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“Yes,” I return, my confidence building.
“And what will you do instead?”
“I haven’t decided yet. But I have plenty of time to consider my options before the end of the year. I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s a valid point. In fact, I’ve mentioned your name to a few fellow associates, including a friend of mine who’s quite the football fanatic. I don’t suppose you know Jefferson Banks, do you?”
“Jefferson Banks, as in the LAU head coach?” I ask.
“The one and only.”
I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and dry my hands. “Yeah, I’m familiar with him. He began coaching the year after my injury.”
“He’s a good man.”
“He is,” I agree. “How do you know him?”
“I might be an elementary school principal, but I like to think my connections run deeper than that. In this instance, however, I’m LAU alumni.”
“Ah, makes sense,” I return, tossing the used paper towel into the garbage can next to the exit.
“He’s also looking for an offensive line assistant coach.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’d be happy to mention your name––”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“It won’t?”
“No. Grady and I don’t plan on moving across the country again. We’re comfortable here.”
“That’s a shame. The last time we spoke, he mentioned how impressed he was with your work ethic and skill at recognizing the big picture. Said you recruited some great players and that you could see plays before they happened.”
“He’s very generous,” I return as an awkward silence settles over us. To be fair, we’re talking in the middle of a men’s restroom in the middle of nowhere. It isn’t exactly what I’d call a prime location for discussing business. Then again, the Boo Bash wouldn’t normally be my first choice, either. Seems Principal Wells has an odd sense of timing, though I don’t plan on telling him that. I get the feeling he’s the type to hold a grudge, and I’d hate for my connection with peSaylor to ruin her chances at getting her dream job.
“Well, don’t let me keep you.” He waves his hand toward the exit. “Enjoy your brunch.”
“You too.”
And with that, I pull open the swinging door and head back to the table. When I reach it, Grady is studying the surface, his forehead wrinkled in deep concentration as I slide into the booth.
“What are you guys doing?” I ask.
“She took something, and I gotta figure out what it is,” Grady informs me, his expression as stern as ever.
Confused, I scan the table. There are a few forks, our nearly-empty glasses and plates, a crinkled straw wrapper, and Say’s phone.
Still lost, I look over at Saylor. “What?”
She smiles. “It’s a game. He looks at the table and makes a mental note of everything in sight. Then, he closes his eyes, and I grab something without letting him see what it is. After that, he gets to look back at the table and uses his memory to guess what I took.”
“Ah, okay.” I turn to Grady. “Any guesses, bud?”
“Um, is it the pink sugar?” he asks.
She opens her hand and shows him a tiny pinky sugar packet. “Nailed it. Good job, Grady!”
