Chapter Two #2
Mission accomplished, Calla thought as something whizzed past her head at the exact moment her gaze snagged on Jackson sitting atop an artfully arranged collection of hay bales on a tractor trailer being pulled by a glossy white Ford F-450 Super Duty pickup truck.
“Please tell me I’m hallucinating right now.” Bailey grabbed Calla’s arm and she squinted at the airborne item that had just almost hit her upside the head. It looked to be a wadded-up article of clothing of some sort. A T-shirt, maybe?
Everything seemed to start moving in slow motion as the bundle of fabric unfurled, revealing lacy trim and a delicate, ivory satin bow stitched atop a gathered elastic waist band.
Definitely not a T-shirt.
Calla’s mouth fell open as the pair of women’s underpants, which could only be described as granny panties, floated through the air, clearly missing their intended mark.
Instead of landing at Jackson Knight’s feet, they hit the last of Sam Garcia’s impressive steers in its broad head before ultimately hooking on to the tip of one of its horns.
The panties dangled by a leg hole as the longhorn continued trudging down Bulldog Avenue as blasé as ever.
It’s finally happened. Calla’s heart went out to the poor rider sitting astride the longhorn as his face burned as fiery red as the juicy hothouse tomatoes Calla bought on Saturdays at the Bishop Falls farmer’s market. This town has fully lost the plot.
“Sadly, I think it’s really and truly happening,” she said in a voice as flat as the vast plains of the Texas panhandle.
Bailey glanced over her shoulder, and her eyes went wide. “Don’t look now, but I’m pretty sure those panties belonged to the mayor.”
Super. The next town council meeting was sure to be a treat.
Bailey laughed as her head swiveled back in the direction of the parade. Then her mouth fell open as the trailer carrying Jackson Knight rolled directly past their spot on the front row of the grandstand.
His right bicep flexed as he waved to the crowd.
Someone—Principal Dean, if Calla had to venture a guess—had given Jackson one of the new jerseys printed with his name and number in Bishop green-and-white, but the shirt looked very different on his athletic physique than it did on the general Bishop Falls population. And those eyes of his…
Calla wasn’t sure she’d ever seen that color blue before. If she weren’t so staunchly antifootball, she might’ve swooned.
But Calla hated football and as such, she hated all six feet five inches and two hundred fifty rock-solid pounds of Jackson Knight’s very existence. (Don’t judge. The only reason she knew those precise stats was for work.)
“Wow.” Bailey swallowed and dropped her voice to a whisper, presumably so Calla’s father wouldn’t hear. “Is it crazy that I sort of understand the panty-throwing now?”
“May I remind you that this is a small-town sporting event, not a Harry Styles concert?” Calla said with a laugh. Bailey never talked like that. Ever. It was good to see her acting like a normal, twenty-something-year-old woman…
Even if a football player had prompted it.
Jackson wasn’t painful to look at, though. Even Calla could admit that much. Somehow, it only made his presence in Bishop Falls more annoying.
“You know I’m only joking, right?” Bailey whispered, forehead puckering.
“Stop. Of course I do.” Calla wrapped an arm around her friend’s shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “But just so you know, if you tossed a pair of your days-of-the-week underpants at that man right now, I wouldn’t judge.”
“Yes, you would,” Bailey countered. “And so would the rest of this town.”
“But my judgment would be solely based on the intended target.” Calla scowled as Jackson made eye contact with her. “Nothing else.”
Recognition sparked in Jackson’s dreamy blue eyes, and the corner of his mouth tugged into a grin. Or was that a smirk? It was hard to tell. Either way, the only possible response on Calla’s part was a hearty eye roll.
Jackson winked at her as another pair of ladies’ underpants went airborne.
Bailey’s paper cup from Huddle Up Coffee paused halfway to her lips. “What was that?”
“A lace thong,” Calla said.
“Not that. Ew.” Bailey pulled a face. “I mean the wink.”
“What wink?”
“Don’t pretend Jackson Knight didn’t just wink at you. I saw it.” She gestured at the surrounding parade-goers with her coffee cup. “Everyone did.”
Sure enough, a few heads swiveled in Calla’s direction. Even Dad was side-eyeing her all of a sudden.
“I’m sure it was just some sort of tic,” Calla said. He had no business whatsoever winking at her.
Just like the butterflies swirling in her belly had no business taking flight like they did.
“That was not a tic. It was a wink,” Bailey said definitively. “And it’s kind of exciting. You have to admit, he’s awfully cute.”
“ Cute isn’t the first word that springs to mind,” Calla muttered.
Bailey pressed her lips together like she was trying not to laugh. “I suppose there are better adjectives.”
Chief among them: undatable .
“He’s still staring.” Bailey nudged Calla with her elbow. “That is some intense eye contact. Does he know who you are?”
“Sort of. Not really.” Calla glared at the cocky football star.
She’d never backed down from a staring contest in her life.
