Chapter Three
Jackson wondered when the bulldog had been painted on the water tower’s side.
The rendering of the mascot was flanked on either side by a sheriff’s-style star, and he felt like the bulldog painting could’ve been authentic to the original structure.
How long had this town been so obsessed with football?
Obsessed was no exaggeration. He’d counted multiple businesses along the parade route that boasted football-themed names.
On the way back to the high school down the opposite side of the wide boulevard, he spied even more.
The crowds lining the street hadn’t thinned a bit, despite the fact that they’d already witnessed the hokey spectacle the first time around—the marching band, the cheerleaders, the freaking cows…
And Jackson sitting on his hay bale with a drooling bulldog at his feet. He felt like he was having some sort of bizarre out-of-body experience. If anything, the bleachers appeared to be even more packed with a never-ending swath of Bishop High’s school colors.
With one notable exception.
He searched the front row for another glimpse of the woman he’d encountered before the parade, but she’d already left. If she was still anywhere in the vicinity, he would’ve been able to spot her—a pop of cherry red in a sea of green and white.
Just as well , he told himself. After the phone call she’d overheard, she probably knew enough about him to make things difficult for him in Bishop Falls.
Jackson didn’t need difficult. He needed to keep his head down to do his time here like it was a prison sentence, and then he could get his life back.
“Coach Knight?” someone called out as the trailer carrying Jackson ground to a halt back at its starting point alongside the gates that led to the stadium.
It took him a second to realize the scrawny kid in the band uniform was talking to him. Coach Knight. Jackson blew out a breath. That was going to take some getting used to.
Jackson glanced at the boy. The trombone he clutched to his chest nearly obscured his entire narrow torso. “Hey, there. Did you want me to sign something?”
He’d never autographed a musical instrument before, but there was a first time for everything. Scrawling his name in Sharpie on this boy’s trombone wouldn’t be the strangest part of Jackson’s first day in Bishop Falls. Not by a long shot.
“Sign something?” The boy blinked sandy-blond eyelashes. “Oh…no, sir. Thank you for offering, but, er, I’m actually one of the student managers for the football team. Principal Dean asked me to escort you to the press conference.”
Jackson felt himself frown as he stood and brushed bits of hay from his jeans. “You’re in the marching band and you’re the team’s student manager? That sounds like…a lot.”
“I’m a player on the team, too.” The boy beamed. “Fifth-string offensive line.”
Jackson arched a brow. Offensive line? An offensive lineman’s main job was to protect the quarterback and, as such, they were usually the largest players on the field. Something wasn’t quite adding up. “Fifth-string, huh?”
The kid’s face screwed. “I don’t get to play much.”
“How often is not much?” Jackson planted his hands loosely on his hips.
“Never.” The teen shrugged, and the tall band hat on his head slid down a few inches until it covered his eyes. He shoved it back in place, nonplussed. “I’m hoping that might change this year—now that you’re here, sir.”
Yet again, Jackson wondered what he’d gotten himself into when he agreed to this gig.
He looked at the student long and hard. Surely he wasn’t expected to crush the kid’s dream on his very first day as head coach. There’d be plenty of time for that later, once he’d actually seen the boy suit up.
“What’s your name, kid?” he finally asked.
“Tommy.” The teen beamed. “Tommy Riess.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Tommy.” Jackson stepped down from the trailer and hauled Bishop along with him. Then he thrust the dog’s leash toward Tommy. “Here.”
“I don’t understand, sir.” The boy’s megawatt smile dimmed.
Jackson caught a glimpse of his distorted reflection in the brassy surface of Tommy’s trombone. He felt like he was looking in a fun-house mirror, which only added to the bizarre nature of his surroundings. Was he truly stuck here for an entire season?
“You said you’re the equipment manager.” Jackson nodded at the hot mess of a mascot. “The leash and everything attached to it is athletic equipment.”
Tommy glanced down at the bulldog and swallowed. “Okay?”
It sounded more like a question than an affirmative reply, plus Jackson couldn’t help noticing that he’d finally dropped the sir.
He patted the boy on the back, palm spanning almost the entire width of his shoulders. “You can give him back to me before you leave for the day. But keeping an eye on Bishop while I do this press conference thing would be a big help.”
