Chapter Ten #2
Then the flowers had arrived, and the way her stomach swooped at the sight of them had been the wake-up call she so desperately needed. Football hadn’t gone to her head. Jackson had.
She was falling for him, hard and fast, and it terrified her to her core.
The only way she was going to get through the rest of the season emotionally unscathed was to pretend it wasn’t happening.
So that’s exactly what she’d done. Luckily, Jackson had been so busy judging pies and carving pumpkins in his reclaimed role as man of the hour that avoiding any one-on-one time with him hadn’t been too hard.
Today, however, was proving to be an exception.
“Thanks so much for volunteering, Calla. As you know, we really rely on our alumni to step in and help out with the Halloween carnival.” Principal Dean handed her a sheet of paper printed with a map of the carnival booths and where each one had been set up in the school parking lot.
Someone had written her name at the top of the page, along with a booth number.
“It looks like you’ll be working at station number 8, Frankenstein’s Football Toss. ”
Seriously?
She gritted her teeth. The Dunne name strikes again. Calla had been angling for the musical cake walk booth. She’d have even preferred manning the station that gave away goldfish to little kids over anything involving her least favorite sport.
“Frankenstein’s Football Toss, huh?” She took the paper from the principal and scanned the booth names. Maybe she could talk him into switching her to something else.
But when she looked back up, ready to throw her hat in the ring for face painting alongside members of the high school art club, Principal Dean had already turned away and was directing a group of teens dressed as zombies toward the haunted house.
It’s going to be fine, she assured herself as she made her way through the colorful booths toward station 8.
It was a silly carnival game, not actual football.
And at least the football toss was located clear across the parking lot from the Soak the Coach dunk tank, traditionally manned by the high school coaching staff.
The absolute last thing she needed to see was Jackson in a sopping wet T-shirt.
“Can I interest you in a try at the lucky duck pond?” Bailey squeaked a yellow rubber ducky as Calla walked past booth number 4, and she jumped—just what she needed to rid her imagination of a drenched Coach Knight.
“Sorry.” Bailey flinched and tossed the rubber ducky into the kiddie pool situated at her feet. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you saw me. I’m kind of hard to miss.”
She waved her arms, encompassing the piles of rubber ducks surrounding her, along with a wall of prizes. The bounty consisted of an assortment of plush bulldog stuffed animals in a variety of sizes, ranging from key-chain size to gigantic.
“No worries. I’m just distracted.” Calla shook her head and glanced around.
The event didn’t start for another half hour, but faculty and parent volunteers had already gotten the booths set up earlier this morning.
Alumni and community helpers were arriving in droves to help with carnival operations. “I’m looking for my booth.”
“You already got your assignment? Bummer. I was hoping to recruit you for duck duty.” Bailey stuck a numbered sticker onto the bottom of a rubber duck and added it to the others already floating in the kiddie pool.
“I wish. I somehow let myself get roped into the football toss,” Calla said, just as her gaze snagged on a sign shaped like a green Frankenstein head with the number 8 painted across his square forehead.
“That’s interesting,” Bailey said with a wiggle of her eyebrows.
“Why is it interesting?” Calla could think of a few words to describe watching carnival-goers attempt to throw footballs through monster-shaped cutouts all day, and interesting wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list. Torturous was more like it.
“Never mind. I’ve got to get going. There’s already a line forming over there. ”
The queue snaked almost all the way to the booth across the central footpath. Were people really that anxious to live out their spooky quarterback fantasies? Calla would never understand this town.
“Okay, then.” Bailey’s eyes twinkled. “Good luck over there.”
Though Calla wasn’t sure what her friend’s amused expression meant, she didn’t have time to ask her to elaborate.
She needed to get over to her booth and do some crowd control.
But the closer she got to the big Frankenstein sign, the more she began to suspect that there was more to her station’s popularity than an unprecedented enthusiasm for slinging a ball around.
While most of the attendees milling about and waiting for the carnival to start were dressed in costumes, the festival goers waiting at booth number 8 were all wearing Jackson Knight jerseys.
Either something fishy was going on, or a sizable portion of the citizens of Bishop Falls had decided to go as the new head football coach for Halloween.
A tremor of unease skittered up her spine as she grew closer.
Or maybe that tingling sensation was something else altogether…
something closer to a frisson of excitement.
Calla didn’t want to believe it, but as soon as her gaze landed on Jackson himself, there was no denying the rebellious swarm of butterflies that took flight in her belly.
