tongs, and she’d said, “Who’s gonna run it?” in a show of forced casual interest.
When he’d considered it, he’d thought why not? Everyone else was busy with his or her own stuff, and Jazz had long since proved her dedication to the club and all its members and family. She ran the clubhouse like a drill sergeant – only better to look at. She had an easy, friendly way with strangers, that Southern hostess skill that seemed ingrained at birth here in Tennessee, plus the kind of flirtation skills that would have men emptying their pockets when they passed the tip jar at night.
Ghost hadn’t promised her anything yet, or even asked if she wanted to, but she’d started taking classes anyway. And he could see the want plain as day on her face now, as the post-storm sunlight caught the sparkle of her eyes.
“Construction’s been slower than we thought,” Ghost said, gesturing to the building. “There was mold in the walls and some of the wiring was bad. A whole lead paint situation. But the dry wall’s going up next week. We managed to keep the original bar. Now we’ve gotta figure out what we want it to look like inside.”
She nodded, gaze still tracking over the exterior façade. “Right.”
“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to help with that.”
It took a moment for the sentence to land. She started to nod, and then her eyes widened, and her gaze snapped to his face. Her throat jumped as she swallowed. “Really?” Cautious, doubtful, wanting to be pleased.
He reached into his cut pocket and offered her what he’d just picked up on the ride over. The nametag.
It was just a bit of plastic with a pin on the back. But on the front, engraved in sleek caps, was JASMINE. And, under it, Manager.
“If you’re up for it,” he said, suppressing a smile.
“I…” She sucked in a breath. Pressed one shaking hand to her mouth, and reached slowly toward the tag with the other. She hesitated, manicured nails hovering over his palm. Her gaze darted up. “Really?” she whispered.
“Really. A bar needs a manager, right?”
“I…” For a moment, he thought she’d cry, and he wasn’t equipped to deal with that – shot a glance toward Walsh who only smirked at him. But then she took a deep breath, gathered herself, and picked up the tag. Curled her hand tight around it, knuckles white, like she was afraid he’d take it back. “I…thank you. Oh my God. Thank you. You won’t regret it. I won’t let you down.”
“I didn’t figure you would.”
She squealed, and threw her arms around his neck.
“Oh. Um. You’re welcome.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, and Walsh grinned.
~*~
He still dreamed of it: more often than he’d like to. The field. Sometimes the bright green and the low bleachers of Knoxville High; the scent of popcorn and hot dogs, and the stink of sweat, his uniformed brothers all around him. The blurred faces of students, and parents, and girlfriends. The taste of youth, and success, and hope. That magic hope – that wild, crazy confidence that scholarships awaited. Contracts. Money, and fame, and notoriety, and a spot behind an ESPN desk one day, retired at thirty, sitting on piles of cash, and proud, so proud of what he’d accomplished. No more tumbledown house; no more of Dad’s hand against the side of his head.
He dreamed of the next step, too. Of Kyle Field. Of the tens of thousands; the screaming, the blur of swinging towels, the boom and crackle of the loudspeaker. The Home of the Twelfth Man. The hot lights blasting down on him. The prayers, the huddles. The ball, light in his hands, fingertips sure, his feet quick, quick over the grass. Three-man rush, but he was quicker; aim, and away. Perfect slant. Perfect bomb. Touchdown.
He dreamed of everything he’d thought his life would be. But then he opened his eyes, and he was just Carter Michaels, Knoxville local. A rising star who’d fallen.
A Lean Dog.
A criminal.
Virtually everything about his outlook on life had changed in the last few years. But he still dreamed. And it still hurt, more than it should, to sit on the bleachers by the practice field and watch spring training unfold in all its miserable, sweaty glory.
Knoxville High’s varsity team was dressed out in matching t-shirts and shorts, doing up-downs at the sound of the whistle. The strength coach was a red-faced bulldog of a man, a holdover from Carter’s days