Chapter 23 #2
“That’s a great suggestion,” she said with a smile.
“I’ll talk to her. Anyhow, that’s all I’ve got.
” But her gaze landed on Mr. Dillard’s pie.
“Oh, wait. One last thing. Boy, did you guys come through on the pies. In the last two days, we’ve sold twelve hundred.
” When eyebrows shot up and people started murmuring, she continued. “My dad and I can’t thank you enough.”
When she sat back down, Decker found her hand again.
“Thank you, Willa,” the mayor said. “Next up, Denise Harper from the Calamity Youth Initiative.”
Willa remembered that group. They ran after-school programs, summer activities, and tutoring for kids. She leaned forward to pay attention.
“Thank you, Sal,” Denise said. “Well, we’ve got a little problem on our hands.
With all the government budget cuts, we’ve lost a chunk of our funding.
Now, I know you all want to pull out your wallets and help, and while we appreciate that, it won’t help us long-term.
What we really need is visibility. The more awareness we get, the easier it’ll become to raise money when we need it. ”
“So, a fundraiser?” someone asked.
“Exactly,” Denise said. “We’re considering a bachelor auction.”
There was laughter. A few groans.
Willa leaned toward Decker. “Ew. Auctioning off men?”
He hid a smile. “You worried someone will outbid you for me?”
“Oh, I don’t bid for men.” She kept her gaze on the speaker. “We’re either a match, or I move on.”
He squeezed her hand. “You’re my match.” The intensity in his eyes registered deep in her bones. “And you’re not moving anywhere without me.”
God, she wished she could believe him. Wished she had a crystal ball that could see the future. But the only vision she had was of him playing football and coming home to a scared little girl.
No room for me.
But there was no use in writing the ending to her story before she lived it, so she tuned back into Denise, who was fielding questions.
“I hear you, and it is a little outdated, but we just don’t know what else to do.
We’ve got so many fundraisers going on all year long, we were trying to find something different. ”
“What if we have a pie-throwing competition?” Decker asked.
Silence hovered in the room, and Willa had no idea where that idea would land. But someone said, “Oh, I like that.”
“How would that work?” Denise asked.
“There’s bound to be a world record for pie-throwing,” Decker said.
“Looking it up now,” Knox called as she tapped on the keypad of her phone. Fabric swished as people turned in their seats to wait for her. Her arm shot up in triumph. “Twenty-three hundred and ninety-four pies thrown in one continuous pie fight.”
“Oh, that’s a lot,” Phinny said.
“I mean, we’re literally getting hundreds a day for the festival,” Willa said. “And that’s on short notice. Imagine if we got the word out. We could use community kitchens—”
A beautiful blonde woman stood up. “I’m the owner of Wally’s in Owl Hoot. We’ll help.”
“I run the senior center,” a man said. “Our members would love to help. It’ll be a great project for us.”
“I like it,” Denise said. “It’s kid-friendly, and it’s a boon for the entire town. We’ll promote it throughout the valley, get businesses to sponsor it. It’ll help the whole community.” She looked at Decker. “You’ll help coordinate that?”
“Hey, his season starts in five weeks,” someone shouted. “Leave him out of it.”
Laughter exploded—more out of excitement for the idea than the comment itself. The room was abuzz with organizing. Someone started calculating how many ovens they’d need, and others threw out suggestions for a venue.
And as the town began building around his idea, a longing took form, one so outside the scope of her dreams and hopes and ambitions that it made no sense.
At the same time, nothing had made more sense.
Imagine if I could stay in town.
If I were the general manager.
She glanced at Decker. Imagine if he wanted to stay, too. Not now, of course. Not even next year. But if he came back after he retired.
And we could keep building a life together.
Birdie flashed into her mind.
A family.
Oh. Her heart fluttered wildly.
Yes. Oh, yes.
Images dropped into her mind. The three of them making pies. Sitting on a bench in the town square, licking ice cream cones. Strolling the grounds of the county fair.
A life so different, so beautiful, she couldn’t imagine ever going back to New York.
Decker lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of Willa’s childhood bedroom, the faint beam from the streetlight slicing across the room the way it always did.
For once, his mind wasn’t racing ahead to schedules or swelling percentages or durability timelines. He was happy exactly where he was.
Willa had fallen asleep with one hand draped across his ribs, her fingers twitching now and then like she was having a lively conversation in her dreams. He studied her face in the angled light—the curve of her cheek, the small crease between her brows she got when she was thinking too hard.
He’d never felt this kind of rightness before.
Not after a playoff win. Not after a record-breaking game.
Not even the first time he’d been handed the keys to the franchise.
This was different.
He’d formally hired the nanny that afternoon. She seemed good with Birdie. Competent. Between that and her impeccable credentials and glowing references, how could he go wrong? He’d set the start date. Sent her first paycheck to keep her locked in.
It was good. Birdie would have consistency.
