Chapter 11 Ivy
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ivy
"This is not a sport," I mutter, staring at the plywood boards like they personally offended me.
"It’s a way of life," Jesse replies with a straight face, adjusting the stupid sweatband he’s wearing like we’re training for a decathlon.
I glance down at my boots, scuffed black leather, thick soles, zero breathability, and then over at the field of grown adults hurling beanbags like it’s the damn Olympic trials.
I’d thought he was joking when he said Vanessa dropped out of his team for the Coyote Cup and he needed me to sub. I hadn’t realized I’d be thrown into a town-wide spectacle where half the population was already half drunk and entirely too serious.
Apparently cornhole is religion here.
I should’ve stayed home with Pickle and watched trash TV. Instead, I’m standing under a baking sun in a black dress and boots that feel like leg prisons while everyone else wears cheerful T shirts with punny team names. Jesse’s team is CornHub. I wish I was kidding.
"Just aim for the hole," Jesse says, clapping me on the back like he’s sending me off to war.
"I swear," I mumble, squinting across the lawn.
The crowd isn’t huge, but it’s… present. Enthusiastic. And judging by the lawn chairs, coolers, and matching team bandanas, this isn’t their first beanbag rodeo. I toss a half hearted bag and it lands with a pathetic thump, not even close.
A cheer goes up anyway. I blink.
"That was… not bad!" Penny calls from the sidelines, hands cupped around her mouth like a tiny, terrifying coach. She's wearing a whistle. A real one.
I wave at her. "Thanks, boss."
She gives me a thumbs up, dead serious. I almost smile… until I realize someone else is watching me.
Freddie.
He’s leaning against a picnic table on the far side of the lawn, sunglasses on, arms folded. He’s got that whole relaxed dad thing going on, plain gray T shirt, ballcap, and that unreadable expression he always wears in public.
I swear I see him smirk when I miss another throw. But he’s not looking at me, not really.
He’s watching the woman beside him.
Blond. Pretty. Laughing at something he says. Her hand brushes his arm, and he doesn’t pull away.
Oh.
Well. I guess that answers that.
I look away, too fast, but it’s fine. I mean, it’s been weeks. One night. One mistake. It didn’t mean anything. He hasn’t brought it up. I haven’t either. We’re pretending it didn’t happen, and maybe that’s for the best. It’s not like he’s the long term type, anyway.
Still. My chest pinches, and it has nothing to do with the boots.
"Don’t look now," Jesse mutters, stepping up beside me with a red Solo cup. "But she showed up after all."
"Who?" I ask, still distracted.
He tips his cup toward the parking lot. "Vanessa."
Oh. Great.
Sure enough, Vanessa’s sauntering across the lawn in oversized sunglasses and a romper that looks designed to cause trouble. She’s not playing, just drinking spiked seltzers and watching like she owns the place.
She flops into a lawn chair, blows a kiss at Jesse just to annoy him, and then turns her attention to the tattoo twins like she’s picking her next victim.
Speaking of.
Mitchell is here. Of course he is. He’s on the rival team with Timothy, and both of them look way too good in sleeveless shirts.
Mitchell’s tossing bags like he’s in a movie montage, muscles flexing, jaw set.
The kind of guy who takes this way too seriously…
and still somehow makes it look hot. His brother’s laughing at something, easy and sunny as always.
They’re winning. Obviously.
Everyone cheers when Mitchell sinks another bag clean through the hole. He barely reacts, just shrugs like it’s no big deal. But I see his eyes cut toward me. Brief. Then gone.
Freddie doesn’t look.
I hate that I notice.
"You okay?" Jesse asks, nudging me.
"Peachy," I lie, wiping sweat from my neck.
We take a break between matches. Penny jogs over to offer coaching tips, "You gotta flick your wrist, Ivy, like this," and I nod seriously like I’m not slowly dying inside.
"She takes this more seriously than I do," I tell Jesse as she skips away, probably to design us matching uniforms.
"She’s been training for this her whole life," he says, deadpan.
I take a sip of my drink, then glance across the field again just in time to see Mitchell being handed a water bottle by a smiling woman I assume is their mom. Same dark hair, same piercing eyes, just with more crow’s feet and zero tattoos.
"Is that…?" I start.
"Oh yeah," Jesse says, following my line of sight. "That’s the Twins’ parents. Ride or die for the cornhole crown. Pretty sure their dad has a foam finger in the truck."
Sure enough, a man beside her, mustache, visor, full on dad mode, is clapping like Mitchell just scored a touchdown in the state finals.
"That’s kind of… weirdly adorable," I say.
"Yeah, well. They grew up here. Locals from birth. The Mitchell-Timothy Paradox has haunted Coyote Glen since Little League."
I snort. "So they’ve always been disgustingly good at everything?"
"Pretty much."
We watch their dad do a celebratory chest bump with some guy in cargo shorts. I shake my head.
Then, without really meaning to, I ask, "What about Freddie’s parents?"
Jesse turns toward me slightly, the sun catching the line of sweat at his temple. "He’s not from here."
I raise a brow. "Really?"
"Nah. He moved here for Trina. She grew up in Coyote Glen. He followed her out from Kentucky when she got pregnant. Figured he’d start fresh, build something, be close to her family. Then, you know…" He shrugs. "She bailed."
I blink. "So… he just stayed?"
"Yeah. Said by the time it all went to hell, he’d built a life here. Shop, friends, roots. No reason to uproot her just because Trina couldn’t stick it out."
I glance across the grass again. Freddie’s laughing at something, maybe at that woman’s joke, maybe not. I can’t tell. But his daughter’s coaching a game with wild confidence, and he’s got a community, people who know him, who rely on him. That’s a kind of stability you don’t just throw away.
