Chapter Ten
D uring the weeks immediately following the season opener, Jackson was a hamster on a wheel.
He had a team to coach, obviously, but his reclaimed status as town hero meant that his presence was requested at every fall-themed event Bishop Falls had to offer.
Clearly the good people of small-town Texas loved autumn almost as much as they loved football, because his schedule suddenly became a never-ending cycle of bake sales, farmer’s markets, pancake breakfasts and harvest festivals.
It was getting a little out of hand.
“I’m not seeing any photos on your Instagram from the pumpkin-carving contest Thursday night,” Harper chirped in his ear first thing Saturday morning.
“Good morning to you, too, Harper,” he said, jamming his thumbs into his eye sockets since he’d yet to even lift his head from his pillow.
She ignored him and kept on talking about social media numbers and a litany of other things Jackson didn’t care a lick about.
He scrubbed his face and tried to remember what town function was on his agenda later today.
Then something wet slapped against the sole of his foot, hanging off the end of the mattress, as per usual.
“Leave it, Bishop!” He jerked his foot back, using the command he’d learned in the YouTube training videos he continued to watch whenever he had a chance. They were shockingly informative. Jackson had learned a lot.
Bishop, not so much.
The dog snorted and pawed at the side of the mattress, demanding to be let up onto the bed.
Jackson leaned over the side of the mattress to aim a stern look at the bulldog’s wrinkled face. “Keep dreaming, pal. You’re still not getting up here. You’ve got a perfectly good, hand-crocheted dog bed right over there.”
He pointed at the bed, crafted from green-and-white yarn. Jackson had picked it up from one of the vendor booths at the Harvest Days Artisan Fair last weekend, where he’d been tasked with selecting the winner of the baking contest. He’d never eaten so much pie in his life.
Harper sighed. “Jackson, are you even listening?”
“Of course I’m listening.” He parroted a few of her words back to her. “Pumpkin carving. Instagram.”
Blah, blah, blah.
“I don’t understand why you seem so insistent on refusing to take advantage of the good thing you’ve got going down there. The morning after your first home game, my phone was ringing off the hook. Now it’s been ten days since SportsSphere has even mentioned your name.”
“And you think pictures of badly carved pumpkins are going to change that?” The question came out more harshly than he’d intended. “Sorry. It’s early. The team had an away game last night, and we got in late.”
“We?” He could practically hear his agent’s eyes narrowing all the way in New York City.
“Me and the dog. I’m a mascot caretaker, in addition to being the head coach of the football team and part-time pumpkin judge. Remember?” Jackson pushed himself out of bed. Sleeping in clearly wasn’t going to happen.
He headed to the kitchen, and Bishop trotted behind him, nails clicking on the hardwood floor.
Jackson glanced around, as if a modern-day coffee maker might’ve appeared out of thin air overnight.
Alas, it hadn’t. In the good old days, his assistant would’ve taken care of that without even being asked.
Walking to Huddle Up every morning wasn’t that bad, though. He was getting used to it.
He was getting used to a lot of things, actually—like thinking that the good old days might not have been so great, after all.
But every time that realization struck him, he pushed it away as nonsense.
He’d worked hard to get where he was…or, more accurately, where he’d been .
As long as things kept going well here in Bishop Falls, he’d be back on top before he knew it.
“Pumpkin carving is wholesome, and wholesome is your new brand,” Harper huffed.
Jackson couldn’t remember agreeing to that, but he’d been awfully busy lately. Maybe he’d missed an email or something.
“How about I just do my job?” He reached into a cabinet for the premium dog food he’d picked up from Bill Dunne’s vet clinic.
According to Calla’s dad, pet food with high quality ingredients was supposed to help with the bulldog’s Astroturf allergy.
Apparently, he knew his stuff, because there’d been a drastic reduction in the bulldog’s snorting and sneezing.
Harper sighed again on the other end of the line as he poured the kibble into Bishop’s bowl.
“And how about you let me do mine ? Worrying about your branding is what I do, Jackson. It’s one of the reasons you have an agent in the first place.
Post the photos. I’d do it myself, but I’m having trouble finding any online. ”
“I’ll send you some,” Jackson said.
