Pat knocks once against the wood, like he’s decided something. “Goodnight, darlin’。”
I toss a fork at him, the one he used to scratch his ankle, and I wish I had something heavier to throw, like an anvil. On his way out the door, he happens to notice my to-do list, which more accurately should be named a never-done list. It’s written on the back of a lime-green takeout menu in three different colors of pen. Not for aesthetics. For lack of ever being able to locate the same pen.
Pat snatches it right off the wall. “What’s this? ‘Fix the screen door, get a new dryer, Jo’s bookshelves’？”
I’m on my feet in an instant, trying to snatch the paper, which—fortunately or not so fortunately—means getting up close and personal with him. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
He holds it up above his head, craning his neck to read it while swatting at me with his other hand. “Looks like a to-do list, which is very fortunate because I don’t have anything to do right now. I think I’ll take this.”
“You will not!”
I grab Pat’s shoulders and try to climb him like a tree. This is a common description that romance novels should stop using because not only is it physically challenging, it’s not super romantic. What I end up doing is somewhere between a celebratory chest bump and mild assault.
“Ow!” Pat yelps. “That’s my shin you just kicked. You realize you’re breaking rule number one, right? Hardcore on the unnecessary touching.”
I back off, embarrassed I’m panting like this was actually a strenuous workout. Clearly, I don’t see the inside of a gym, like EVER. “Pat. Give me my list.”
“It’s my list now. And there’s no rule against this, so you’ll have to deal with it. Happy weeding day, weef.”
And if I had any question about whether Pat would stick to my rules or do his very best to bend or break every single one, it’s answered right there.
Chapter Twenty-One
Pat
When it comes to Texas and football, there are no excuses for missing practice. Even if you got married the day before. I’m exhausted but awake long before my alarm, with proverbial confetti still in my hair. Lindy and I got married!
I make a full pot of coffee and leave a note scrawled on a napkin after letting the dogs out: Morning, darlin! Hope to see you later. After a moment’s thought, I grab another napkin and write, Have an excellent day, Jojo! Stay away from sharks and alligators, even if they look like they need a friend.
I feel strangely forlorn driving away from the dark house, imagining Lindy’s dark hair spread over her pillow. If I play my cards right, maybe one day I’ll get to see the real thing.
Morning practices have started to become routine even after almost a week in this town. It’s like opening a strange portal back in time leading to the stink of sweat, the sound of pads crunching as bodies collide, and the feel of dewy grass dampening my shoes. There’s insecure posturing, towels snapping on bare skin, and fierce competitiveness.
I love it.
I love it, and I had no idea how much I missed it. Football is king in Texas, but even more so in this small town. Practice might be six-forty-five, but three old timers are up in the bleachers watching practice every single morning. The two Black men and one white are all equally gray-haired and pot-bellied. They also share an intensely serious outlook about Sheet Cake football. I asked Chevy about them my first day, wondering whose parents or grandparents they were.
“Those are the Bobs,” Chevy said, grinning. “The three of them played football for Sheet Cake back in their day.”
“No kidding?” I’m not sure if I’m more surprised they’re all named Bob or that these are former Sheet Cake players.