Chapter Eight
S he should’ve said no, obviously. But for the life of her, Calla couldn’t seem to force the words no, thanks out of her mouth. Which was why, seconds later, she found herself walking across the moonlit town green, elbow to elbow with Jackson as Bishop trudged ahead of them at a snail’s pace.
It was going to take a century to walk home at this rate.
Under the street lamps of Bulldog Avenue, everything had been fine.
Calla had been able to pretend that she’d only accepted Jackson’s offer because of the late hour.
Safety first, and all that. Plus he legitimately needed a heads-up on the mum situation before homecoming week rolled around.
But with the soft grass of the town green underfoot and nothing but the moon to light their way, this walk felt decidedly more intimate.
And the truth of the matter was that Calla was enjoying Jackson’s company.
He’d appeared genuinely interested when she’d told him about the mum party, asking questions like exactly how big was a mum supposed to be (the bigger the better) and if she planned on wearing one to the homecoming game this year (over her dead body).
When she’d shown him her sad attempt at the diamondback ribbon braid, he’d insisted it wasn’t all that bad.
That’s when she should’ve known she was in trouble.
No one in their right mind could look at her pitiful attempt at mum-making and think it was anything less than a hot mess.
Then she’d softened at his kind words without even realizing it.
All the while, what he’d said earlier kept spinning through her mind like a favorite record.
Calla, if I was flirting with you, you’d know it.
Well, then.
If that didn’t give a girl goose bumps, nothing would.
She wrapped her jean jacket more tightly around her frame, despite the mild evening.
She needed to say something…anything. They were nearly to the water tower, which had been the prime make-out spot back in high school.
Calla wasn’t sure if that was still a thing or not.
She hadn’t given it a single thought since she’d left for college.
Regardless, she didn’t want to tempt fate.
Especially now that she was feeling like the smart girl who writes for the school paper and Jackson was the star of the football team who’d just offered to carry her books home from school.
What was wrong with her?
“Have you decided who your starters are for tomorrow night?” she asked.
Jackson gave her a curious look. “On the record or off?”
Did it matter? The answer was obvious—Watson Stokes, Hunt Collier and Zander Brown had been the three strongest players last year when they’d only been juniors.
This was their senior year, and they’d been named as team captains before Jackson’s arrival.
Coach Simmons had likely designed the entire season playbook around them.
“Off.” She shrugged. “I’m just making conversation.”
He arched a brow. “And that’s really what you want to talk about? Football?”
On the contrary, it was the last thing she wanted to discuss. Which made it the only safe topic at the moment.
Too bad he’d seen right through her.
“Is it that obvious?” she asked, grimacing.
“Is what that obvious?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “The fact that I hate football.”
Jackson stopped dead in his tracks, causing Bishop to tumble head over paws. “That can’t possibly be true.”
His disappointment was so acute that it made Calla laugh, but at the same time, she sort of wanted to cry. A bittersweet warmth flooded her chest. “I promise you it is.”
He regarded her with an intensity that made her mouth go dry, but he didn’t look at her like he pitied her and that meant more to her than he could possibly know. “But you’re a…”
“Football reporter.” She scrunched her face. “Yeah, I know. It doesn’t make much sense.”
Jackson shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
That makes two of us.
Calla blew out a breath. “I love writing, and I love working at the paper. Someday I hope to get promoted to the features department, but for now, all my boss will let me cover is football.”
“Features, as in stuff like investigative journalism?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Uplifting pieces. I want to write stories that inspire people—personal profiles and human interest articles. The news cycle is so negative these days. I want to put something positive out in the world. A reason to hope, if that makes sense.”
She waited for him to laugh. Calla wasn’t exactly known for having a sunshiny, positive outlook on life, so her career aspirations came as a surprise to most people, her editor included.
Even Bailey had looked at her like she was a little crazy when she’d told her the kind of reporter she wanted to be someday.
Jackson didn’t laugh, though. He just gave her a quiet smile. “Football can be inspiring, but I can understand why you might have a complicated relationship with the sport. It’s because of Ethan, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “And he’s the same reason I get pigeonholed into writing about the Bulldogs.
When people around here think of the Dunnes, they automatically think of football.
