Chapter Nine
“W ell, look who it is!” The young woman at the front desk of Bill Dunne’s vet clinic beamed when Jackson walked through the door after school later that day.
He clearly didn’t need to worry about dodging anyone’s lingerie, though, because her delighted expression was aimed straight at Bishop. Not at him.
“We’re all excited about having a big celebrity in the clinic today,” she gushed as she came around the reception desk to lavish the bulldog with pats and scratches behind his tiny ears. Bishop groaned with pleasure, and his back left leg swatted at the air—a drama king if there ever was one.
Then the receptionist stood. When her gaze collided with Jackson’s, her face went nearly as red as the scrubs she was wearing, minus their whimsical calico cat print. “You’re Jackson Knight.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said.
She nodded, eyes wide as saucers, and he noticed that the tag pinned to her kitten scrubs said Maisie. “I…um…sorry. I didn’t expect you to actually come here. I thought you’d send an assistant or a butler or something.”
Jackson had never had a butler, but sometimes he still longed for the days when he had an assistant. Although lately, that thought had been creeping its way into his head with less and less regularity.
“No assistant and no butler.” He shrugged. “Just me.”
Maisie stood, seemingly paralyzed, gazing up at him while Bishop snorted at their feet.
“If you don’t mind, Maisie, I’m kind of in a rush. We have a game tonight,” Jackson said.
Calla must’ve pulled some strings, because when he called Dr. Dunne’s office earlier this morning, he’d been able to score an appointment for Bishop at the perfect time—just after school, with a few hours to spare before the players were scheduled to arrive back on campus for the team warm-up and other pregame activities.
Whoever he’d spoken to at the time had been older and not as obviously star-struck as poor Maisie.
Her head bobbed at his prompting. “Right. Okay. Come this way, Jackson Knight.”
He followed her down a short hallway toward the exam rooms. “You can just call me—”
“Coach Knight!” A familiar voice echoed off the paneled walls.
Jackson turned, surprised to see Tommy Riess, the kid who’d escorted him to the cafetorium on parade day, cradling a slender dog with a mouse-like face and a purple cast on one of its tiny legs.
“Tommy.” He drew back in surprise. “What are you doing here? Is that your dog?”
“No, sir. I work here,” he said, grinning broadly.
So he was in the marching band, played on the football team and he had a part-time job at the pet clinic? When did this kid sleep?
Jackson suddenly felt a lot better about promoting him from the fifth-string lineup to the fourth string and relieving him of his equipment manager duties, despite his clumsy ball-handling skills. He obviously had a great work ethic. He’d get there, eventually.
“Tommy’s great with our patients.” An older man dressed in a white coat strolled up beside them and patted the teen on the shoulder. Calla’s father, if Jackson had to guess.
“ Really great.” Maisie nodded, twirling a lock of her dark hair around one of her fingers.
“Maisie, I can take this from here,” Dr. Dunne said with a discreet nod toward the reception area.
“Right.” She flashed Jackson a parting smile before scurrying back to her desk.
“We’re all big fans around here.” The veterinarian offered Jackson his hand for a shake. “It’s nice to officially meet you. I’m Bill Dunne.”
“Nice to meet you, as well,” Jackson said.
“Calla speaks very highly of you.”
Did she, now? That was certainly an interesting development.
Jackson couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips. “The feeling is mutual. Thank you for squeezing us in this afternoon. Calla said you might be able to help with Bishop’s separation anxiety.”
“His allergies, too,” Tommy said.
“We can certainly try,” Dr. Dunne added with gentle understanding.
Jackson was already feeling better about Bishop’s predicament, and they hadn’t even made it to the exam room yet.
“We’ll get you in and out of here as quickly as possible.” Dr. Dunne’s gaze shifted toward Tommy. “You, too. I know you’ve both got a big game tonight. Calla and I will be there with bells on to watch.”
Tommy scrunched his face. “You know I’m not going to actually play, right, Dr. Dunne? I’ll be on the bench, just like last year.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Dr. Dunne offered the boy a kind smile. “Everyone on the team is important. Right, Coach?”
Jackson nodded. “Exactly. Don’t sell yourself short, Tommy.”
He liked Calla’s father. A lot . Was it crazy that he sort of wanted to get Bob Simmons a cat so he’d be forced to come down here and get served a little lesson on sportsmanship along with the required feline vaccinations?