That sounded like a good enough compromise. Over the past month, he’d gotten so tired of Harper’s constant reminders about his social media that he’d given her access to his account. Now his grid was full of high school football highlights punctuated by images of his life in Bishop Falls.
All the photos had one thing in common: they were heavy on small-town charm. He hadn’t realized wholesomeness was his new “brand,” though. Calling it that felt sort of disingenuous. Cheap, almost.
Calla would’ve rolled her eyes hard at that word.
But outside of a few words in passing here and there, Jackson hadn’t spent any real time with Calla since the night before the season opener.
She’d written a phenomenal article about the game that had run smack on the Lone Star Gazette’s front page the following morning, accompanied by a huge photo of the last-second touchdown and a profile about Tommy.
Jackson hadn’t realized the kid had been named to the all-state marching band.
His father had been in the army and was killed overseas when Tommy was just a baby.
The boy was currently ranked at the tiptop of his class in academics, and he’d organized a local walk to raise money for Alzheimer’s care and support after his grandmother passed away last spring.
As he’d read Calla’s story, Jackson couldn’t help but think it was exactly the sort of piece she’d said she wanted to be known for—positive, uplifting and heartwarming—but with a football tie-in.
On impulse, he’d sent a congratulatory bouquet from Field Goal Flowers to her office, along with a card.
Thank you for the incredible article. Your words captured more than just the story. They captured the heart of the game. Bishop Falls—and I—are lucky to have you on our side.
Best,
Jackson Dunne
He’d done his best to keep things professional, but now he wondered if flowers had been too much. They weren’t dating. They’d barely even spoken in recent weeks…
Which was the right decision, even if it stung a bit. That first game had been a heady experience. They’d needed to pull back before they did something dumb and risked both their futures.
“Jackson?” Harper said, clearly exasperated at his inattention. “Are you still there?”
He placed Bishop’s bowl on the floor, and the bulldog dived right in. “Yes, but I need to get going. The school Halloween carnival is today.”
“And you’re going?”
He didn’t have a choice in the matter. All school faculty members were required to volunteer, which, as Jackson had pointed out to Principal Dean, didn’t exactly meet the definition of volunteering.
He hadn’t been complaining, just making a humorous observation.
In a shocker to no one, it had gone over like a lead balloon.
Jackson had once again been assigned detention duty later that afternoon.
“Yep, I’ll be there,” he said.
“Good work,” Harper replied and then ended the call with a brusque goodbye.
Bishop finished his breakfast and then scooted his bowl around the kitchen floor with his snout until it bumped into Jackson’s foot, nudging him out of the funk he always seemed to descend into after talking to his agent.
Things were okay. They were better than okay, actually. His image-rehab plan was going better than either of them had expected. Jackson should’ve been thrilled.
He was thrilled. Harper’s calls made him feel like he was being abruptly jerked out of one life and back to another, that’s all.
It was disorienting. If he was going to coach the Bulldogs to a winning season, he needed to keep his feet and mind firmly planted in Bishop Falls.
Once they made it to State, it would all be over.
In the end, this entire experience would be a win for everybody.
“It really will, won’t it, boy?” Jackson said as he squatted down and gave Bishop a scratch behind his soft ears. The dog’s nub of a tail wagged at the sound of his voice, just like it always did…
But when he dropped to his belly and rested his big head on his paws, the expression on his droopy face was undeniably forlorn.
* * *
After thirty-plus days of doing her best to avoid Jackson Knight, Calla had gotten rather good at it. Somewhat good at it, at least. Unfortunately, the man was everywhere she turned, which made forgetting that he existed all but impossible.
Just as she’d predicted, the dramatic opening game had turned him into a bona fide town legend.
Any lingering animosity from the press conference had been swiftly forgotten.
Once again, whispers around Bishop Falls said that Jackson would be the one who’d finally break the curse.
Calla had even been tempted to believe it…
Until she remembered that she didn’t care about the curse nonsense.
She’d gotten caught up in the excitement of Tommy’s surprise touchdown, that’s all.
Everyone had. In her article, she’d dubbed the play “The Tommy Twist,” and Stan had loved the nickname so much that he’d made those three bold words the banner headline on the paper’s front page.
The entire population of Bishop Falls was walking on air, Calla included.