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Trick Play 4
MAGNOLIA
“Aw,c’mon!”Dadbellows out at the TV at the same moment Frank claps his hands in delight. “Where’s the flag?”
“There is none,” Frank kindly confirms as if Dad didn’t know that, and I’m beginning to think that I’m going to need to hide all the knives in the kitchen if this keeps up. “Boy had all day to catch that ball and decided not to.”
“It was past interference!”
“He was barely by the kid.”
“He was holdin’ on to his jersey, Frankie! How does that not mean past interference?”
“He let go.”
Dad scoffs disgustedly. “These refs are bought off. What a load of bullshit.”
I smile. It’s always Dad’s go-to when the referees don’t call a play in his favor. Someone is always being paid on the side to make calls against his team.
“Need to put your glasses on, ol’ man,” Frank suggests as I walk out of the kitchen with a bunch of sandwiches, a bowl of chips, and a few beers balanced under my arms.
“Y’all need to stop yellin’ out here before Mrs. Henderson thinks you both are fighting again. Last year, she called the cops.”
Dad glances at me from over his shoulder, gray hair disheveled from running his fingers through it. I peer over at the TV screen with the college football game on it.
His team is gettin’ their asses whooped.
“That woman should know better,” Dad quips before returning his attention to the TV. “We’ve been doin’ this since we were kids.”
“Daddy, it’s the Army-Navy game. Neither of you were in the military.”
Both sets of heads crane over at me at the same exact time—eyes narrowed, brows pinched, a look of pure horror draped over their middle-aged features.
“Young lady,” Dad chides, however, there’s no steel or heightened tone to his voice. “Need I remind you that your grandpa was in the United States Navy.”
“And my granddaddy was in the Army,” Frank adds in. “These are important games, girl.”
“Right.” I place down their snacks—because these are snacks—on the table between them and begin to make my way back to the room at the back of the house where I was just painting a few moments ago.
“You comin’ to hang out with us later, sweetheart?” Dad asks, the flip in his tone laced with honey and lightness now making me grin.
“Yeah, when the Clemson game comes on. I’ll order—” A knock on the front door raps through my words and both men don’t move off their La-Z-Boys. “Oh, I’ll get it.”
I hear Frank chuckle at my sarcasm as I stride for the door. And when I expect Mrs. Henderson’s worried demeanor waiting for me on our front porch, I’m wrong.
So freaking wrong.
Because standing there patiently is a wide, absolutely stunningly handsome Asher Clark, with his hands shoved in his Northview High Varsity jacket.
Fuck.
Pulling the door open, his smile is immediate, and so is the slow drawl of his inspection of me.
Dark blue jeans covered in hot orange paint, my old school tee from middle school plastered in years of different colors and my hair pulled up in—God knows what it looks like now.
“Hey, Mags,” he greets as I push open the storm door. “How’s it goin’ today?”
“Fine. What are you doing here, Asher?”
