3. Charlie
The corner booth at Frank’s Diner barely contained the eight bodies crammed into the deep green vinyl seats.
Booker wedged himself against the window, Seb sprawled across half the bench, Wyatt perched on the edge like he might need to escape at any moment, Grant sat backward on a chrome chair beside Charlie.
Across the table, Poppy squeezed between two cheerleaders, her blond ponytail still damp from the post-game shower.
They’d won. Thirty-one to seventeen, a comfortable margin that had the fans chanting their names.
Charlie had checked his phone in the locker room after the game and found three texts from his father.
Between the stadium and the diner, the phone had buzzed in Charlie’s pocket twice more.
He knew he’d have to answer, but he wanted this easy moment to last a little longer.
“To the Titans.” Seb raised his water glass in a mock toast. “And to Charlie’s arm, which continues to make the rest of us look good.”
“To the offensive line,” Charlie corrected. “Who gave me time to actually find my receivers.”
“So humble.” Seb clutched his chest. “It’s disgusting.”
The diner buzzed with the particular energy of a Saturday night in a college town. Students crammed into booths and families with young kids occupied the counter stools. Frank’s had been here for forty years, a New Haven institution with cracked vinyl seats and the best pie Charlie had ever tasted.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, expecting another demand from his father.
Sam:
Streamed the game. You looked good out there. Proud of you.
The tension in Charlie’s shoulders eased. Sam never texted empty praise. If his cousin said he looked good, he meant it.
Charlie:
Thanks. Wish you could’ve been here.
Sam:
Next home game. Ali and I will make the drive.
Charlie pocketed the phone as movement near the kitchen caught his eye. A server emerged with a tray balanced on her shoulder, chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail.
His hand stalled halfway to his glass of water.
Skylar.
After delivering the plates to a table, she wove through the packed diner, her gaze sweeping past Charlie without acknowledgment and landing on Poppy with a small wave.
“Sky.” Poppy bounced in her seat. “I totally forgot you were working tonight.”
“My fav way to spend a Saturday.” Skylar fished around in the pocket of her green Frank’s apron. “Are we celebrating?”
“The Titan’s won.” Poppy gestured around the table. “You remember Grant. And this is Seb, and Wyatt, and—”
“I know who everyone is.” Skylar’s tone was neutral, professional. She still hadn’t looked directly at Charlie. “They're hard to forget.”
Charlie stood. “Here, take my seat for a minute. You two can catch up.”
Her pen tapped against her notepad. “I’m working.” She finally met his eyes, and her jaw tightened a fraction before she glanced down at her notepad. “What can I get everyone?”
Grant and Seb ordered half the menu for the table to share then everyone rattled off their drinks. Charlie waited until last. “Coffee and a slice of the apple pie.”
She wrote without looking up. “Cream and sugar?”
“Black.”
“Got it.” She tucked the notepad away. “Food should be out in fifteen.”
As she walked away, Charlie eased back into the chair. His spine didn’t follow.
“Your roommate seems nice,” Seb offered to Poppy.
“She’s the best. Works constantly, though. I barely see her.” Poppy’s attention shifted to the cheerleaders beside her. “We need to finalize our makeup looks for the photoshoot.”
One of the other cheerleaders pulled out her phone. “I was thinking we could all do a smoky eye—”
“I love that.” Poppy clapped her hands together. “The Dean said the photos might end up on the website, maybe even in recruitment materials.”
Charlie nodded, arranging his features into an expression of enthusiasm. Dean Fairchild had selected ten football players and ten cheerleaders to take “football life” promotional shots. There’d be enough cameras to document every staged smile.
Grant nudged Charlie’s elbow. “You don’t look excited.”
Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’d rather write my business ethics paper.” He tipped his chin in Poppy’s direction. “But the shoot means a lot to her.”
“And Wyatt,” Grant said.
The rookie’s head jerked. “What’s that?”
“Our senior bios.” Grant sat forward. “Coach wants them by Monday and I’m stuck. What’d you write for yours?”
A red tinge appeared on Wyatt’s cheeks. “I haven’t started. I have no clue what to write.”
Grant turned to Charlie. “How about you?”
“Haven’t finished it yet.”
“Bull. You had that thing done two weeks ago.”
Charlie drummed a finger on the table. “I’ve been revising.”
Seb waved a hand. “Come on, I need inspiration. All I’ve got is ‘Sebastian Reyes, tight end, likes winning and protein shakes.’”
“That’s terrible,” Wyatt snorted.
Seb slowly swiveled his head to glare at him. “I know it’s terrible. That’s why I need help.”
