Page 55 of Time Out

“It’s weird, isn’t it? I mean, he labeled them with my name like he knew I’d be here?”

“Or maybe he’s thoughtful and wanted to make sure he didn’t eat your snacks?” She tore into the bag of chips and plopped one in her mouth. “Maybe he has some sort of self-control problem.”

“Maybe he’s psychotic.”

“You’ll probably feel better once you eat something.” She grabbed a plastic bin filled with wrapped peanut butter-filled crackers and cheese-filled crackers.

They did look good.

I grabbed one with a huff. She was probably right about that, too.

“Should I thank him?”

“Only if you want him to know you were here.”

I glanced at the floor, at the crumbs trailing behind Belle as she headed out of the pantry.

“Somehow, I think he’ll know.”

“Four chances. That’s all they get to move the ball ten yards.” Belle and I, properly confused about the rules of football, had now asked Lance a million questions. I should have been writing them down.

“It really doesn’t seem like it should take that many tries,” Belle said, a fresh bowl of BBQ chips in front of her. After she spilled the salt and vinegar chips on the floor and cleaned up the mess, I’d insisted she use a bowl—and to quit stealing my snacks.

Seems it didn’t take me long to get territorial over them.

Lance, as patient with Belle as always, chuckled. “I know, honey. I’m sure you could do it in two tries every chance you had.”

“Probably. What’s with all the kicking and the different names, and why don’t they all get points?”

I listened intently as Lance explained the difference between a punt, a kick off, and a field goal again while keeping my eyes glued to the screen. The score was tied at eighteen and the Raleigh team had the ball, which meant occasionally when the cameras scanned down the line of the Nashville team standing on the side of the field, I caught sight of Davis, typically with his hands at his hips or curled around the facemask part of his helmet—a term I learned thanks to Lance.

More impressive was seeing him run the ball down the field. I cringed every time he got hit, and surprised myself when he scored and I jumped to my feet to cheer for him.

The Raleigh team hiked the ball and based on the count at the bottom of the screen, it was now third down and eight.

“Hike!” Belle shouted, and in a blink of time after she shouted it, the quarterback for Raleigh was on his back, rolling to his side.

“That means they have to punt, right?” I asked Lance.

“They might. Tied game, that close to field goal range, they might decide to go for the first down.”

Well, this just kept getting more confusing. I watched as the teams lined up again, and Lance said, “Looks like they’re going for it. Fourth quarter and a tied game, they kind of have to.”

“I hope he loses the ball.”

“That’s called a fumble.”

Right, right. It had to be a basic thing, but I’d never watched any kind of sports before, and Lance was so kind in explaining.

I committed the new term to memory, cringed as they lined up again. Raleigh threw the ball and the guy who caught it was taken down.

“No first down,” Lance cheered. Thank goodness he liked the game we were watching. “That means Nashville will get to line up with the ball where that guy was tackled.”

“That’s good, right?”

“It gives them a good chance for at least a field goal, yes.”

“Awesome.”

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