3. Winona #2
Odd job to be done?
Babysitting, lawn work, dog walking?
Call Winona.
I’m not a green thumb, but I can trim bushes or pull weeds. I’ll take each job as it comes. If they come. Daisy seems to think I’ll be swamped with calls.
I turn around, a bubbly feeling in my chest. This just might work. And I’ll be able to help people—which I love.
When I turn, I smack right into a wall—of man. My head tips up, eyes roving from his sizable chest to his chin to his half smile and then those piercing hazel eyes framed by dark brows, as dark as his hair.
“Declan! Sorry! I didn’t see you.”
He chuckles softly. It’s a deep rumble, and the bubbly feeling turns into a low boil, warming my cheeks with the heat of embarrassment.
“No problem,” he says.
“I’ll just …” I step to the left to go around him just as he sidesteps to the left to make room for me to pass on the other side.
We laugh a nervous, slightly awkward laugh.
We? No. That’s just me.
Declan’s laugh is amused.
He steps to the right just as I move to pass through the space he had left there.
“Okay. Let’s try this again,” he says, placing his hands on my upper arms and guiding me around his left side while he steps to the right.
His hands are big, strong, and slightly calloused.
I slip past and turn, muttering, “Thanks.”
For what? I don’t know.
“You’re welcome?” The words come out like a question.
“Okay. See you around,” I say with a wave.
A wave? No. I’m wiggling my fingers like my hand fell asleep.
I turn and speed walk out of the deli.
Winona for Hire.
Oh, yeah. Hire me and my two left feet.
I sit in the driver’s seat of my car, staring into the deli, regaining my composure one breath at a time. My heart rate slowly resumes its normal cadence.
Winona for Hire. Yes. This is a good idea.
I just have to look where I’m going. That’s all.
Declan walks out carrying a paper bag. His eyes meet mine and he waves.
Not with fingers. No. His wave is polished, confident, almost sexy.
Not that I think he is sexy—he is, of course, but not for me.
He’s generically sexy, in a public figure sort of way.
Like a movie star or some other unattainable human being who is so gorgeous they surpass mere mortals.
Blowing out a breath, I turn the key and drive to the bakery to post my second Winona for Hire poster. And then I make it back to the bookshop without further incident.
And Daisy was right. The calls and texts start flowing in that evening. By the next day, I’ve got jobs lined up and I’ve even installed an online scheduler for people to book me.
By the time my friends and I are standing in the parking lot outside the actual Tennessee Thunder game-day stadium almost a week later, I’ve got enough odd jobs scheduled to last me the coming two weeks.
“This is nice,” I say, scanning the large arena and the crowd of people waiting to get in.
We drove in past an area where people have trucks and trailers parked in the lot.
Hatches are open. Some have canopies up.
Tailgaters, Cass told me. They come early and have a barbecue right in the parking lot.
I can think of nicer settings for a barbecue, but as I’m coming to learn, football and everything that goes along with it makes little to no sense.
The wide entrance to the stadium has the words Tennessee Thunder over it. We scan our tickets on our phones at the turnstiles and then pass through a bag search. We’re seated in a lower section to the left of the goalposts.
I expect the game to start right after we’re seated, but the players scatter around the field. Loud music plays throughout the stadium. Some workers come out and paint over the already painted lines while football players kick and throw balls, stretch, and move around in groups.
I turn to Cass. “What’s going on?”
“It’s the pregame warm-up.”
“Shouldn’t they do that before we get here?” I ask.
She just chuckles and asks me if I want to get some food.
She knows me well.
We walk up to the concession stand, and after a long line and paying prices that make me happy I’m now Winona for Hire, we’re back in our seats with hot salted pretzels, nachos and a hot dog each.
The stands fill with more people.
There’s a lot of action on the field and then more workers come out, clearing the balls and training equipment. The players run off the field.
“Where are they going?” I ask.
“They’re going to the locker room. They’ll be back,” Cass answers me.
“Thanks for being patient with all my questions,” I tell her.
“I’m just glad you’re giving this a chance.”
I take another bite of my hot dog, wiping my face with a paper napkin right away.
“This …” I hold my hot dog up in the air, “... I can get behind.”
She smiles. She knows I’m mainly here for the food and time with friends.
