Small Town Girls Don't Marry Their Back-Ups - Carol Moncado Page 0,46

off night wouldn’t have mattered.

He didn’t go on, so she did.

“Mia was in the marching band in high school,” she told him. “They were at this competition at Missouri State. Their director always told them it didn’t matter whether they took first place or not. There were only three things he cared about - they did their best which should be better than last time, they beat Brownville where his kids marched in band, and they beat Spring Meadow where he’d gone to high school.”

Wyatt looked at her, uncertain where she was going with this.

“Really, the first one was the most important. This time, they lost by half a point to Spring Meadow. They hadn’t beat them in like twenty years, but it was always super close. Everyone blamed this one kid. He was short and stocky, not the best marcher, and he forgot his plume for his helmet and there weren’t any extras. That meant his plume was the reason they lost half a point. If it wasn’t for his plume, they would have tied. And if he marched better, they would have certainly beat Spring Meadow.”

He snorted. “That doesn’t seem right.”

Madi managed to keep her smile to herself. “Of course not. Mia was a junior and in the running for drum major the next year, but she wasn’t even a section leader. She still took it on herself to watch this kid and help him if she could, even though he played mellophone and she plays sax. What she realized was that he worked his tail off. He might not be perfect, but it wasn’t because he didn’t try. Whenever someone mentioned that this kid was the reason they’d lost, she defended him and pointed out that she’d stumbled and almost tripped over one of the color guard girls who dropped her rifle and to blame Mia instead.”

“What was their score?”

“Something like a 75 out of a hundred.”

“Then there were a bunch of little things that led to them losing by half a point, not just that kid’s plume.”

“Exactly.”

Wyatt rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow to look at Madi. “There’s a point for me there, right? Not just a random story about some kid who played an instrument I’ve never heard of?”

Madi just smiled. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m not the only one who struck out that night.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” Could she be getting through to him?

“My manager said the same thing,” he admitted, reaching out to set a hand on the side of her hip. “But he used a lot more colorful language and didn’t use any helpful marching band analogies.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Then he kissed her again.

15

The kiss heated as Wyatt slipped his hand to Madi’s back and pulled her closer to him. Her fingers slid across his torso and around his waist to his lower back.

When she slid even closer, rational thought returned fleetingly to Wyatt.

“Mads,” he whispered into the hollow of her neck.

“I know,” she whispered back.

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, wondering if he could find Harry Truman. “Right now, there’s nothing I want more, but we had good reasons to wait and those reasons still exist.”

She flopped onto her back, putting a little bit of space between them. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who kissed you.” He reached for her hand and linked their fingers together. “It’s going to take me a while to really process what you said, but you’re right. Yes, I had a horrible series, but the responsibility isn’t mine alone. I’m only responsible for my actions. If I’d had a better series, things could have gone very differently. I was the only one who had seven bad games, but everyone else made mistakes, too. All I can do is try to work through my own impostor syndrome and insecurities and pray the yips work themselves out.”

“Rarely is any team’s win or loss the sole responsibility of one person. There’s a thousand things you can point to that add up.”

“I know. But try telling that to the guy who had money riding on it, or the great grandparent who’s been waiting their whole life. Or the rookie who had the chance to win it all. Even worse, the guy who’s about to retire, and this is his last shot.” Wyatt blew out a breath. “The responsibility or blame doesn’t belong to just me, but that doesn’t