to bother.
It’s no bother.
Talk later, son.
That’s bizarre. I told her last week I was coming to visit. Maybe she forgot.
I’m disappointed she’s not available. I could use a little ego stroke right now. I’m not proud of it, but it’s been a shitty couple of weeks. The media has hounded my ass. The sports talk radio hosts have analyzed the dog out of my prospects of returning. My teammates keep bitching about Hartly McKay, my backup, and what a shit job he’s doing, and I keep getting texts from the team owner checking up on my progress.
I start the car and notice I’m low on gas. I hook a U-turn into the convenience store across the street and maneuver the car to the premium gas pump. I slap a pleasant expression on my face before I get out of the car because there are several people filling up, and I know they’ll want to chat.
The cool North Texas wind hits me as I get out of the vehicle. I insert my card into the pump and follow the prompts. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me that no one is waiting to talk to me. Good, I wouldn’t want to be rude.
I lean against the car with my hands resting by my hips. I pride myself on always being open to random conversation with the locals. I am their favorite son after all. Even after all these years, that last bit still picks at the wound that’s never completely healed. I bury any historical resentment and paste a smile on my face.
The woman at the pump across from me glances my way. I dip my chin in acknowledgement. She quickly averts her gaze, gets into her car, and pulls away from the pumps. Poor girl, I get that from women sometimes. They’re a little too intimidated to approach me. I don’t normally get the creepy lip curl like I did from this lady, but maybe that’s just her smile.
A truck door slamming has me glancing at the other vehicle to see Mel Barlow behind the wheel, his elbow sticking out the open driver’s door window.
I raise my hand to wave. “How are you, Mel?”
A grunt is all I get in return, then he starts the truck and pulls away from me. He must need to get back to his pig farm because I usually have a hard time shaking him once he starts talking.
I remove the nozzle, replace the gas cap, and head inside to get a drink. It’s a good thing I have forty minutes before I have to meet the realtor because I can see Kevin Jones is behind the counter. That kid is a local sports aficionado, and he’ll talk my leg off if I let him.
The bell above the door rings when I pull it open. Kevin glances over at me, and instead of the enthusiastic welcome I expected, he says, “Why are you here?”
“Um … I … I beg your pardon?”
He snorts and mumbles something under his breath that sounds like, “I think you need to beg the whole town’s pardon.”
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
I make my way to the cooler and grab a water. I can see Kevin’s reflection in the glass doors, and if I’m not mistaken, the kid is giving me a death stare. I turn around to make sure, but he’s got his head buried in a book.
“So, the Lions are doin’ all right this year,” I say when I place my drink on the counter.
“Uh-huh.” He places the bottle under the scanner. “One ninety-nine.”
I pay him, and his attention goes back to his book. I scan the store to see if there’s anyone else around that he might be showing off for, but we’re alone. “Okay, well, I’ll see you around.”
There’s another mumbled reply, but I’m 100 percent sure that he said, “Not if I see you first.”
What. The. Hell.
Two
Tiger
I hook the strap on my outfit and glance down at myself. The steel toe boots required on the construction site peek out from under the rolled up hem of my overalls. The white long-sleeved Henley I wear stretches across my chest that is now a cup size larger thanks to Dairy Queen dip cones and real cream in my coffee. Good thing the bib I embroidered with Tiger Lyons, Lewis Construction on the front covers most of my breasts.
My hand glides over the logo. Love, pride, and a lot of fear went into each stitch. Who would’ve thought that I’d be a project