Even if it started for the wrong reasons.
Jesse claps his hands once. "Alright. Let’s ruin some lives."
"What?"
"We’re up. Final round. Time to bring the pain, Fletcher."
"Oh no."
We walk back to the board, and the mood has shifted.
There’s a buzz in the air. Someone cranks up the Bluetooth speaker, blasting something vaguely country pop.
The crowd seems to be twice the size now, spilling onto picnic blankets and folding chairs.
Kids are weaving through legs, dogs are barking, and I’m sweating in places I didn’t know had pores.
"Leo, Karl!" Jesse yells. "Come on, we got to beat those ranchers."
"Wait," I say, eyes narrowing. "Ranchers?"
Jesse tips his head toward the edge of the crowd. "There. By the fence. That’s Boone Taylor, in the cowboy hat, and his crew. Cattle guys. Competitive as hell."
I follow his gaze.
Boone is standing like a statue, arms folded, aviator shades glinting under the brim of his hat. He looks like the human version of a stern warning sign.
Jesse leans on my shoulders. "Watch out for Silas. The one with the grin and the dimples. He’s trouble with a capital T. The one he’s got in head lock, Rowan Kim, he’s quieter, but he might be one to watch as well."
I nod and swallow hard.
What the hell have I gotten myself in to?
"You weren’t kidding," I mutter. "This is a turf war."
"Oh yeah," Jesse says. "Firemen versus farmers is the biggest rivalry in town. Cornhole just happens to be the battlefield. Blood has been spilled."
"Metaphorically?"
"Mostly."
Leo strolls up then, two beers in hand, calm as ever. "We ready?"
Karl bounds in behind him, curls bouncing, holding a red Popsicle. "I’ve stretched. I’m hydrated. I’m emotionally prepared to carry this team if I have to."
"Bold of you to assume you’re not the weak link," Jesse says, clapping him on the back.
Karl gasps. "That’s hurtful and possibly true."
The ref blows his whistle and the crowd shuffles in, quieting into a tense hum. It’s the final match. CornHub versus the Ranch Hands. Apparently it all comes down to this.
Jesse hands me a fresh beanbag and gives me a look like we’re storming Normandy. "Just… do what you did last time. But better."
"What I did last time was hit a kid with the bag."
"She was in the way. And she’s fine. It builds character."
I shoot him a look, then step up to the board.
Boone throws first. Of course, he nails the center like he’s done it in his sleep since 1989. His team claps in unison, like they rehearsed it. Jesse mutters something unprintable.
Then Silas steps up.
His form is perfect. Relaxed shoulders, slow exhale, focused eyes. His bag sails through the air and lands dead center, a smooth swish through the hole. The crowd loses it. His mom fist pumps. His dad waves the foam finger like it’s a saber.
"I hate him," Jesse mutters under his breath.
"Which one?"
"Yes," Jesse replies.
The round rolls on. Jesse and Leo hold their own, Karl miraculously scores despite holding his Popsicle the whole time, and somehow we’re still neck and neck with the Ranch Hands.
Then it’s me again.
And it’s down to the last shot.
The sun is burning directly into my corneas. The crowd is buzzing, someone’s dog is howling in rhythm with the Bluetooth speaker, and Penny is chanting, "Ivy! Ivy!" from the sidelines like an overenthusiastic cheerleader.
One throw.
One shot.
Everything smells like beer and sunscreen and impending doom.
Jesse nudges me forward. "If you make this, I’ll buy you a gallon of whatever overpriced cold brew you want for the rest of the summer."
"Tempting," I mutter, stepping up to the board.
I stare down the lane.
The bag in my hand feels heavier than before. My fingers are sweating. Boone stares at me like I’m wasting his daylight.
I inhale.
Exhale.
Flick.
The bag sails through the air in what feels like slow motion. I swear I see a child drop their ice cream in anticipation. My boots feel glued to the grass.
Then…
Thwack.
It hits the board, slides…
…and drops through the hole.
Dead center.
Silence.
For half a second, the entire field holds its breath.
Then chaos.
Jesse screams. Karl tackles Leo. Penny blows her whistle like she’s officiating the Super Bowl. And the crowd, oh wow, the crowd, erupts like I just scored a winning touchdown in a town that thinks ESPN is spelled C O R N.
People are clapping. Cheering. Someone throws a hat in the air.
And through it all, one voice breaks louder than the rest.
"Yeah, Ivy!"
I spin instinctively, scanning the crowd… and there he is.
Timothy.
Hands cupped around his mouth, eyes bright, grinning like a lunatic. He’s on his feet, shouting like he just watched a miracle happen.
Our eyes meet.
He throws both fists into the air and yells again, "That’s what I’m talking about!"
My heart does something it probably shouldn’t. I look away too quickly, face burning, but it’s already too late.
I’m smiling.
Not a smirk. Not my usual grimace disguised as humor.
A real, teeth showing, chest squeezing smile.
Oh no.
Karl jumps on my back, nearly knocking me over. "You did it! You legend!"
Jesse’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe. "I take it back. You are the weak link, Karl!"
Penny rushes over and grabs my hand like she’s going to lift it in victory. "Coach says we win! We beat the farmers!"
I blink at her. "Coach?"
She points to a golden retriever in a visor sitting under the scorekeeper’s table. "Coach says you’re MVP."
I nod solemnly. "Tell Coach I’m honored."
As the crowd starts to disperse and the adrenaline fades, I glance back toward Timothy.
He’s still smiling.
And this time, when our eyes meet, I don’t look away.