Wyatt held up his hands.
Booker jumped in. “Read us yours, Charlie.”
Charlie’s thumb hovered over his phone. The notes app was open, but not to the bio. He scrolled past three screens of text before he found the right file.
“Fine.” He cleared his throat. “Charlie Carnell, Senior Quarterback. Four years ago, I stepped onto Thorndale’s field as a freshman who couldn’t read a cover-two defense.
Football taught me when to throw the pass and when to take the hit.
My teammates taught me everything else. If I could stay on this field forever, I would. ”
Silence.
Charlie stared at the words on the screen, unable to face his friend’s disappointment.
Seb blinked. “Dude.”
“It’s rough,” Charlie said. “I’m still working on—”
“That’s not rough. That’s poetry.” Seb turned to Grant. “Did you know he could write like that?”
Grant sipped his water. “I had suspicions.”
“Write mine,” Seb said immediately. “Please. I’ll buy you pie for a month.”
“Mine too,” Wyatt added. “If you don’t mind.”
“I can’t write your bios for you.”
“Not write. Just . . . help. Polish.” Booker tapped the center of the table. “Make them sound like actual humans instead of LinkedIn profiles.”
Charlie looked around the table at his teammates. Four faces watching him with varying degrees of hope.
“Fine,” he heard himself say. “Send me your stats and some bullet points. I’ll see what I can do.”
Seb pumped his fist, Wyatt’s shoulders relaxed, and Booker sighed with audible relief.
Charlie’s phone buzzed insistently, signaling the inevitable. A call meant his father had run out of patience. He slid out of the booth. “I need to take this.”
The autumn air hit his jaw as he stepped outside, sharp and cold. He answered on the fourth ring.
“Charles.” His name carried that particular blend of warmth and expectation that always set Charlie’s teeth on edge. “Hell of a game today.”
“Thanks.”
“That third-quarter drive was exceptional. When the scouts see the replay, they’ll be impressed.” A pause. “Though I noticed you hesitated on that corner route in the second quarter. You had Booker open by three steps and you held the ball too long.”
Charlie closed his eyes. Next play. “The coverage shifted. I had to reset.”
“Always trust your first read. That’s what separates good quarterbacks from great ones.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“I know you will.” Brennan’s tone shifted, warming again. “Listen, I’ve set up a meeting with the Morrison Group. They’re interested in discussing a sponsorship when you turn professional next season.”
“Dad, I need to concentrate on school. I haven’t even been drafted.”
“Your future won’t wait. This is more important than learning things from stuffy books, Charles. This is your career. Your legacy.”
The cold from the bricks against his back seeped through his jacket. Next play. Next play. “When’s the meeting?”
“A breakfast meet and greet at the beginning of November. I’ll send you the details.” His father coughed. “I’m proud of you, son. You’re so close to everything we’ve been working toward. Don’t lose focus now.”
The line went dead. Charlie stared at his phone for a long moment, then pocketed the device and went back inside.
Skylar was setting a plate in front of Wyatt, her movements efficient. She placed Charlie’s pie on the table without comment and moved to clear the table beside them.
He ate without tasting. Across the table, Poppy was deep in conversation with the cheerleaders about contour techniques.
She caught his eye and smiled, bright and uncomplicated, and Charlie’s mouth arranged itself into the familiar shape.
The one that started and stopped in exactly the same place every time.
When the meal wound down, he caught Grant’s eye and tilted his head toward the counter. Grant nodded, steering the conversation as Charlie slipped away.
Skylar stood behind the counter, punching numbers into the register. She looked up as he approached, and the lines around her mouth tightened. “Separate checks?”
“One check. I’ve got the table.”
She nodded, hitting buttons. “Two hundred and seventeen dollars.”
Charlie handed over his card. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
Skylar’s hazel eyes met his, a flash of gold catching the fluorescent light. “I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion.”
“Most people say my reputation precedes me.”
“I’m not most people.” She ran his card and handed the plastic back.
“Fair enough.” He added a 25 percent tip and signed the receipt.
“I’m heading over to Maya’s.” Poppy appeared at his elbow, zipping her jacket. “Raincheck on hanging out?”
Relief washed through him, followed immediately by guilt. “Yeah, of course. Have fun.”
“See you at noon.” She rose on her toes, kissed his cheek, and bounced off to join the cheerleaders. Charlie watched her go, noting the easy way she linked arms with Maya, never looking back at him.
The next morning Charlie sat on his couch, coffee cooling on the side table, one hand resting on the quilt his grandmother had sewn for him, out of place against a room someone else had designed. He propped his phone against the lamp to wait for the call.