50. Alice
50
Alice
“ W ill looks nervous. Doesn’t Will look nervous? I think he’s nervous,” Mason jabbers in my ear and I listen.
He does look on edge. He’s always so capable and confident. The very essence of Will is the opposite of nerves. But not today.
I nibble on my inner cheek. I’m anxious too. Will we talk after the conference—or is it simply over?
“I hope he can do this,” Mateo says.
“Of course he can. Will does everything,” Mason says. “That’s why he’s Billy’s favorite.”
“Aw,” I say, a restless tension building in every one of my limbs. “That’s why, huh? I thought it was because they wore the same size jeans.”
Mason turns to look at me.
“You know, so they can swap.” I pop the P in that sentence and sip from my water bottle, but it doesn’t stop the rising nausea in my gut.
“You’re funny, Alice,” Mason says.
“I’m a legit riot,” I tell him. I’m not funny—not today. Today I am sad and sweating and possibly experiencing hot flashes—at the ripe ol’ age of twenty-six.
Theo, Mateo, Mason, and I stand in a line in the very back of this room. Other Red Tail team representatives cluster around us.
Will stands on the small stage at the front, facing the media reporters. Zoe and his sports director Jeff sit on the stage facing the crowd as well. At least he has some support up there.
My stomach turns.
“We’ve all been hearing rumors,” Will says with a playful grin on his face—though it’s not natural. It’s not the grin that’s turned my world upside down. “Billy Baxter is up to something again.” His brows bounce, and beside me, Mason laughs.
My heart thuds inside my body. Will. How did it come and go so quickly?
One hand from the crowd shoots into the air. Will hasn’t even said anything yet. Will nods to the man in the front row. “Already, Crosby? We just got started.” The lightness in Will’s tone tells us that he’s not offended.
“He’s always up to something. Is Billy ever planning on being the informant? We love you, Will, but we wouldn’t mind seeing the man in charge every now and then.”
“I know, right?” Will chuckles. “That’s an excellent point.”
I watch him from afar. How could anyone not love him exactly as he is?
“Shall we get into it?” Will starts by confirming a few rumors and then showing off our logo—my logo—on a T-shirt I ordered. He shares the team’s name, announces Jet Jacobson as our coach. He talks about the hospital fundraiser in the Red Tails name. He shows off our brand and gives detailed information on our soccer stadium—Will explains how it’s on the south end of town and near the lake. I remember the day he took me there. I picked a yellow buttercup growing in the grass and pressed it at chapter thirty-eight.
My eyes sting, but I don’t allow one tear to fall.
After speaking abnormally fast and sharing a ton of information, Will claps his hands. “Questions?”
A dozen hands shoot into the air.
Will calls on a woman in the front, and the interrogation begins. “What are the team’s long-term goals?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance away from Will and pull out my phone to see my Taylor family’s group thread.
Mama Coco: Was that your design?
Me: Yes.
Mama Coco: So proud of you, sweet girl.
Dad: We both are!
My eyes prick with tears. I wish I could say they were all happy.
Someone else is speaking—more questions. “How is this professional team going to contribute to the community? You’re based in Tesoro, but will you be contributing to Reno’s community as well?”
“We’ve already begun. We truly want this team to be a community-loved organization. We want to give back as much as possible.” Will nods to another reporter.
“I’m sure Mr. Baxter does want to give back, but we all know his history. And it isn’t good. Can you guarantee us we won’t get a Billy Baxter catastrophe?”
Reporters write frantically. More hands raise.
My skin itches. This is why Will keeps his secret—people like this. Reporters who thrive off the story rather than forgiveness.
“The past is in the past,” Will says, his tone stern. “Billy Baxter hasn’t had any incidents since he was a minor. That should count for something.”
One woman shakes her hand and then speaks with Will’s mere glance in her direction. “Has Billy thought of polling the community concerning the creation of this team? Are we supposed to just trust this man? He terrorized an entire city. But we’re supposed to trust that he’s right for Tesoro?”
“It’s always the same,” Mason says. “Man, the press love burying Billy Baxter—but Will will make it right. Always does.”
My hands fist at my sides.
Will peers out at the flashing cameras, at the waiting eyes. “I assure you,” he says, “Billy wants what’s best for Tesoro. His actions, this team’s actions, they’ll prove that.”
More typed down notes and scribbled on notepads, and some just keep their recorders held out, waiting for Will’s next words.
His eyes graze over the crowd and somehow, he finds me—as if he were looking. He stops and stares at me, almost as if to say, See? They love eating Billy alive .
I smile at him. I give the smallest of nods. I want him to know I’m with him—however or wherever that may be.
He smiles back. I think it means he understands.
“You know,” he says without the prompting of a question, “a dear friend once told me this: In the heart of forgiveness, compassion blooms, and together we grow stronger.”
Grandma Lucy said that—I told him that. Even before I knew who he was.
The crowd is silent.
“I want you to forgive Billy,” he says. “I want compassion. And I want this community to be stronger for it.”
One reporter’s hand raises her recorder higher. But no one speaks. No one dares make a sound.
I hold my breath and watch as Will grips both ends of the podium with both hands. “But every time I stand on one of these stages, every time I share what Billy wants to do—it doesn’t matter that he has a dozen success stories behind him. People always bring up the circus, the city he failed. His one grand mistake.”
The air fills with flashes from cameras and clicks from phone screens.
“I’ve always blamed you for that. Your stories. Your words. Your incriminating news. Why? Why couldn’t you forgive him? Why couldn’t you see past the past and allow the man to move on?” Will’s eyes find mine once more. “But I’ve learned something these past few months. Something real. Something valuable.”
My breath hitches and Mason glances over at me.
“Maybe the compassion and forgiveness I want so badly need to start with me .”
I grapple for Mason’s hand beside me and hold my breath. Mason squeezes my hand back, both of us caught up in Will’s words.
Will pulls in a strong breath, his eyes fixed on me. Like a focal point, I stare right back. “I’m asking you to trust,” he says. “To trust me . Because—” He adjusts the microphone in front of him and clears his throat. “I am Billy Baxter.”