Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
WYATT
“Why do we have to be here at ten-thirty in the morning for lunch?” I ask as we step into a quickly forming line at a BBQ place.
Nash insisted we continue my Texas lessons after the crawfish boil last month, and today is a beautiful day to…
stand in line, apparently. The restaurant looks like a house with a big wraparound porch, but the smells wafting from it are unlike any home-cooked meal I’ve ever had the pleasure of smelling.
“Because when you’re the only Michelin-starred BBQ joint in Houston, you sell out fast.” Nash gestures at the line we’re in. We take a minuscule step forward, and I look toward where it winds around the wooden porch. Seeing my thousand-yard stare, she reassures me. “It’s worth it, trust me.”
It takes us two hours to get to the front of the line. Two hours. I was hungry when we got here, but I’m starving now. At least you get the delicious smell of smoked meat the entire time, for free.
When we step up to the counter, I don’t know what to get, so Nash orders us a little of everything she likes.
We take a seat at the picnic-style tables and wait until they call her name over the speaker.
When they do, I get up and grab our tray from the guy in the window.
It’s huge and full to bursting with brisket, pulled pork, juicy turkey breast, potato salad, and baked beans.
I set it on the table in front of her and take my seat.
It’s been absolute fucking torture smelling this the whole time we were in line.
Not even a plate of free bread while we waited to sate my appetite.
Nash has her face buried in her phone. “Nash, it’s time to eat. Come on, we’ve been waiting for hours.”
She looks up at me, her eyes full of emotion that I can’t quite read until she slides her phone to me. “Look at this.”
It’s a clip of the Moons game last week.
The last point of the game—Nash’s ace serve.
All of the Hurricanes rushing the court after their victory, and right in the middle of it all, with a halo of space around us like we’re meant to be the focus of the video, is us.
I watch as I pick her up, her legs wrapping around my waist, her face glowing with sweat and her smile so bright it could light up a city.
It’s like a scene out of the rom-coms Nash would always make me watch when she was feeling down.
Then I stare as we kiss on screen. I knew it was coming. I remember it with every fiber of my being, but I can’t rip my eyes away. It’s soft and gentle, almost surprising. It’s like I’m trying to say how proud I am of her without words.
The stream of shitty comments floating across the screen breaks me out of my reverie:
I’m sure it was easy to fill that arena selling the tickets for only $20.
They’re really trying hard with this PVF stuff, huh?
I’ll watch volleyball that actually matters.
It won’t last.
This game is so slow compared to the men’s leagues we already have.
I’ve seen better performances at my local Sunday rec league.
I pause the video. “You shouldn’t be reading this kind of stuff.”
She pulls her phone back and continues her doom scroll through the comments. “I wasn’t looking for it.”
“I’m sure it will blow over.” I push the tray of meat toward her and give her one of the paper plates the guy in the window handed me.
“It has four-hundred-thousand likes. It’s going viral.”
“All of those dudes are washed-up high school heroes who never got picked for the baseball team. Or were stars in high school and didn’t make a college team.
They don’t know anything about the PVF, or you.
” She’s still looking at the phone, and I’m getting sick of the same fifteen seconds of the same song over and over again.
I scoop up most of the pulled pork and put it on her plate.
It’s her favorite, and I just need a taste.
“This is exactly what I’m afraid of though, Wyatt.
” She lifts her green eyes to me and there’s genuine hurt in them.
“That nobody will give a fuck. That they would rather have one-hundred men’s leagues to choose from rather than watch one singular women’s game.
I dragged you into this against your will for my personal gain.
We filled the stadium for that home game, and still, no one cares.
” I wish I could take away the sting of the words from strangers, but Nash cares too much.
Volleyball is her whole life. I can relate, but no one is saying the NFL is “slow” or “trying really hard.”
“People care. The loud assholes on the Internet weren’t at that game. I was. It was electric. You were amazing. And I’m not here against my will.” I take her hand and place her fork in it. “Besides, any publicity is good publicity.”
“That only applies to, like, the Kardashians and Paris Hilton.”
I shake my head. “They just kicked the nest of a very passionate fan base. I bet your next home game will be standing-room only, and it won’t be just because of the Hurricanes.”
This is something I’m sure of. I believe in Nash and the Moons. They’re going to do great things—and I will make her believe it too.