Page 10 of The Perfect Pass
Calla waited for someone—anyone—to ask him to elaborateon that vague explanation, but of course no one did. What a joke. From what she’d overheard of his phone conversation, he didn’t have the first clue about the townorthe team. And now every reporter in the room was giving him a free pass. No one had even mentioned the curse, for crying out loud.
“I think we’ve got time for one last question.” Principal Dean, who’d been monitoring the press conference along with the athletic director, glanced at his watch.
Calla’s hand flew up before she could stop it.
Ugh, what was shedoing? Stan was going to kill her. She snatched her hand back down, but it was too late.
“You, there. In the back,” Jackson said.
The reporter standing in front of her glanced over his shoulder at her, and then shifted to the side. In an instant, every pair of eyes in the room landed squarely on Calla, including Jackson’s.
She swallowed as their gazes locked.
Then his lips quirked into a cocky, lopsided grin of recognition, and she knew she was about to shoot her entire career right in the foot. “Hi, there.”
He was so sure of himself, so smug. Not fazed in the slightest to find out she was a journalist. Clearly, he expected her to fall in line with the rest of his admirers, despite the things she’d overheard him saying earlier. Honestly, how gigantic was this man’s ego? The mind reeled.
“Calla Dunne from theLone Star Gazette,” she said, introducing herself the same way the other reporters had.
She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she wasn’t here to sabotage her future. She was perfectly capable of gritting her teeth and asking a benign question, just like everyone else had.
Then she opened her mouth to do just that, but Jackson spoke first, cutting her off.
“Dunne?” he repeated, eyes sparkling like he knew good and well he had the entire room eating out of the palm of his hand. “Any relation?”
The cafetorium went instantly,excruciatinglysilent. No one seemed to breathe, and all around her, Calla could feel people averting their eyes, pinning their gazes to the floor…the ceiling…anywhere but in her direction.
Jackson’s smile slipped, but only slightly. He still hadn’t realized the magnitude of the mistake he’d just made.
“I saw the turf logo earlier.” He hitched a thumb in the direction of the school stadium. “On the thirty-yard line, if memory serves. Ethan Dunne Field. Isn’t that what it said?”
Principal Dean cleared his throat. “I think we’re about out of time. Thank you, everyone, for coming.”
Bless the man for trying to save Calla from the uncomfortable moment. It had been eight years since Ethan’s accident and four years since he’d been gone. The question really shouldn’t have knocked the wind out of her the way it did.
No one talked about Ethan anymore, though. After he died, his story became part of Bishop Falls history. The team ended up losing the state championship, and that’s when whispers of a curse began circulating around town. Maybe if Bulldogs fans weren’t so afraid to say Ethan’s name out loud, she would’ve been prepared for Jackson’s remarks.
Or maybe it would’ve felt like a blow to her chest either way. All she knew at that precise moment was that she couldn’t just leave without saying a word. Jackson had just stuck his foot in his mouth in a major way, and the graciousthing to do would be to gather her belongings and quietly go back to her office and pen the sort of column Stan expected her to write. But Calla wasn’t feeling particularly gracious at the moment. Now that Ethan’s name had finally been uttered out loud, a part of her felt like it had cracked open and she was unspooling like a ribbon.
“Ethan Dunne was my brother,” Calla said in a voice loud enough to put an immediate stop to Principal Dean’s attempt to end the press conference. Reporters stopped packing up their things, and out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a video camera swiveling in her direction. “Which anyone who’d done the slightest bit of research into the Bishop Falls High School football program would know.”
“Um, my apologies,” Jackson said, and to her surprise, he actually sounded sincere. For a second, his mask slipped, and instead of looking like a media-trained professional athlete, he seemed almost human.
Calla wasn’t finished yet, though. After all, he’d called on her to ask a question, hadn’t he?
Buckle up, Benchwarmer.
That nickname wasn’t really applicable, since Jackson held his team’s record for most receiving yards as a tight end in league history, but it gave her a little zing of pleasure nonetheless. And since he’d be riding the bench until his knee healed, it wasn’t wholly inaccurate.
Calla narrowed her gaze at him. “What specific changes do you plan to implement right away, and what results should Bulldogs fan expect to see early on?”
Jackson shifted Bishop from one arm to the other and cleared his throat. “As far as what the fans should expect, that would be a winning team.”
Another generic answer. He’d completely ignored thefirst part of the question, and this time, the mood in the room had shifted. Reporters weren’t so keen to let it slide. Jackson had shown his hand. He didn’t know the first thing about this town.
“As for the changes Miss Dunne mentioned? What might those be?” a man situated directly in front of the podium prompted.
A furrow formed in Jackson’s perfect brow. He opened his mouth to respond but hesitated, leaving just enough time for Calla to interject with another pointed inquiry.
