Page 7 of The Perfect Pass
“What?” Calla said.
“Nothing.” Bailey bit back a smile. “Just that you fully admitted he’s got a pretty face.”
“Pretty is as pretty does,” Calla countered, parroting one of her grandmother’s favorite Southern sayings.
Bailey’s lips twisted. “I’ve never fully understood that expression.”
“Me neither, other than something about inner beauty being more important than physical appearance, maybe? I don’t have time to fully unpack it, though, because I’ve got to scoot. The postparade press conference is going to start soon.” She slung an arm around her dad’s shoulders and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Bye, Dad.”
Bailey shook her head and made a tsk sound.
“What?” Calla asked again.
Bailey sighed. “I guess I just feel a little sorry for the guy. I know he’s a big shot professional football player and all. But he was clearly trying to flirt with you just now, and you’re going to go straight for the jugular in the press conference Q and A, aren’t you?”
“Trust me. If he was trying to flirt with me, it’s because he’s a player in every sense of the word.” Honestly, Bailey could be so naive sometimes. But her pure heart was one of the things Calla loved best about her friend. Sometimes, she even envied it. “And of course I’m going to ask the tough questions. Or I would, if Stan would let me. Hebasically told me to simply show up, keep my mouth shut and write my story.”
As the editor-in-chief, Stanley Miller was Calla’s boss, and he’d given her strict instructions to “be a team player,” at least until the season got underway. In other words, he wanted her to behave herself and write something that all the diehards would drool over while they convinced themselves that this was the year the Bulldogs would finally win State again.
Calla didn’t like to behave. Moreover, she believed in fair and accurate reporting. But she also longed to get promoted to the features department so she’d never have to write about football again, so she intended to cooperate as long as she could stand it.
“Good luck with that.” Bailey grinned, showcasing her dimples.
Calla’s chest squeezed tight, and for the millionth time she thought about the way tragedy changed people. Some rose to the occasion, while others railed against fate. The only constant was that no one came out the other side unscathed. There was no going back to the time before everything changed. It was the part of grief that no one seemed to talk about—the part where you felt like you’d lost yourself along with everything else.
“Thanks,” she said and then turned her back on the festivities and walked against the flow of foot traffic, red cowboy boots eating up the pavement all the way back to the high school.
Jackson Knight might be the most exciting thing to ever happen to Bishop Falls, but nothing ever changed here. Not really.
Still, if she had her way, she’d show Jackson exactly who Calla Dunne was, even if Calla herself didn’t quite recognize the girl in the mirror anymore.
Chapter Three
The parade made a loop at the far end of Bulldog Avenue where the street ended in a wide circle in front of the town green—a lush park that was home to the Bishop Falls water tower, an old steel contraption that had been around since the early 1900s, according to the historic landmark plaque that stood beside it.
Jackson wondered when the bulldog had been painted on the water tower’s side. The rendering of the mascot was flanked on either side by a sheriff’s-style star, and he felt like the bulldog painting could’ve been authentic to the original structure. How long had this town been so obsessed with football?
Obsessedwas no exaggeration. He’d counted multiple businesses along the parade route that boasted football-themed names. On the way back to the high school down the opposite side of the wide boulevard, he spied even more. The crowds lining the street hadn’t thinned a bit, despite the fact that they’d already witnessed the hokey spectacle the first time around—the marching band, the cheerleaders, the freaking cows…
And Jackson sitting on his hay bale with a drooling bulldog at his feet. He felt like he was having some sort ofbizarre out-of-body experience. If anything, the bleachers appeared to be even more packed with a never-ending swath of Bishop High’s school colors.
With one notable exception.
He searched the front row for another glimpse of the woman he’d encountered before the parade, but she’d already left. If she was still anywhere in the vicinity, he would’ve been able to spot her—a pop of cherry red in a sea of green and white.
Just as well, he told himself. After the phone call she’d overheard, she probably knew enough about him to make things difficult for him in Bishop Falls. Jackson didn’t need difficult. He needed to keep his head down to do his time here like it was a prison sentence, and then he could get his life back.
“Coach Knight?” someone called out as the trailer carrying Jackson ground to a halt back at its starting point alongside the gates that led to the stadium.
It took him a second to realize the scrawny kid in the band uniform was talking to him.Coach Knight.Jackson blew out a breath. That was going to take some getting used to.
Jackson glanced at the boy. The trombone he clutched to his chest nearly obscured his entire narrow torso. “Hey, there. Did you want me to sign something?”
He’d never autographed a musical instrument before, but there was a first time for everything. Scrawling his name in Sharpie on this boy’s trombone wouldn’t be the strangest part of Jackson’s first day in Bishop Falls. Not by a long shot.
“Sign something?” The boy blinked sandy-blond eyelashes. “Oh…no, sir. Thank you for offering, but, er, I’mactually one of the student managers for the football team. Principal Dean asked me to escort you to the press conference.”
Jackson felt himself frown as he stood and brushed bits of hay from his jeans. “You’re in the marching bandandyou’re the team’s student manager? That sounds like…a lot.”
