“Where is it? Can I come?”
My heart aches as I realize she thinks I’ll be performing. “No, Mom, that’s not what I meant. Ginny’s their singer now. She just wants to stay friends, doesn’t want me to feel left out. Ginny’s just being nice.”
Mom’s eyes dull and she leans back as the server arrives with our drinks. “That’s very thoughtful of Ginny,” she mumbles, adding a distracted, “Thank you.”
He doesn’t dawdle. Sensing he intruded at a bad time he sets everything down and disappears quickly.
Biting my lips I spin the straw in circles. “I know you want me performing but it’s just not meant to be, okay?”
Taking a sip, glass in one hand, straw in the other, she mumbles, “There is no meant to be. There’s only what you make happen.”
“If I were supposed to be on stage I wouldn’t be so terrified. If I were meant to be a singer, I would love being in front of audiences rather than puking before and after the show! Mom, the other night I was on the bar at work, making people laugh and that was fun. But I wasn’t baring my soul like I do when I sing. It was over in a snap, like a dumb comedy routine or something. But singing is different. Don’t you get it?”
“No, I don’t!”
Leaning toward her and keeping my voice down I try to make her understand. “Singing is—how do I explain it?—your soul is your instrument. Your voice! You’re literally stretching melodies out of your own vocal chords, opening your heart and putting it on display for everyone. You don’t even need a band for backup if you’re really doing it right, if you have that talent. That’s powerful and it’s terrifying! I can’t just give people my heart like that, when I don’t know who’s watching.”
“You have the talent, Wren.”
Sighing I sit back and stare at my tea. “Maybe…but something’s missing.”
“If I had your gift I’d be on every stage from here to Nashville! Heck, I’d even move there!”
My lips thin as I gaze at her. Is it like this with every generation? Are parents and children meant to question each other, be so different? Is that what makes us grow?
“Mom, I appreciate you wanting me to push myself but if I was meant to sing, it wouldn’t be painful for me to do it.”
“What about your songs? Are those just going to collect dust? I just think you should give it one more try! You gave up too easily.”
“No, I didn’t! God, this is so frustrating!”
“You’re telling me.”
The waiter returns, interrupting us again, but this time both of us want him to. He places her salmon down first, and my Cobb sandwich next. A basket of perfectly tanned french fries lands between us.
Mom lights up. “Oh, those look delicious!” she breathes, clapping her hands.
I laugh and lock eyes with him. “You just saved me.”
He gives me a wink.
Mom purses her lips and pops a fry in her mouth, chewing with purpose. And that’s not to tell me to fuck off. She is a Southern Belle after all.
CHAPTER 14
ERIC
M y jersey, shoulder pads and helmet sit on the bench next to me, covered in sweat and victory. Shirtless I rake emboldened fingers through my hair and tell the reporter, “We’re feeling good about the upcoming season. The rookies are impressive. Veterans ready to go. We just want to make the fans proud.”
Mott shouts over the reporter’s pretty head as he passes us for the showers, “Ready to get that pretty face dirty in Miami next week, Cocker?”
Chuckling I focus back on the woman and her CNN labeled microphone while the cameraman behind her adjusts his weight under the live camera perched on his shoulder. “Eric, after losing the Super Bowl last season, do the Falcons think they’ll take it all the way this year?”
“Not only do we think it, we’ll do it. That loss just made us hungry. We could taste how close we were. This year we’ll be ready for anything. Either that or eat too many burgers and just give up.” As they laugh, I grin and shrug, “Ya never know. We’re a bunch of slackers.”
“Sure you are,” the cameraman mutters.
She gives him a look—he’s supposed to stay silent—and returns to ask me, “Are there any women in your life?”
Tony shouts, “Are there ever not any women in his life? You think he’s not named Cocker for a reason?”
I crack up, covering my mouth as I try to control it and get serious to add, “Not right now. And I plan to keep it that way, ladies, if you’re watching. We’ve started the season, and it’s open season on me. Have to hit the showers.” Straight into camera I ask, “Care to join me?”
The cameraman and reporter are pleased as they head off, him saying under his breath, “I bet his social media is going to blow up after that invite.”
“So will ours,” she greedily replies.
Stripping out of my pants, thigh and knee pads sandwiched as they fall to the floor, I walk naked to the showers, a little disturbed because when she asked me about women, Wren came to mind. The girl who won’t talk to me unless I make her. I’m starting to feel like a stalker instead of just interested, showing up at her work all the time. Used to love going to that bar on the weekend days after the games, but now that I know she works nights, I’m there way too fuckin’ often. I keep writing it off as she’s amusing, makes me laugh. But there’s an itch that needs scratching. And it’s not just in my cock anymore. She’s haunting my thoughts more each day.
“You ready to make this real?” Mott asks with shampoo in his hair as
