Page 18 of The Check Down

She’s nervous. That’s clear. So I steer the conversation back on track. “You never did tell me what kind of shop your mom has.”

She exhales a sigh, and her skin returns to its natural ivory shade. “I didn’t. It’s a hippie beach shop called Celestial. Seashells, incense, postcards, hemp jewelry, all-natural soaps. But the big draw is the crystals.”

I take a sip of my own water, reveling in the sound of her voice. “Crystals?”

“Yep.” She nods tentatively. “Crystals for healing. For prosperity. For your chakras.”

With a smile, I set my glass down. “That’s cool.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. Another tell.

“But you don’t believe in all that.” I’m not asking; her skepticism is clear as day.

“I don’t.” She hunches close to the table, shoulders rolled in, a flash of remorse on her face. “It baffles me that my dad, who spent his whole career immersed in math and science, also believes in the healing power of crystals. But he swears by them. They both do. And I just…can’t.”

“Does that upset them?”

“Not much upsets them. They’re the most laid-back people on the planet, and their only daughter is so type-A, it hurts.” She lowers her head, fiddles with her napkin. “They’ve learned to embrace my rule-following tendencies. But we experienced plenty of growing pains to get where we are today, especially when I was a teenager. Most adolescents are embarrassed by their parents, of course, but imagine if your parents rode a tandem bike to your school to attend your academic assemblies or asked your teacher if they could make her pot brownies to celebrate the start of summer.”

I run a hand over my mouth to hide a grin. “Please tell me your teacher took them up on that.”

A breath escapes her, and she deflates. “She did not, thank goodness.”

“I’m not buying all that type-A bullshit, by the way,” I tell her.

Her brows raise.

“Nah. There’s a free spirit lurking in there, Brynn Nelson. You should give yourself permission to set it loose.”

She wrinkles her nose, but before she can dispute my claim, Trish returns to take our order.

I can’t decide between the ribs and the fried catfish, so I ask for the combination platter, even though I’ll regret it during tomorrow’s practice. During the season, I do my best to stick to eating healthy, but I can’t deny the call of this place’s best dishes. Brynn orders the skillet shrimp after Trish and I assure her it’s an excellent choice.

As Trish steps away from the table, a grizzled older gentleman wearing a Blues hat sidles up. “I knew that was you, Racy.” His smile stretches wide and he extends his hand, then pumps mine in a vigorous shake. “Told Pearlene it was you. She said not to bother you and your lady friend. But how can I pass up the chance to meet the man who’s gonna help the Blues reach the big show?”

A few tables over, a woman gives him the evil eye.

He waves at her and points back at me. “It’s him, Pearl,” he bellows across the restaurant.

As a few diners watch our interaction with piqued interest, I glance at mylady friendand brace for the annoyed look I’m used to seeing on my dates’ faces when this happens. Instead, I find her smiling at this exchange.

Not that she’s mydate. Definitely a friend. Who happens to be a lady.

“Would you like a picture?” Brynn asks. She gestures to the phone in the man’s hand.

With an excited string of words that are hard to make out, he swipes it open and passes it over. I put my hands on the table, ready to stand, but before I can get my legs under me, the gentleman makes himself at home in the booth beside me and slings an arm over my shoulders.

Brynn takes our picture, and with a smile, she gives the man his phone.

Instead of returning to his table, which good fan etiquette requires, he waxes on about how I’m going to make a difference for the Blues this season. As much as I love his confidence in me, every proclamation makes my collar feel a little tighter. Makes a drop of sweat trail down my back.

Because what if I can’t perform this season? What if Sunday’s game wasn’t a fluke, but a new normal? This could be my last season in the league. The thought of going out with a whimper makes my gut twist into a hard knot.

I can’t let this town—this team—down.

I sign a napkin for him, and, finally, the man thanks both of us profusely before returning to his table.

I sip my water, ready to apologize to Brynn, but she pipes up before I can speak.

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