Page 114 of Time Out

She’d stopped me in my tracks mid-chorus to “These Boots Were Made for Walkin’” by Nancy Sinatra and hit me with a realization without saying anything else.

If I wanted to prove to my family and my siblings I could live my life without their church and their rules, I needed to start living by mine and chasing my dreams. What kind of example was I setting otherwise?

“Fine,” I’d told her and then texted Christian to get Brianna’s number.

The next day, we were sitting down for lunch at WWMP, and she was showing me a plan she’d already drafted along with a contract. She then took me into one of the recording studios to have me sing some of my songs to get a feel for my range and my voice.

In three days, I was going to make my debut on stage, not at an open mic night, but as a paid singer at Miranda Lambert’s restaurant on Broadway, Casa Rosa.

My opening song was going to be one of hers, one of my favorites from an older album, Little Red Wagon.

I’d been practicing and singing the set list ever since my meeting with Brianna, who worked with me to sing songs I already knew and loved, and more than once mid-song, if Ruth was otherwise occupied in her room, Davis hadn’t missed the opportunity to whisk me to our bedroom and show me how talented he thought I was, by proving his own multifaceted talents with his hands, his tongue, and his dick.

In the last two weeks, my life had been entirely upended in ways almost as drastic as learning I was having a baby.

On a good day, I was a frazzled, anxious mess even when everyone around me told me to relax.

Today, I was a mess of nerves for an entirely different reason.

Davis and the rest of his team were warming up on the field. Hosting Raleigh, who won their first playoff game. Today’s game was going to be an absolute nail-biter and since I’d convinced Ruth to join me, I didn’t have Kate and Dave and Eden and Jasper to keep me company.

We were sitting on the twenty-yard line behind the team’s bench, ten rows up in seats Davis got for us.

My heart was in my throat.

My palms were clammy.

My pulse was racing.

And down on that field, every time I caught a glimpse of Davis, the jerk had the absolute nerve to appear as calm and unfrazzled as always.

Chapter 35

Davis

Dawson tore off his helmet chin straps, ripped off his helmet and sent it flying straight into his locker.

Cole was pacing the length of the locker room and back, and our defensive ends were huddled in a corner of the locker room. Fingers were being pointed.

Cussing was at an all-time high and our frustration levels were off the charts.

Raleigh was winning by ten points at the half in a game we should have been kicking ass in, but we were making mistakes.

I didn’t want to ask Dawson what was up his ass. He’d missed two routes he had memorized. Wasn’t getting open, and that was only with single coverage. He was playing like half of him showed up, and it was the half of him that wasn’t talented in football and hadn’t been the number three tight end in the league at the start of the season.

For my own, I’d barely been able to get more than two yards a carry. We knew their defensive line would be tough to crack, but I’d spent hours watching their game films. I knew their holes like the back of my hand, but our timing had been off.

The door slammed closed behind us, and our coach walked in, hands on his hips, lips pressed into a thin line. He yanked off his hat, swiped his forehead and resettled it before shoving his hands back to his hips and meeting the eyes of every single player who turned silent at his entrance.

Even Dawson went and grabbed his helmet from his locker and held it at his side.

Coach Paul Bowles was a man who I’d always admired, mostly for the character that made him decent and aboveboard. He rarely cussed, didn’t have to to get his point across, and believed in motivating and encouraging over disparaging and criticizing. It worked for him. For us, because it made us feel more like a team, like his sons and brothers and family versus a means to a paycheck like other coaches in the league who honored records over growth.

I would lay down my life for this man.

Right then, I could practically see the cartoon thought bubble over his head, filled with four-letter words and symbols, cussing each and every one of us out.

“Does anyone have anything to say for themselves?” he asked, gaze scanning the room again.

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