Page 3 of Tangled with the Tight End

“The practice facility is more like their family room,” Cass says. “They live in it. The team offices are here. Medical and training spaces. They have more than one field. It’s built for the team to use when they aren’t playing games. The game-day stadium is like the dining room they only use when guests come over. They don’t want to wear down the turf by practicing on it too much. They only use the stadiums on game days.”

Our friends pull up and park next to us, and we all approach the massive building. The words Tennessee Thunder are painted over the entrance with two lighting bolts that look like zigzaggy Ts.

“They should be called the Lightning Bolts,” I say offhandedly.

“That doesn’t go with Tennessee,” Cass says, her face as bright as if we were about to enter Disneyland for a day of rides and junk food.

“Tennesse Thunder,” she says in an airy voice, her eyes fixed on the words.

I follow my friends through the concrete hallways out onto the field. It’s nothing like I thought it would be. The bleachers are smaller than the ones we had at our high school. Did I watch those games? Not really. High school football games meant a fun night out with my friends.

“They’re wearing practice jerseys,” Cass tells me.

“Okay,” I say, trying my best to muster up an interest.

Declan waves over at us. I recognize him right away—not because of anything related to his sport. I’ve just seen him around Waterford on and off my whole life. Both Declan and Patrick have the darkest hair of anyone in town. It’s practically black. He smiles and an unexpected, responsive smile spreads across my face. I guess you might call Declan charismatic, though there’s a severity to him when he’s not smiling. He’s intense—almost too much to look at.

His attention shifts as quickly as it landed on us. A man with a clipboard approaches him and they confer as if they were solving a high-level math problem, the kind that gives you a headache and requires a study session to work out. But, no. They’re talking about a brown ball and a bunch of grown men chasing it around on a field.

“How did football ever become someone’s actual job?” I ask Cass.

She takes one look at me and pulls a chocolate bar out of her purse. “Eat.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” I say, taking the candy bar and unwrapping it. “I wasn’t being crabby, though. I’m seriously curious how a child’s game turned into a job.”

“I don’t know. But believe me, these are men. Not children.”

Cass waves her hand out toward the field in a swoosh as if she’s a game show host showing off the array of prizes you could win if you get lucky.

We take our seats on the smaller metal bleachers. I munch away on my candy bar, watching the action on the field, making sense of none of it.

“The point of football,” Emberleigh tells me, “Is to get the ball across the goal line. The teams take turns having possession of the ball. And the other team tries to stop them.”

“Seems pretty straightforward,” I say. “And thanks for telling me.”

I watch the men line up over and over. The ball gets shoved through the first guy’s legs—well, it’s sort of tossed backward through his legs while he tips upside down.

“Why does he bend over like that?” I ask Cass in a whisper. “It seems like he could find a better way to get the ball to the next guy.”

She chuckles as if my perfectly logical question is somehow funny. “It’s just how it’s done.”

Patrick leans over from the other side of Emberleigh so he can talk to all of us, “Declan’s at the top of his game this year. He’s going to have a season like never before.”

“What exactly does he do?” I ask.

Cass leans over from the other side of me. “Excuse her, Patrick.”

“It’s fine. Not everyone is a football fan,” Patrick says.

“I’m trying to figure it out,” I tell him.

“He’s a tight end,” Patrick says.

“Oh, my.” I can feel my eyes bug out. Should Patrick really be talking about his brother’s backside? I didn’t ask about that. Not at all. I wouldn’t. Who would?

Patrick cracks up. Then Daisy follows. Pretty soon everyone’s laughing. Maybe he’s embarrassed by his answer.

“No,” Patrick says between laughs. “His position is called tight end. It’s what they named his position.”