He’d be on the field in five days. He had the record in sight. Seven hundred yards. Two dominant games, and it was his.
And he and Willa would make long-distance work. He wouldn’t let her go.
Before falling asleep, he needed to check on Birdie, so he eased himself from Willa’s bed, careful not to wake her.
The old floorboards creaked as he stepped into the hallway.
The inn had gone quiet hours ago. Only the occasional truck rolled past outside, engine humming before disappearing into the night.
Usually, he’d just take a quick peek through the cracked door, watching the rise and fall of his little girl’s back. Satisfied she was safe and comfortable, he’d get back to bed.
Tonight, he didn’t see the usual rhythm of her breathing.
It was quicker, shorter. He pushed the door open wider.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the nightlight.
The quilt Willa had layered over the bed was a riot of faded florals.
Birdie lay on her side, back to the door, posture tight, tense.
Nightmare?
He had to find out.
He could remember countless nights when he’d lie awake in his sleeping bag on the floor of his dad’s room, aware of the club sounds. The metal music, the clack of pool balls, the laughter, and the smack of fist to flesh.
He’d been scared shitless and so alone.
He didn’t think Birdie was feeling that.
It’s quiet here. Peaceful.
And she’s got me, Jack, and Willa.
She’s good.
Then he heard a whisper, so soft he might’ve missed it if the house hadn’t been quiet.
“S’okay,” she murmured. “I got you.”
Who was she talking to? He moved closer until he saw Moo’s big, soft ears. She was petting him, hugging him.
“Don’t be scared,” she said in a soothing voice. “I here.”
The words slipped into him like ice water.
How many times had he assumed she’d been asleep, and instead, she was lying there awake, whispering courage into a stuffed animal because that felt safer than calling for him?
A pulse of shame threaded through him.
Who better than him understood silence meant giving up? It was all that was left after he’d stopped believing anyone would come through for him.
He stood in the middle of the room, listening.
“It’s all right,” she told the stuffed animal. “We go home soon.”
That was it. He couldn’t take it anymore. The floorboard creaked as he crossed the room.
Birdie jerked, then stilled. Slowly, she turned toward him, worried. Like she’d been caught. Like she’d put him out. Which was what her mom’s boyfriend must’ve done countless times.
That man couldn’t be bothered with her.
Decker sat on the edge of the mattress, then when the distance didn’t feel right, he stretched out alongside her. “Hey,” he said softly.
Her fingers tightened around the stuffed animal, but she didn’t say a word.
He brushed a knuckle down the curve of her cheek. Her skin was warm. “You’re home, Birdie.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m your home.”
The words surprised him as they left his mouth. Not because he didn’t mean them, but because of how right they felt.
She searched his face, the way children do when they’re trying to determine whether an adult is telling the truth. “You stay wif me?” she asked.
The question was small. Fragile.
And it carried a weight greater than anything he’d ever held before. All the records, the stats, every second he’d shaved off his time running around the track amounted to nothing compared to what this child needed from him.
Because staying meant more than sitting there until she fell asleep. It meant something larger. It meant choosing permanence. It meant aligning every decision—every flight, every practice, every late-night film session—with the promise implied in those four words.
He thought of the building in L.A. The hum of fluorescent lights. The smell of turf and tape and cold air conditioning. The way everything in that world ran on timelines and projections and measurable output.
He thought of seven hundred yards.
He thought of the way his manager had used the word options.
And then he looked at his daughter, at the way she clutched Moo, and he knew none of it mattered compared to the sense of peace only he could give her.
“Yes,” he said, meaning it with every cell in his body. “I’m here to stay. I’m yours, Birdie. And you’re mine.”
She let out a shaky sigh and closed her eyes, her forehead pressing lightly against his arm. It wasn’t a hug, but it was contact. Connection.
He waited for her to fall asleep, matching his breathing to hers the way he had learned to regulate his own pulse before a snap.
Slow in.
Slow out.
After a few minutes, her body went heavy with sleep.
He remained there long after she drifted off, listening to the faint night sounds from the square. Feeling the weight of the promise he’d just made.
For the first time since he’d stepped onto a football field as a sophomore starter, the numbers didn’t soothe him.
Even as he recited them like a meditation: Seven hundred yards. Ten days to full-speed clearance. Eighty career starts. Twenty-four fourth-quarter comebacks.
They’d lost their power.
Because it was no longer about making himself feel safe anymore. Now, it was about Birdie.
He would show up for her the way she needed.
But how could he do it and still be the quarterback the franchise expected, split himself evenly enough to honor both worlds without failing one of them? That he didn’t know.
And that uncertainty—more than any blitz, more than any defensive scheme—terrified him.
He snugged his arm around her frail little body, as if anchoring them both in place, and stared into the dark, realizing that for the first time in his life, what he stood to lose was not a record.
It was a child who needed him in a way he uniquely understood.
And he’d be damned if he let her down.