Page 22 of Recipe for Rivals
“We aren’t the Stockyards, though. Anyone can go to your dad’s house and he’d let them have a photo.”
“Well, you don’t have to do it. He didn’t have anything to donate, so he came up with that.”
As one of the town’s school bus drivers, Tucker’s dad knew most of the kids fairly well. He was also Henry’s brother-in-law, so it was no surprise he wanted to do something to help the football team. “It’s a good idea,” I finally said. “I’ll call him later, and we can work out the logistics. Think Jack would build us some steps or something to make mounting easier?”
“I can do that,” Tucker said. “Jack’s pretty busy with the inn right now. Have you asked him for anything? I bet he has something lying around.” Jack had renovated the entire inn, flipping it and turning it into an amazing little bed and breakfast with his new wife. He also restored furniture on the side.
“He’s donating a free night’s stay,” I said.
There was silence for a minute before Tucker responded. “You should stop in Baker Books sometime this week. June is happy to put together a gift basket.”
My stomach tightened. “Your family has given us enough already.”
“My family makes up half the town, so if you cut off Fletcher donations now, you won’t get much else.”
True. But I still felt awkward around June, and I didn’t want to accept a basket from her. She knew I hadn’t loved the idea of her returning to Tucker’s life. It worried me. I didn’t want to have to pick his shattered heart off the ground again if she decided to leave a second time. I kept those thoughts to myself instead of showing them on my face when I was around her.
My silence stretched, so Tucker filled it. “Let her help, man. You guys won’t fix things if you stay weird around her.”
“I know,” I muttered. “I’m trying.”
“Want to come over? It’s been a while since we roped.”
“I’ve got practice for my little flag footballers later. Maybe next week.”
“Just let me know when you’re free. And Dusty?”
“Yeah?”
“Just go to June’s store and pick up the books, man,” he said, slightly lowering his voice.
I swallowed a sigh. “Okay.”
We hung up the phone and I leaned back, looking up at the golden arches across the street and imagining Grandpa following them like a yellow glowing beacon in the middle of a dark, quiet world.
I rubbed my tired eyes and turned to go back inside.
One of myfavorite things in the world was watching eight- and nine-year-olds run for a ball with all their might, faces flopping in the wind like a dog with its head out a car window. It was part of the reason I helped coach in the flag football league. Really I would take any excuse to be involved with the sport that had given me my love of the game. As a new kid in town with parents who had left for a better, childless world, I had beenkind of a punk, even at four years old. But Grandpa put me in flag football when I turned five and it gave me something to focus my energy on.
I was on my way to Heritage Park where our practices were held when I noticed a familiar teenager walking a beat-up bike down Main Street. I slowed my truck and rolled down the window, an idea forming in my head. “Brody.”
The kid looked up at me, a nasty blue bruise spread over his cheekbone. My jaw tightened. I knew he ran with a tougher crowd, but I didn’t like seeing bruises that couldn’t be explained on the field.
“Yes, sir?” he asked.
“You busy?”
He was wary.
“My co-coach can’t make it tonight, and I’ve got to wrangle a bunch of kids at practice. Want to help?”
He still didn’t seem totally sold on the idea. “Will you pay me?”
“No, but I’ll buy you dinner after.”
This seemed good enough for him. He swung his leg over the bike.
“Heritage Park,” I told him. “See you there.”