“Thanks, Grandpa, but I’ll settle for making QB-1 at NCU. For now, anyway.”
“They’d be fools not to want you,” he insists, his thick, southern drawl ringing familiar in my ears.
Based on skill alone I’d agree with that. Only, there are other factors that could blow that chance out of the water and they’re never far from my thoughts.
“Guess we’ll see next year,” I say vaguely, making light of how much I have riding on going undefeated this season. Knowing that it still might not be enough if certain truths come to light.
“I also heard on the wind that you had an interesting game a few weeks ago. Something about some choice words painted on your uniform?”
Hearing him ask, I laugh a little as noise picks up in the locker room. “Yeah, ‘interesting’ is one way of putting it. And, technically, it was just one choice word.”
I envision Southside’s handiwork and then my thoughts immediately shift to the incident in the hallway during the dance. The one where I’m turned the fuck on, and Southside turns me the fuck down.
Damn tease.
Since then, I’ve maintained the distance between us, for obvious reasons. It’s been weeks since I, personally, brought any hell Southside’s way, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t enjoyed watching Parker and crew put her through the wringer. Once my head is clear, once the lines between us aren’t so blurred, I’ll be back on my game.
“All right, level with me,” Grandpa huffs. “Tell the old man what you did to piss off whoever this poor girl is.”
“Not sure what you mean,” I lie, smiling because there’s no way he believes that. “You know me. Mr. Innocent.”
“Mr. Full-of-shit is more like it,” he corrects, bringing another laugh out of me. “This girl clearly wanted to send you a message, and that little stunt has ‘woman scorned’ written all over it.”
I don’t answer right away and, in the silence, I fuckin’ hate who’s in my head again.
“It’s … a long story,” I sigh.
“Well, if I were you, I’d shorten it up. And quick. Preferably, before she ruins all your clothes.” He pauses to let out a gruff laugh. “Take it from me, women don’t forget a damn thing, so just apologize, admit you’re a dog, and do whatever it takes to clean things up between you.”
I take his words to heart, because he always shares little nuggets of wisdom, but in this situation, it’ll never apply. I’ll never apologize when an apology isn’t owed.
“I hear you,” is all I say back, but decide to move on to a new topic. “How are the boys? Still raising hell?”
The exhausted sigh that leaves his mouth sheds light on where this is headed.
“Let’s just say moving on to high school hasn’t changed your cousins in the least. In fact, I’m convinced the more hair they get on their nuts, the worse they behave!”
“They can’t be that bad,” I insist with a laugh.
“Hmph. The little shits have all of Dupont Bayou shuttering their windows just at the mention of their names. Hell, probably the entire Parish!” he adds.
I hold back from laughing again, hearing the stress in his voice.
“It ain’t really Beau and Keaton causing trouble, but those other three? Whoo-wee! Those hellraisers pull everyone right into the mud with ‘em. Every damn time,” he complains. “I cannot tell you how many good dreams I’ve been yanked out of by phone calls from angry fathers, informing me they found one of my foolish grandsons sneaking around with their teenage daughters in the middle of the night. At this rate, I’ll be a great-grandfather or bailing them out of jail before I can even get these bastards to college!”
The statement has me wondering how my own missteps would be judged if he ever caught wind of them.
“If you need me to fly down and put the fear of God in them, just say the word,” I offer, pushing my own internal B.S. aside.
“Might have to take you up on that. Just keep that slick-ass father of yours away from my property and I’ll be all right. I’ve had a bullet with that son of a bitch’s name on it since the day I handed your ma off at the altar.”
Note to self: Let Dad know Grandpa’s asking him to stop in for a visit. Should go great.
Hearing my grandfather talk, you’d think he’s raising the boys all on his own, but he’s just always been involved with us—all his grandsons—which makes it seem that way. In truth, all five of the cousins he’s complaining about live with their parents. However, my grandfather being the man down in Saint Delphine Parish, everyone sees us as his boys. Not the sons of his five daughters.
The twins—River and Stoney—are notorious troublemakers, and Linden’s anger issues made it easy for him to fall right in step. Then, like Grandpa said, the other two just seem to get pulled into whatever trouble these three are involved in.
“I blame my daughters’ godawful choices in men,” he cuts in again. “Poor girls couldn’t spot a good one if he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. Not even my little Rosalie, God rest her soul.”
I couldn’t argue with him on that point.
“Anyway, enough about all this. The real reason I’m calling is to wish you a good game, but I’m sure you already knew that.”
I did. “Thanks, Grandpa. I’ll call you after we win.”
He laughs in my ear. “That’s what I like to hear. Now give the phone to one of your brothers, would ya?”
“Sure thing. One sec.”
Dane’s already reaching for my cell. As the patriarch on my mother’s side of the family, the man’s kept this same pre-game phone call routine since our dad put us on the pee-wee league as kids.
Lacing up my cleats, I get my head in the game, knowing Grandpa will be expecting that call from me in a couple hours. Only a few
