Page 34 of The Perfect Pass
An ache formed in the back of Calla’s throat.
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
“You know, Dad,” she said with a sigh, “I think you might be right.”
Chapter Ten
During the weeks immediately following the season opener, Jackson was a hamster on a wheel. He had a team to coach, obviously, but his reclaimed status as town hero meant that his presence was requested at every fall-themed event Bishop Falls had to offer. Clearly the good people of small-town Texas loved autumn almost as much as they loved football, because his schedule suddenly became a never-ending cycle of bake sales, farmer’s markets, pancake breakfasts and harvest festivals.
It was getting a little out of hand.
“I’m not seeing any photos on your Instagram from the pumpkin-carving contest Thursday night,” Harper chirped in his ear first thing Saturday morning.
He knew he shouldn’t have answered the call. But the Bulldogs had played last night, bumping their record to a solid 6–0. He’d assumed she’d been calling to talk sports.
“Good morning to you, too, Harper,” he said, jamming his thumbs into his eye sockets since he’d yet to even lift his head from his pillow.
She ignored him and kept on talking about social media numbers and a litany of other things Jackson didn’t care a lick about. He scrubbed his face and tried to rememberwhat town function was on his agenda later today. Then something wet slapped against the sole of his foot, hanging off the end of the mattress, as per usual.
“Leave it, Bishop!” He jerked his foot back, using the command he’d learned in the YouTube training videos he continued to watch whenever he had a chance. They were shockingly informative. Jackson had learned a lot.
Bishop, not so much.
The dog snorted and pawed at the side of the mattress, demanding to be let up onto the bed.
Jackson leaned over the side of the mattress to aim a stern look at the bulldog’s wrinkled face. “Keep dreaming, pal. You’re still not getting up here. You’ve got a perfectly good, hand-crocheted dog bed right over there.”
He pointed at the bed, crafted from green-and-white yarn. Jackson had picked it up from one of the vendor booths at the Harvest Days Artisan Fair last weekend, where he’d been tasked with selecting the winner of the baking contest. He’d never eaten so much pie in his life.
Harper sighed. “Jackson, are you even listening?”
“Of course I’m listening.” He parroted a few of her words back to her. “Pumpkin carving. Instagram.”
Blah, blah, blah.
“I don’t understand why you seem so insistent on refusing to take advantage of the good thing you’ve got going down there. The morning after your first home game, my phone was ringing off the hook. Now it’s been ten days since SportsSphere has even mentioned your name.”
“And you think pictures of badly carved pumpkins are going to change that?” The question came out more harshly than he’d intended. “Sorry. It’s early. The team had an away game last night, and we got in late.”
“We?”He could practically hear his agent’s eyes narrowing all the way in New York City.
“Me and the dog. I’m a mascot caretaker, in addition to being the head coach of the football team and part-time pumpkin judge. Remember?” Jackson pushed himself out of bed. Sleeping in clearly wasn’t going to happen.
He headed to the kitchen, and Bishop trotted behind him, nails clicking on the hardwood floor. Jackson glanced around, as if a modern-day coffee maker might’ve appeared out of thin air overnight. Alas, it hadn’t. In the good old days, his assistant would’ve taken care of that without even being asked. Walking to Huddle Up every morning wasn’t that bad, though. He was getting used to it.
He was getting used to a lot of things, actually—like thinking that the good old days might not have been so great, after all. But every time that realization struck him, he pushed it away as nonsense. He’d worked hard to get where he was…or, more accurately, where he’dbeen. As long as things kept going well here in Bishop Falls, he’d be back on top before he knew it.
“Pumpkin carving is wholesome, and wholesome is your new brand,” Harper huffed.
Jackson couldn’t remember agreeing to that, but he’d been awfully busy lately. Maybe he’d missed an email or something.
“How about I just do my job?” He reached into a cabinet for the premium dog food he’d picked up from Bill Dunne’s vet clinic. According to Calla’s dad, pet food with high quality ingredients was supposed to help with the bulldog’s Astroturf allergy. Apparently, he knew his stuff, because there’d been a drastic reduction in the bulldog’s snorting and sneezing.
Harper sighed again on the other end of the line as he poured the kibble into Bishop’s bowl. “And how about you letmedomine? Worrying about your branding is what I do, Jackson. It’s one of the reasons you have an agent in the first place. Post the photos. I’d do it myself, but I’m having trouble finding any online.”
“I’ll send you some,” Jackson said.
That sounded like a good enough compromise. Over the past month, he’d gotten so tired of Harper’s constant reminders about his social media that he’d given her access to his account. Now his grid was full of high school football highlights punctuated by images of his life in Bishop Falls.