“Now let’s take a look at Bishop here.” Dr. Dunne held the door open to the exam room. A broad smile creased his face as he looked down at the dog. “Tonight’s a big night for this guy, too.”
It sure was. Tonight he got to writhe around on the Astroturf with a cheering audience. What more could an attention-starved bulldog want?
“See you later, Tommy.” Jackson clapped a hand between the kid’s bony shoulder blades as he ushered Bishop into the exam room. Then he winked and did his best to sound like an actual role model. “Don’t be tardy.”
* * *
The noise in the stadium was deafening as Jackson strode onto the field later that evening. He hadn’t expected to feel the same adrenaline rush as he usually did as a player, but there it was—the familiar surge of intensity mixed with acute focus that made the hair on his arms stand on end.
He told himself to do what he always did when he stepped onto the turf.
Jackson’s pre-game ritual usually consisted of mental exercises like running through plays in his head, visualizing a win and, when all else failed, slowly counting backward from one hundred.
But he didn’t want to disassociate from his feelings.
Not tonight. His fall from grace and subsequent injury had given him a new appreciation for the fleeting nature of his career.
Or maybe he’d just been thinking a lot about Calla’s brother.
Either way, tonight he wanted to drink everything in.
He paused to look around and soak up the atmosphere before his players ran through the victory tunnel.
The marching band was on the field, instruments swaying to the beat of the fight song.
He spotted Tommy with his trombone in the brass section and a grin tugged at his mouth.
Dressed in his football gear, the kid stuck out like a sore thumb amid the vibrant band uniforms. He worked hard at practice and had gotten permission from the band director to dress out for the games, despite the fact that he’d most likely ride the bench the entire season.
Jackson admired his dedication. Teams weren’t made up of just the star players, despite whatever Simmons seemed to think.
He hadn’t had a spare second yet to talk to the assistant coach about his inappropriate nickname for Stokes, Collier and Brown.
Plus, he hadn’t wanted to make waves with the coaching staff until after the big game.
Jackson wondered if that decision had been a mistake as he took in the sight of Simmons pacing the sidelines like a caged animal.
The game hadn’t even started yet, for crying out loud.
Cheerleaders with big bows pinned to their hair tumbled and flip-flopped across the field, leading the way for the team to run the victory tunnel and burst through a giant green paper barrier.
When the first players forced their way through, the crowd went wild, including Bishop.
In an unprecedented fit of enthusiasm, the bulldog barked and wiggled his entire back end as he strained at the end of his leash.
Jackson couldn’t help but laugh at the dog’s antics.
He was as fired up as everyone else in Bishop Falls, Astroturf allergy notwithstanding.
Jackson had tasked one of the equipment managers with watching the mascot during the game.
He had enough on his plate tonight. But every time he glanced over at the bulldog, Bishop swung his huge head in Jackson’s direction, as if he sensed it.
It was kinda cute, despite the fact that the dog was undeniably a giant pain in Jackson’s backside.
The bars of the national anthem started, and Jackson placed his hand over his heart as the other coaches flanked him on either side.
He jiggled his leg—not only because his knee ached slightly, but also to release some of the pent-up adrenaline that had been building inside him throughout the course of the day.
Then, just as the song wound to a close, he glanced toward the right and spotted Calla, a splash of cherry red and denim in a stadium full of school colors.
She was seated on the front row of the bleachers beside her dad and Bailey.
Her blond hair whipped in the fall breeze, and her nails were painted the exact crimson hue of her boots.
Jackson let his gaze linger a little too long, and when the band finished and the stands erupted into cheers, their eyes met…
held. Her lips curved into a secret smile before she glanced down at her notepad, and Jackson’s heart galloped in a way that had nothing whatsoever to do with the game.
They’d held pinkie fingers last night, such an innocent little moment.
Somehow, though, it had felt more meaningful than it should have.
He wasn’t sure what, if anything, was happening between them.
It felt like something, though—something wholesome and tender that he’d never experienced before. Something he didn’t deserve.
So it was probably for the best that it could never really happen.
“Let’s go!” Cade yelled and let loose with a holler that immediately snapped Jackson back into the moment.
Right. This was it. Game night. He needed to get his head on straight and focus.