Page 33 of Rocking the Receiver
The Rusty Spurs is nothing like I imagined—a sports bar. In truth, since my mind tends to be in the gutter more often than not, I associated the name with a gay bar. Nah, we may live in liberal Austin, but Coach Stevens wouldn’t intentionally hang out at a gay bar, no matter the cool vibes or delicious food, would he? Especially not with a bunch of college football players! Imagining the shock on Davis and Jones’s faces as they step into a gay bar brings a mischievous grin to my stupid face; it doesn’t really make sense since I haven’t set foot in one yet.
Oh, well! Maybe in another lifetime…
The wood floors creak under our feet as we walk in, and the smell of smoked brisket, fried food, and grilled jalapeños immediately hits us. I can already feel my stomach rumbling.
“Smells like heaven,” one of the guys behind me says over the classic country tune cranking out of the jukebox, blending with the background noise of clinking glasses and animated conversations.
I tilt my head approvingly and glance around. The bar is slammed. The laid-back vibe and slight edge make it the perfect Austin spot. Such a perfectly cool place mirroring our post-game energy.
Coach raved about this joint, saying it was a must-visit. From the looks of it, he wasn’t wrong, and I make a mental note to suggest it to Rupert. He’s usually the one pushing me to go out rather than ordering takeout, insisting that there’s nothing revealing about us having dinner together.
Then, why do I cringe when patrons pointedly look at him? Yes, I get that they recognize him or want to come up to him for an autograph, but I worry. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of his achievements and cheer at his gigs, but as ridiculously clueless about country music as Tim. I can’t fully grasp the extent of The Whiskey Barrels’ stardom or the success of Rupert’s other collaborations. His fans keep startling me.
I like that this place is low-key, and I’m sure he’d appreciate that, too. It’s a mix between a cozy bar and a classic Texas barbecue joint, with wooden tables and worn leather booths that lend a lived-in feeling. The walls are lined with vintage concert posters, neon beer signs, and a few Texas flags thrown in for good measure. It’s dimly lit, with a few strings of soft yellow lights draped across the ceiling, casting a warm glow over everything.A couple of older locals are perched on stools at the bar that runs along the opposite side of the room, nursing drinks and chatting with the much younger bartenders.
A small raised stage is tucked in the back.
Still amped up from the game, we grab two big booths since there’s too many of us to fit into one. I purse my lips, reining in my irritation because, of course, Davis had to slide next to Chris, across from me, closer to Coach. His sidekick, Jones, follows like a well-trained puppy.
I scan the menu that’s definitely not our regular diet. I guess it’s Coach’s way of encouraging us to enjoy the carefree moment for once.
“Listen up! Y’all have your DD, correct?” Coach inquires. Chris and a few others confirm. “Good. Enjoy your night, guys!” Then, he waves over an older waitress who resembles Dolly Parton. She sashays to Coach’s booth first. He doesn’t give her the opportunity to introduce herself and do her regular spiel. “Good evening, Susan.” Ohhh, he’s a regular. “How ya doin’ tonight?”
Very smooth,à laJoe Tribiani. Good job, Coach!
Susan greets him, then us after he jokingly introduces us as his “adopted pack” without going into more detail because who cares. She looks at him with stars in her eyes, and they make small talk about how packed it is and the specials, and I tune them out. Funny how I’m seeing Coach Stevens in a new light, in what could very well be his natural habitat, as if he didn’t exist off the field until now. But I can understand the appeal for the ladies: brawny body, strong jaw, and driven attitude.
I fidget, suddenly realizing that I don’t have a clue about Coach’s personal life. Apart from bits and pieces of Chris’s life—hisoutdoorsy family and his single sister—I know close to nothing about the people around me. It was the same in France, where I haven’t set foot since I started college. I don’t ask. I don’t share. I don’t lie… but restrict my conversations to campus life and tidbits about my former life in France, including wine tasting and no-consequence clichés. My private life remains… private, vague enough to avoid questions.
“I’m famished!” Chris announces, and we confirm in unison.
Coach orders enough food to feed the entire team: wings, fries, ribs, you name it… as well as beer to quench our thirst and Susan saunters off under Coach’s coveting gaze.
He wouldn’t be flirting with her if he was otherwise attached, right?
I block my train of thought. Whatever it is I just witnessed doesn’t concern me, so I feign a renewed interest in looking around the place when he praises the regular live performances.
Contorting my body, I look over my right shoulder. It’s hard to see the stage, especially with the small round tables surrounding it. The tables all have the ridiculously tiny lamps, reminding me of a French cabaret.
People are slowly gathering around the stage, but that’s not what we’re here for. I appreciate the treat from Coach. Bonding off the field might be the trick to help us click. For now, we forget about the missed championship and homework. The conversation flows easily, and soon enough, trays of food and cold beer land on our tables.
“It smells fantastic!” we exclaim in unison and hungrily dive in, wiping sauce from our fingers, forgetting our—barely there—manners, going back and forth about the best plays we witnessedearlier. We’re all barely taking a breath between bites and stories.
Kiss-ass Davis’s doing his best play-by-play impression to amuse Coach, causing everyone at the table to guffaw. I even join in, until Davis starts making a big production of slurping the sauce from his sticky fingers with his pointy tongue. Doing so, his mouth parts as he intently stares at the twenty-something waitress’s massive cleavage as she clears our table. He then proceeds to shoot her a raunchy once-over for good measure.
Classy, huh? I can’t believe he dares to call himself an Alpha. I guess he’s confusing rude jerk with true leader. If I didn’t have anything to lose, I’d enlighten him. But I know better.
“Damn, these wings are on point, Coach!” he shouts, as if the food needed his validation. Truth be told, I bet his words don’t match his actual thoughts, considering his eyes are now locked on the girl’sderrière.
As much as I despise the guy’s opinions on certain topics, I must admit that he can be fun otherwise. What I hate the most about him, though, is that I don’t stand up to him. I simply can’t. I loathe what his foul mouth full of hatred and bigoted comments makes of me: a speechless, cowardly, pathetic fuck.
Trying to flag down Susan for a beer refill, I see excitement ripple through the room. The lights dim a bit, and a voice says something about tonight’s band over the speakers. I’m too far away from the stage and too caught up in our conversation to catch the details. Grabbing another rib while waiting for my cold beverage requires my full attention.
The first few notes of the music hit. It’s a slow, soulful strum of a guitar, the kind that feels like it sinks right into your chest. I stopmid-bite, the rib hanging in the air. My body tenses. A couple of words, and the room tilts on its axis.
What are the odds?
Enthralled, the room slowly fades away, and it’s just me andthatvoice. Rich. Haunting. Painfully familiar… As always, it evokes something unprecedented within me, raw emotion that has no place here.