Tommy nearly crumpled with relief. “Yes, sir. No problem, sir. For a second there, I thought you meant you wanted me to take him home with me tonight, and I’m not sure my mom would be cool with that.”
Taking the dog home had been precisely what Jackson originally had in mind, but perhaps that was pushing it. Somehow he thought his agent would think so too.
“No upset moms,” Jackson said. “No one wants that.”
Although, something told him staying out of trouble with the women in this town was going to be easier said than done. He’d dodged enough lingerie during the parade to open his own Victoria’s Secret store.
“Yes, sir.” Tommy hugged his trombone with one hand and gave Bishop’s leash a gentle tug with the other. “Principal Dean said the press conference is being held in the school cafetorium.”
“Awesome,” Jackson said flatly. The last press conference he’d attended had been held at Chicago’s legendary Soldier Field, and now he was going to answer questions in a room that no doubt reeked of fish sticks and teen angst.
“Awesome,” Tommy echoed without a trace of sarcasm and didn’t move a muscle. He just kept on grinning at Jackson like he’d hung the moon.
“You can lead the way now, Tommy,” he prompted.
“Oh, right.” Tommy nodded and his hat slid down again. He shoved it back in place and turned toward the high school. “Sorry. It’s over here.”
Bishop glanced back at Jackson as if to check and make sure he was coming. Jackson sighed and fell in step behind them.
Passersby nodded at him and offered him high fives as they made their way down the sidewalk.
Most of the foot traffic seemed to be heading the opposite direction, toward the coffee shop or the pizza parlor or one of the other downtown hot spots.
Jackson wondered who, exactly, was going to be in attendance at this press event.
Bishop Falls was teeny tiny. Even if the entire staff of the local paper’s sports section turned up, he couldn’t imagine there would be more than a handful of people.
He hoped he was right. This had already been a heck of a day, and he still hadn’t set eyes on the rental house his agent had arranged for him.
Something told him it wasn’t going to be anything like the penthouse he occupied in downtown Chicago, with its private elevator and panoramic views of the city skyline and Lake Michigan.
He could deal with that later, though. Right now his most pressing problem was figuring out how to answer questions about a football program he knew nothing about.
That, and the itchy bits of hay that were currently poking him in places he couldn’t mention in polite company.
“It’s just inside to the left,” Tommy said as he escorted Jackson through the big double doors at the front of the school.
The lobby smelled like pencil shavings and disinfectant.
A gleaming trophy case stood just opposite the entrance, filled from end to end with football awards, plaques engraved with various dates and memorabilia.
The Bulldogs had apparently won a state title fourteen years ago, as evidenced by the championship ring proudly displayed atop a green velvet pillow in the center of the case.
“Did the team get to the state finals last year?” Jackson asked as they approached the entrance to the cafetorium.
A looked of stunned silence crossed Tommy’s face for a beat, as if Jackson had just asked the most obvious question in the world.
He cleared his throat and nodded as he reached for the door.
“Yes. We’ve been the runner-up every single year since the Bulldogs won the title fourteen years ago.
I’m pretty sure that’s why you’re here. Everyone thinks you’re the one who’s going to break the curse. ”
Well, that certainly sounded ominous.
And maybe just a little bit impossible…
“What curse?” Jackson asked, footsteps stalling just outside the cafetorium. This seemed like pertinent information to have before walking into a press conference, no matter how small it might be.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Tommy shook his head and a pained expression crossed his face. “Everyone knows you’re never supposed to mention the you-know-what out loud.”
“Son, I need to know what you’re talking about,” Jackson said. “What curse?”
But it was too late. No sooner had he uttered the question again than Tommy swung the door open wide, propping it open for Jackson to step inside.
And suddenly, he found himself facing a wall of cameras.
They were everywhere, from the front row of the cafetorium, all the way to the back of the room, and every one of them was pointed squarely at him.
Jackson lifted a hand in greeting at the standing-room-only crowd. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Where had all these folks come from?
He glanced at the press pass hanging around the nearest reporter’s neck. It identified the journalist as a sports editor for the Dallas Morning News , and Jackson felt his brow furrow. Texas was a large state, and Dallas wasn’t located anywhere near Bishop Falls.