asks as we strip off our sweat-soaked practice jerseys and pads. My eyes catch on the silicone black wedding band he wears. Reid got married two months ago, and as happy as I am for him, there is a part of me that’s jealous and longs for what he has—his best friend, the girl he loves, by his side, every day. I’ve never had that; well, I haven’t in ten years. Memories of me secretly seeking Lexi out on the top row of the bleachers where she always sat have my chest aching. She never shied away from telling people she was at the games to watch both James and me, but I always knew she was really there for me.
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders.
Home . . . my home is here, but home also means Lexi and James. I think about a picture of Lexi laughing I found on the Firefly Kitchen website last night. She looks different, but also the same. She looks like a woman now, but she still has the same details I’ve always loved: the sweetheart shape of her face, freckles across the bridge of her nose, and those pale green eyes.
“I feel honored they think I’m worthy of the key to the city.”
The key to the city—how crazy is that? I didn’t even know towns did this type of thing anymore, but I guess they do. An ornamental key that’s given as a gift to someone the city—or town, in my case—feels is a friend, ally, or someone special is an interesting tradition.
“Well, I would feel honored, too,” Reid says excitedly.
“It’s a small town, and not a lot happens there. All I’ve done is donate some money to the athletic program at the high school and create a scholarship.”
“Must have been a lot of money. Look at you, being a philanthropist,” he teases, and I grunt in response while unlacing my cleats.
“How long has it been?” Jack asks as he walks up into our conversation. There’s a fork sticking out of his mouth, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. You would think after how much pie he shoved down his throat yesterday he’d be in sugar shock, but nope, he’s back at it again today.
Catching my expression, he grins. “What? I can’t help that it’s all so good.” His eyes widen as he spots the two new boxes, and he tips his head. “What kind are those?”
I pick up the boxes and hand them to him. One says grasshopper pie, and the other says cherry.
“Yes! Can I take these home?” he asks, his voice so hopeful.
“Sure, and it’s been a while since I’ve been back—years, in fact,” I answer as I look at Jack. I’m certain my frown relays that it’s been more than just a few years, but only I know that the true answer is never. I’ve never gone back home.
He tucks the boxes under his arm, the sleeve of his clean shirt bunching up. He’s already showered and ready to go.
“I understand.” He nods and then breaks eye contact. “I don’t really have any one place I call home, so I haven’t been anywhere in years either. We moved around a lot with my father’s career, and now they’re retired in Scottsdale. I love the water way too much to think about staying there long-term.”
I agree. I love the water, too, which is why many people were surprised when I bought my house on the river instead of downtown or on the island with my other teammates. The minute I walked out the back door, which faces northwest, I knew it was the one for me. Yes, the river cuts through the city, but the view across from me is undeveloped, wooded, and it makes me feel like I’m not in the city. It’s perfect.
“What time is the ceremony? Want me to go with you?” Reid asks. I should have known he would offer. He’s loyal and a true friend like that. Not many would give up their day off to drive two hours in the car, stand in the heat, and then drive two hours back.
“It’s at ten, and thanks, but no thanks. I might make a few stops while I’m there.”
Not a few stops, just one, maybe, but I don’t tell them that.
Tossing my cleats and helmet into my locker and my dirty clothes into my bag, I grab a towel, wrap it around my waist, and turn to find both Reid and Jack staring at me. It’s like they know tomorrow is more of a big deal than I’m letting on, so I slip into my role as a leader and try to assuage their concerns.
“Don’t worry, boys.” I smile real big and see both of them shift away from the uncertain tension that had set in between them. I throw out my arms and begin walking backward toward the showers. “I’ll
be back and on the plane for our game this weekend first thing the following morning.”
If only it were that simple.
Grasshopper Pie
EVERYONE HAS DEFINING moments in their lives that they remember with more clarity than others, whether they are good or bad, and for me, almost all of them include him.
The first occurred when I was ten years old, which I find ironic these days. He wasn’t present for the first ten years of my life, and he hasn’t been present in the last ten. Now, today, he’s blowing into town, and I can’t resist the opportunity to get a glimpse of him.
Growing up, my bedroom faced the back of our property, and an acre and a half away from the porch stands the most gorgeous oak tree in the whole world. GiGi once told me her father built our house near it because of an old Southern legend. The legend says if an oak has been struck by lightning, its destiny is to protect the land and anything on it, and there’s a large burnt crack down the side of the trunk. I’ve always loved this legend, and without fail, a day or two after a really bad storm, GiGi would walk out to the tree, kiss the crack, and wrap her arms around it like she was giving it a hug. I imagine most people would think this is strange, but it was normal for me. I don’t know how old the oak tree is, but I do know it has been there a very long time.
The second best thing about the tree is the tree house my grandfather built for my mother and her brother when they were little. Even after they were grown and my grandfather had passed, GiGi continued to pay the property manager to keep it safe and sturdy. James and I probably spent just as much time in the tree house as we did the main house. It was our go-to place.
When I was ten years old, on one particular night, daylight had slowly slipped from a beautiful shade of lavender into the inky black of night, and as the sky darkened, I watched and squinted my eyes in search of the tiny flickering lights. The oak tree is surrounded by tall grass, and instead of mowing it all down, the lawn man keeps a nice clean path that runs right up to the base of the trunk. He also circles around the tree to give us some space to talk and have access to the swing on the backside. Have I mentioned I love this tree?
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 2