No wonder Bailey had that funny look on her face. Clearly Calla should’ve stopped long enough to find out what that was all about. What is he doing here? A weight settled on her heart. He was supposed to be at the dunk tank. Not here, messing up her entire plan to avoid him.
But no. There he was, standing near the back wall of the setup, tying one of the wooden targets in place—a friendly-looking ghost with a hole in the middle of its white sheet where the football was supposed to sail through.
Just as Calla was wishing for her own white sheet to hide under, Jackson’s head swiveled in her direction.
A smile immediately lit up his handsome face. Then, a second later, he either took in the shell-shocked look on her face or he remembered they were supposed to be avoiding each other and he schooled his expression.
“Calla.” He jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Happy Halloween.”
“Happy Halloween,” she said.
Why did this feel so awkward? Oh right, because they had an audience. Everyone in the mile-long line was staring straight at them.
Calla stepped inside the booth and lifted her gaze toward the Frankenstein sign. “I guess we’re both on football toss duty.”
“Looks like it.” He nodded, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t say I’m disappointed.”
“Stop it,” she whispered.
“Stop what?” he said, feigning innocence.
She dropped her voice another octave. “Stop flirting . We’re not supposed to be doing that, remember? We decided.”
“Remind me why we decided that again?” His brow furrowed, but his eyes danced as he handed her a football.
“Because it would be unprofessional on both our parts.” Without thinking about what she was doing, Calla spun the ball in her right hand until her fingertips landed on the laces and her thumb cupped the ball from beneath. “And we’re wholly incompatible. I hate football.”
“I hate to tell you this, but the way you’re holding that ball says otherwise.” He arched a knowing brow. “Nice grip, by the way.”
Calla’s cheeks warmed. Ethan had taught her the proper technique for throwing a football back when they were small kids playing in the front yard. It was nothing more than muscle memory, and it certainly didn’t mean she enjoyed the feeling of the hard leather beneath her fingertips.
She plunked the ball on the wooden counter that separated them from the line. Mayor Pearl had snagged the very first spot, but stood a respectful five feet or so away, thank goodness.
“I know how to hold a football. It’s not a big deal.” She crossed her arms. “Everyone does.”
Jackson shook his head. “Not everyone. Trust me on this. I’m a coach. You’ve got better hand positioning than some of the freshman on the junior varsity team, and you weren’t even trying just now. It came naturally to you, didn’t it?”
“It was a coincidence,” she said crisply.
“So you’re saying if you tossed the ball at one of the targets, you’d miss?” His gaze flitted to the wooden ghost sign with the hole in its sheet.
“By a mile.” Calla glanced around, desperately looking for another task that needed to be completed before their booth opened. Unfortunately, everything already seemed to be in order.
Jackson dipped his head until their gazes caught. His eyes blazed bluer than ever. “Show me.”
“Show you?” He couldn’t be serious. He wanted her to toss a football?
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Just give it a try. We should probably test out the targets to make sure everything is in working order before the booth opens, anyway.”
Right. And she was the logical choice to throw a ball instead of the actual professional athlete.
Calla was going to refuse, obviously. This was silly, and besides, half the town was standing nearby, witnessing the entire exchange.
She picked up the football again, intent on shoving it at Jackson’s manly chest and telling him to throw it himself, but there was a spark in his gaze that stopped her.
His eyes glimmered with mischief, but there was something else, too…
an unspoken challenge that tugged at her sense of pride, daring her to rise to it.
Don’t, she told herself as her fingertips twitched against the firm ridge of the ball’s leather laces. Don’t fall for it. Don’t fall for him.
“There’s no shame in missing,” he said with a wink.
He was baiting her, and they both knew it.
Calla had zero intention of letting him get to her.
She could see right through him. He was being ridiculous and trying to prove to her that not only did she secretly like football, but she might actually be good at it.
The best thing she could do right now was throw the dumb ball directly at his head.
But that’s not what Calla did. Ethan had always teased her about being too stubborn for her own good and clearly, he’d been right.
Because instead of telling Jackson exactly what he could do with that silly football, she pulled it back and flicked her wrist. She didn’t even watch to see where it went.
She didn’t have to. She kept her gaze fixed with Jackson’s, and she could tell just by looking at the delighted grin on his face that she’d done it.
Calla Dunne, the one person in Bishop Falls, Texas, who couldn’t stand the sport that everyone else in town loved, heart and soul, had just executed a perfect pass.