Page 5 of The Perfect Pass
“You okay?” Bailey whispered as she took her place beside Calla. The heady aroma of espresso beans and dark chocolate clung to her sable-brown hair, just like it always did. “This song is a killer every time, isn’t it?”
“I’m good. I promise,” Calla whispered, forcing a smile. “You?”
If anyone had reason to hate this song and everything it represented, that person was Bailey Davis. She’d never let the past harden her the way it had Calla, though. Bailey was just as sweet and genuine as she’d been back in high school.
She hadn’t fully moved on, though. None of them had—not even Calla’s father. Unlike Dad and Bailey, Calla directed all of her grief outward, while the two of them kept theirs buried deep inside. At least that’s what she suspected. It wasn’t like they ever actually discussed it. Bailey and Dad just kept on going, and so did Calla. Her version just involved a good amount of kicking and screaming.
And a lot less rah-rah-rah-sis-boom-bah.
“I’m great.” Bailey beamed, and if Calla hadn’t been studying her so closely, she might’ve missed the barely discernible glimmer of sadness in her friend’s eyes. Then Baileyblinked, and it vanished as quickly as it had appeared as she peered around Calla to greet her father. “Morning, Dr. Dunne. Nice jersey.”
Bailey winked.
As the town veterinarian, Calla’s dad was fully deserving of the honorific. But Bailey was like family. He’d told her a million times to call him Bill or Dad, but she still insisted on using his title. It had become a term of endearment between them by now.
“Please don’t encourage him,” Calla muttered into her mocha.
“Bite your tongue, young lady. Jackson Knight is going to take the Bulldogs all the way. Everyone knows it. You best sharpen your pencil and get ready, because there’s going to be a lot to write about this football season.” Dad arched a brow at Bailey. “Right, Bailey?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
Was there a single soul in this town who hadn’t guzzled the Jackson Knight Kool-Aid before they’d even set eyes on the man?
Clearly not. The cheers from the crowd grew deafening as the marching band’s percussion section came into view. A lanky girl with long, dark braids hanging from her band hat clanged a pair of cymbals with enough gusto to rattle the bleachers. Then the docile longhorn steers from Sam Garcia’s ranch appeared, swinging their massive heads back and forth as they stomped down the street. The man of the hour couldn’t be far behind. The longhorns and their riders were always fan favorites. The organizers of this spectacle would’ve strategically placed them directly in front of the float carrying Bishop Falls’ new savior to maximize the excitement.
Mission accomplished,Calla thought as something whizzed past her head at the exact moment her gaze snagged on Jackson sitting atop an artfully arranged collection of hay bales on a tractor trailer being pulled by a glossy white Ford F-450 Super Duty pickup truck.
“Please tell me I’m hallucinating right now.” Bailey grabbed Calla’s arm and she squinted at the airborne item that had just almost hit her upside the head. It looked to be a wadded-up article of clothing of some sort. A T-shirt, maybe?
Everything seemed to start moving in slow motion as the bundle of fabric unfurled, revealing lacy trim and a delicate, ivory satin bow stitched atop a gathered elastic waist band.
Definitely not a T-shirt.
Calla’s mouth fell open as the pair of women’s underpants, which could only be described as granny panties, floated through the air, clearly missing their intended mark. Instead of landing at Jackson Knight’s feet, they hit the last of Sam Garcia’s impressive steers in its broad head before ultimately hooking on to the tip of one of its horns. The panties dangled by a leg hole as the longhorn continued trudging down Bulldog Avenue as blasé as ever.
It’s finally happened.Calla’s heart went out to the poor rider sitting astride the longhorn as his face burned as fiery red as the juicy hothouse tomatoes Calla bought on Saturdays at the Bishop Falls farmer’s market.This town has fully lost the plot.
“Sadly, I think it’s really and truly happening,” she said in a voice as flat as the vast plains of the Texas panhandle.
Bailey glanced over her shoulder, and her eyes went wide. “Don’t look now, but I’m pretty sure those panties belonged to the mayor.”
Super. The next town council meeting was sure to be a treat.
Bailey laughed as her head swiveled back in the direction of the parade. Then her mouth fell open as the trailer carrying Jackson Knight rolled directly past their spot on the front row of the grandstand.
His right bicep flexed as he waved to the crowd. Someone—Principal Dean, if Calla had to venture a guess—had given Jackson one of the new jerseys printed with his name and number in Bishop green-and-white, but the shirt lookedverydifferent on his athletic physique than it did on the general Bishop Falls population. And those eyes of his…
Calla wasn’t sure she’d ever seen that color blue before. If she weren’t so staunchly antifootball, she might’ve swooned.
But Calla hated football and as such, she hated all six feet five inches and two hundred fifty rock-solid pounds of Jackson Knight’s very existence. (Don’t judge. The only reason she knew those precise stats was for work.)
“Wow.” Bailey swallowed and dropped her voice to a whisper, presumably so Calla’s father wouldn’t hear. “Is it crazy that I sort of understand the panty-throwing now?”
“May I remind you that this is a small-town sporting event, not a Harry Styles concert?” Calla said with a laugh. Bailey never talked like that. Ever. It was good to see her acting like a normal, twenty-something-year-old woman…
Evenifa football player had prompted it.
Jackson wasn’t painful to look at, though. Even Calla could admit that much. Somehow, it only made his presence in Bishop Falls more annoying.