If I didn’t believe in myself as a writer, I’d be tempted to think he’s the only reason I even have a job at the Lone Star Gazette . ”
“Don’t even go there. You’re a talented reporter, Calla.
Anyone can see that. Your column is thoughtful, and you understand football as well as any of the reporters at the big sports networks.
” A sheepish grin tipped his lips, and Calla went a little swoony, despite every effort not to.
“Try not to look so surprised. Yes, I’ve read your column. Even some of your older pieces.”
She opened her mouth and then closed it again. She wasn’t sure what to do with that information. Then again, she’d never imagined Jackson Knight coaching the Bishop Bulldogs, either.
“Seriously, you’re great at what you do, and your column runs daily. I’m sure you’ve got a huge number of clippings for your portfolio by now. That’s a lot to bring to the table. If your boss at the Gazette won’t move you off the sports page, you could always go someplace else,” he said.
It wasn’t as if the idea hadn’t crossed her mind. It had. Several times, in fact. “I moved away for college. Far away, actually. I attended the University of Missouri on a journalism scholarship.”
The corners of Jackson’s eyes crinkled. “Great school for journalism.”
“Ethan got sick shortly after I graduated. I came back for my family, but the truth of it is, I don’t want to move away again. This is home.” As maddening and imperfect as it could be, it was still the place that Calla loved more than anywhere else on earth.
“Then I guess it’s really too bad you hate football.” Jackson clutched his chest as if he were dying. “Ouch. Just saying that out loud is painful.”
“Oh, stop.” She gave him a playful swat, which was wholly ineffective against his solid form. Still, she was grateful he’d lightened the mood with a joke.
They started walking again, and Bishop pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.
Calla regarded the bulldog. She’d seen him at games plenty of times, but she couldn’t remember any of the other coaches bringing him along anyplace else.
“Are you sure Bishop actually likes this? He seems more of a couch potato type dog. I’m no expert like my dad, but he doesn’t look all that enthused. ”
Jackson gave her a lopsided grin. “I’m not sure of anything where this dog is concerned. Whenever I’m away from the house, he gets destructive. I’ve been watching dog-training videos online in between game tapes. Walking is supposed to help.”
“Has it so far?”
A playful glint flickered in his gaze. “No. Not at all, actually.”
Calla laughed again, and as they reached the end of the town green, she realized she’d had every bit as much fun walking home with Jackson as she had at the mum party. Maybe even more.
This isn’t good.
She didn’t want to like Jackson, and she especially didn’t want to be attracted to him. But it just might’ve been too late.
“This is me,” she said quietly, gesturing toward the street where her childhood home stood on the corner.
Dad had left the porch light on, and their Go Bulldogs yard sign was plainly visible in the moonlight.
“I moved back in with my dad after Ethan passed away. He and my mom split up after Ethan got injured, and I’ve felt pretty protective of him since then. I didn’t want him to be lonely.”
“That explains the yard sign,” Jackson said, eyes glittering in the darkness.
How did it feel so normal talking to him about things she always kept locked up inside? She had no idea, but it was going to be the death of her.
“You know, my dad might be able to help with Bishop’s separation anxiety. His vet clinic is just off Bulldog Avenue,” Calla said.
His handsome face flooded with relief. “Thank you. I just might take you up on that offer.”
“Honestly, you’d be doing him a favor. He’d love it if you stopped by. It would totally make his day.” Calla’s heart warmed at the idea, although the last thing she needed was for her life to get any more entwined with Jackson’s.
You’re doing this for the dog , she told herself. And for your dad .
But the longing that wound its way through her as his hand accidentally grazed hers told her that just might be a lie.
“You’re sure you don’t like football?” He narrowed his gaze at her as their pinkie fingers linked together. “Not even a little bit?”
Calla bit back a smile. The sport might’ve been growing on her, but she wasn’t anywhere near ready to make such a daring admission—least of all to herself. “Nope.”
“That settles it, then. You were right earlier.” A slow grin spread across his face, and her heart turned over in her chest. “We clearly can’t date.”
No, they couldn’t. But here, in this moment, she couldn’t quite remember why it was such a bad idea.