The cheerleaders and drummers come onto the field. Their routine fills the stands with energy, and I’m alternating between dancing in my seat along to the music and dipping nachos into cheese sauce. I hum with satisfaction around my bite.
“Good nachos?” Emberleigh asks me.
“It’s a good day. And, yes. Nachos, a stiff folding seat, loud music blaring, and all of us here … I don’t think it gets better than this.”
The giant screens over the field start flashing “Tennessee … Thunder … Tennessee … Thunder!” and then the crowd starts shouting the words as they alternate.
I barely notice that the cheerleaders have left the field when a burst of smoke and flash of light come from in front of a tunnel. And then, the Thunder is announced over the loudspeaker and men start running out through the smoke onto the field.
“Fireworks?” I ask Cass, my eyes wide and my smile even wider.
“Yes,” she smiles back. “Football isn’t so bad now, is it?”
“I never said it was bad,” I defend as more players run out with a second pop of pyrotechnics and a deafening roar of the crowd.
I could get used to football.
They haven’t called anyone by name, but Declan’s name is announced, “Declan O’Connell! MVP of last year’s Thunder team!”
Our group goes wild. I join them, shouting for the man I literally bumped into at the deli last week.
He runs onto the field from the tunnel, emerging through the cloud of smoke, raising his hands and looking around at the fans before sprinting through the double line of his teammates, giving them high fives, but down low.
Low fives? … and taking his place at the end of the lineup.
Once all the players are on the field, a woman comes to the mic. The announcer says, “At this time, we ask that you please rise and direct your attention to the field for the playing of our national anthem, performed today by Addison Walker.”
“Oh! I love her!” I tell Cass.
After the anthem, a group of players gather around the referees.
“Are they playing rock, paper, scissors?” I ask Cass. I’m mostly joking, but with how crazy football has turned out to be, I wouldn’t put it past them.
She says, “No. It’s a coin toss,” and I laugh, thinking she’s joking until the referee asks the player, heads or tails.
“Seriously?” I say.
Cass just shakes her head.
The Thunder gets the call, so everyone goes to the lineup and a kicker kicks the ball. A guy on the Thunder catches it and starts running. He makes it pretty far. And now, finally, after two hours of sitting in this chair, the game is underway.
Declan makes the next catch and I find myself yelling until I’m hoarse for him to “Run” and “Watch out!”
Not that he hears me, but it’s exhilarating watching him. I’m not sure what he’s trying to do, but a lot of guys are after him and I don’t want them to catch him. They look big, even from here. And I don’t think they’re going to go easy on him.
The game passes by in a blur. At halftime, a group of dancers and cheerleaders and a band come out.
The players come back out after that intermission. We’re ahead by one point. I can’t always tell who has the ball. I shout along with everyone in our row. We’re tied at the end of what they call the fourth quarter. At least that part of football is normal—having four quarters.
The team lines up and the quarterback holds the ball. He looks around. Declan is open. The ball soars through the air. How the man throws that far is beyond me. I can’t even throw a piece of wadded paper into the trash can with any sort of consistency.
Declan catches the ball and weaves in and out of the other players.
A group of men chases him again. And I’ve seen what they do when they catch a guy.
They pounce on him and all pile on top of one another.
I really don’t want that happening to Declan, so I scream and scream, “Go! Go! Go! Run like your life depends on it!”
Cass is laughing next to me. I’m not sure why. It’s really not funny. He could get hurt out there.
“Go, Declan! Keep running!” I shout. “Watch out for number sixty-two!”
He keeps running—faster than I expected him to be able to run.
He’s tall and big. Usually those types of men move more slowly.
Not Declan. He’s like a greased pig at the fair trying to outrun a group of farmers.
He runs past them all. And some of the other guys on the Thunder get in the way of the guys chasing him. I’m grateful for them.
Declan runs all the way to the other goalposts. And right at the end, a guy comes up behind him, lunging for him and grabbing around his waist, pulling him to the ground.
Patrick jumps up from his seat at the end of the row and shouts, “Touchdown!”
Everyone’s up and shouting, jumping around and hugging one another.
“We won!” Cass says.
“We won?”
“Yes! Declan scored the winning touchdown!”
“We won!” I shout. I jump up and down, hugging Cass and then Emberleigh. I turn to the people sitting behind us and shout, “We won!”
Then I turn to my sister and say, “I like games way better than practice.”
She smiles and says, “I think we have officially converted you.”