Plus, she wanted to make it clear that there was no scenario in this universe in which she’d ever throw an article of clothing at him.
Unless it was one of her leather Lucchese boots…
directly at his face. “We sort of met earlier. And just like I suspected, he has no clue what he’s signed on for. ”
After the announcement yesterday about his hiring, Calla had immediately banged out a thousand-word editorial about why bringing the bad boy of the league to Bishop Falls to coach high school kids was a terrible idea.
He was hardly a role model. Jackson Knight was famous for his cocky touchdown celebrations and spent more time dating supermodels and reality television stars than he did on the practice field.
He had a habit of disappearing without explanation, opting to pay the team fines for missing practice instead of offering even the thinnest excuse for leaving his team in the lurch.
Once, he’d missed a midseason game, which had resulted in a fine totaling twice as much as Calla made in an entire year.
Most recently, he’d skipped out on the Cyclones’ mandatory training camp to live it up in Vegas.
Then, after another hefty fine, he’d dragged himself to camp only to flame out and tear his ACL during his very first exercise.
SportsSphere had chronicled the whole affair with a prime-time special called “Knight in Tarnished Armor: It’s Time for the Cyclones to Cut Jackson Loose. ”
It didn’t take a genius to figure out why he was here. He was using Bishop Falls to make himself look like a halfway decent person and get back in the public’s good graces. But Calla’s editor didn’t want to hear it. He’d rejected her opinion piece without bothering to read it.
“Give the boy a chance,” Dad said, red-faced from whooping it up with the rest of the crowd. “This is just what the Bulldogs need to take them all the way to a state championship. All the other teams in the district are shaking in their boots right now.”
Jackson finally tore his gaze away from her as the float moved out of view, and the irritating tightness in Calla’s chest loosened.
She cleared her throat. “It takes more than a splashy name, a pretty face and intimidation to win football games.”
It took grit. It took dedication and accountability. It took strong values, a clear vision and unwavering commitment. Above all, leading a team to a winning season took heart.
But all of that sounded overly romantic, and Calla no longer talked about football in flowery terms. If she’d had her way, she’d never talk about it at all.
Besides, Dad was no longer paying attention to her. He was too busy fist-pumping and yelling along with the varsity cheerleaders as their float crawled by.
“Let’s go, Bulldogs, let’s go.” Clap, clap. “Let’s go, Bulldogs, let’s go.”
Calla half-heartedly clapped along at the appropriate intervals until she spied Bailey watching her through narrowed eyes.
“What?” Calla said.
“Nothing.” Bailey bit back a smile. “Just that you fully admitted he’s got a pretty face.”
“Pretty is as pretty does,” Calla countered, parroting one of her grandmother’s favorite Southern sayings.
Bailey’s lips twisted. “I’ve never fully understood that expression.”
“Me neither, other than something about inner beauty being more important than physical appearance, maybe? I don’t have time to fully unpack it, though, because I’ve got to scoot.
The postparade press conference is going to start soon.
” She slung an arm around her dad’s shoulders and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Bye, Dad.”
Bailey shook her head and made a tsk sound.
“What?” Calla asked again.
Bailey sighed. “I guess I just feel a little sorry for the guy. I know he’s a big shot professional football player and all. But he was clearly trying to flirt with you just now, and you’re going to go straight for the jugular in the press conference Q and A, aren’t you?”
“Trust me. If he was trying to flirt with me, it’s because he’s a player in every sense of the word.
” Honestly, Bailey could be so naive sometimes.
But her pure heart was one of the things Calla loved best about her friend.
Sometimes, she even envied it. “And of course I’m going to ask the tough questions.
Or I would, if Stan would let me. He basically told me to simply show up, keep my mouth shut and write my story. ”
As the editor-in-chief, Stanley Miller was Calla’s boss, and he’d given her strict instructions to “be a team player,” at least until the season got underway.
In other words, he wanted her to behave herself and write something that all the diehards would drool over while they convinced themselves that this was the year the Bulldogs would finally win State again.
Calla didn’t like to behave. Moreover, she believed in fair and accurate reporting. But she also longed to get promoted to the features department so she’d never have to write about football again, so she intended to cooperate as long as she could stand it.
“Good luck with that.” Bailey grinned, showcasing her dimples.
Calla’s chest squeezed tight, and for the millionth time she thought about the way tragedy changed people.
Some rose to the occasion, while others railed against fate.
The only constant was that no one came out the other side unscathed.
There was no going back to the time before everything changed.
It was the part of grief that no one seemed to talk about—the part where you felt like you’d lost yourself along with everything else.
“Thanks,” she said and then turned her back on the festivities and walked against the flow of foot traffic, red cowboy boots eating up the pavement all the way back to the high school.
Jackson Knight might be the most exciting thing to ever happen to Bishop Falls, but nothing ever changed here. Not really.
Still, if she had her way, she’d show Jackson exactly who Calla Dunne was, even if Calla herself didn’t quite recognize the girl in the mirror anymore.