Chapter 12 — Tailgate （Beck） #2
Nora felt the weight of the eyes. I felt her feel it, the small stiffening along my side. Her fingers flexed once against my ribs.
“Everyone's staring. I don't care. Hold — hold tighter?”
“Look at me,” I said. “Just me. The rest is background. Crowd noise. Let it be noise.”
“You make it sound easy,” she said. “It's not easy. But your shirt's warm and I'm staying.”
“Staying's the whole play,” I said. “Everything else is just motion. Just noise past the pocket.”
Her cheek nearly touched my shoulder. Her breath came warm through my jacket collar and lifted the hairs on my neck.
Cinnamon. Cold air. A thread of grill smoke caught in her hair.
My hand spread wider over her knuckles and my thumb found the ridge of her fingers and moved there, slow, back and forth, back and forth.
“You smell like smoke and soap. I could — I could stay here.”
“Then stay,” I said. “The line's not moving. The game's hours off. Stay.”
“What about your starting-job optics?” she asked, quiet, eyes flicking to Kip's phone. “Him filming this — that's not nothing. People talk.”
“Let them,” I said. “I've run the routes. Every one ends here. With you.”
“That's either the sweetest or the dumbest thing you've said,” she whispered. “Jury's out. Keep talking and we'll see.”
“Both,” I said. “Same as the rock. You've said. Sweet and weird. Package deal.”
“Best package on the quad,” she said, and her fingers tightened on mine, sudden and sure. “Ask anyone. Poll Deon. He's biased.”
The turn of it went through me and settled, all that tension gone quiet at once. Not hiding. Choosing. Her hand in mine under my jacket, out where the phone could see the shape of us even if it could not see the hands themselves.
I drew her hands out from my jacket, slow, keeping them both in mine, and laced our fingers together.
Cold gone. Hers warm now, soft and sure.
Then I lifted our joined hands up where the whole quad could see them, high between us, her knuckles brushing the cold blue air, the navy band on my wrist flashing, green thread bright against it in the hard noon sun.
The world tilted quiet for one beat. Grill hiss. A cup clatter. Leaves scraping concrete. Kip's phone held dead steady.
I said it soft and plain, to her first, to all of them second. My voice didn't shake. “She's with me. That's all. She's with me.” I didn't look away from her. “Mine,” I said, quieter, so only she and the mic would catch it. “My girl. Everybody hears that part.”
A whoop ripped out of the crowd by the tables. Someone clapped, sharp, three times. Somebody else laughed, bright, carrying. Nora did not let go. She squeezed back, hard, fingers locked through mine, and stepped in until our shoulders lined up flush.
“Okay. Okay, then. I'm here. I'm not — not running.”
“I know,” I said. “I've got proof now. Whole quad saw. That's film that matters.”
“Good,” she said, breathless, glowing. “Let them all see. I'm done — I'm done being small about it.”
Deon pushed off the truck bed and came over, plate in hand, grin splitting his face. He looked at our hands, still up, still locked, and nodded like a man watching a drive finish clean.
“That's how it's done. Come on, you two. Walk — walk tall.”
We lowered our hands but did not drop them.
Fingers stayed threaded. I settled our joined hands at my side and felt the swing of them as we stepped out from the truck's shadow into the streaming crowd.
People parted a little. Enough. A lane opened through navy jackets and cooler wheels and folding chairs, bending toward the stadium gates.
We walked it hand in hand. Her thumb moved over my knuckles, restless and happy. My thumb answered on hers. Step for step. Her hip bumped mine every few strides and I let our steps stay crooked.
“My hands're warm now,” she said. “Both of them. That's a record for game days.”
“New system,” I said. “Jacket. Me. Every time. No — no exceptions.”
“I like this system,” she said. “Does it come with burgers? Because I was promised burgers and all I got was a quarterback furnace.”
“After,” I said. “I'll find you food after. Best burger on the quad. Promise.”
“Holding you to it,” she said. “In front of witnesses. Deon's a witness. The whole quad's a witness.”
“Then I can't wriggle out,” I said. “Good. Don't let me.”
“Never,” she said. “You're stuck with the poll results. Sweet. Unanimous. Even Kip got it on film.”
“Did he get my good side?” I said. “Tell me he got my good side.”
“You only have good sides,” she said. “That's the problem. How's a girl supposed to play it cool?”
“You're not cool,” I said. “You're warm now. Check the graph. Trending up.”
“Best trend of my life,” she said, swinging our hands once, bold, where everyone could see. “Chart that, quarterback.”
“Charted,” I said. “Filed. Frame it later.”
“You're cocky when you're warm,” she said. “I like it. Keep it.”
“Only for you,” I said. “Nobody else gets this version.”
“Even Kip,” I said, and glanced back once. “He kept filming. Let him. Some things — some things deserve the tape.”
“You're calm about that,” she said. “Are you calm? Your thumb's doing that thing on my knuckles.”
“It's a good thing,” I said. “Different gear. Same thumb. I've got gears.”
“Show me all the gears sometime,” she said. “Slowly. No rush. We've got — we've got all season.”
The crowd thinned as the path bent toward the gates. The roar fell back a step. Concrete replaced gravel under our shoes. The stadium rose ahead, pale against the thin blue sky, flags snapping on the rim. The air smelled cleaner here, leaves and cold, the smoke thinning behind us.
At the gate mouth I slowed. I did not want to. My feet did it on their own, dragging half a step, then stopping. She stopped with me, turning in, our hands stretching between us, then easing.
I let go slow. Too slow. My thumb crossed her knuckles once on the way out, tracing the warm skin there, memorizing the shape of it. Her fingers trailed through mine and caught at the tips before they slipped free. The cold rushed back into my palm where hers had been.
“Gate's here. I'll find you after. Don't be cold.”
“I'll try,” she said. “No promises. It's freezing and you're leaving with the furnace.”
“Hands in sleeves,” I said. “Chin down. Find sun. I'll be quick.”
“Go,” she said, soft. “I'll be right here when the noise stops.”
She stepped back through the gate shadow with her red hands tucked warm into her sleeves and her eyes on mine until the crowd closed between us. I stood with my empty hand still half open at my side, heat fading out of the palm, and watched the space where she had been.
Our hands stayed up in the cold noon light, fingers locked, threading green on navy for everyone to see.