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“Do you need some bags?” the teenage cashier asks.
I give Twyla a look, and with a small huff, she steps back.
I turn to face the cashier. “Yeah, we’ll need some bags.”
She rings everything through, but before she can tell me the total, someone hollers, “Andrews, good game last weekend!”
Twyla, the cashier, and I shift our attention to the end of the line, where a middle-aged man is smiling and giving me a thumbs-up.
I raise my chin. “Thanks, man.” Then I return my attention to the cashier.
“You guys gonna kick Carolina’s ass this weekend?” he says loudly enough that everyone at the other cash registers are turning to look.
“That’s the idea.” I turn my attention back to the cashier, wanting to get the hell out of here now before it becomes a whole thing. “How much is it?”
“Oh my god, Chase Andrews!”
I glance up as a little boy of about nine or so rushes away from his mom’s side over to me.
“Ethan! Get back—” Her words die on her lips when she sees me. “My husband is gonna die when he finds out we met you.”
My shoulders sink and I pull my wallet out of my pocket, handing the cashier my card. “Just put whatever it is on there.”
By the time I’m done paying and we’ve packed the cart with our bags, a group of people are waiting near the exit for me.
“Sorry about this,” I mutter to Twyla.
I sign all the random items they shove at me, take a few pictures, and have as little conversation as possible before Twyla and I finally head back to my truck. I open the back door and turn to get the bags out of the cart.
Twyla passes me one of the bags. “You seemed… I don’t know, uncomfortable back there.”
I take the handle of the plastic kitty litter container because Twyla could barely pull it off the shelf. Who knew the stuff cats shit in could be so heavy?
“I don’t like the attention.” I shrug and place it on the floor of the back seat.
Twyla chuckles. “Kind of hard when you’re a professional football player.”
I grab the last few bags. “I play football because I love it. I love the competition, the game, the entire sport. The attention is a negative side effect of living my dream, as far as I’m concerned.” She reaches for the cart handle, but I get it first. “I’ll bring this back in. You get in the truck.”
She allows me to take the cart back with no argument, and when I climb in the truck, she’s smiling at me. “Thanks again.”
I start the truck and shift to face her. “If I’m going to do this, you have to stop thanking me every five minutes. I agreed. End of story.”
“I promise I’ll try.” Her laugh is musical and it might be my new favorite song. “I just realized something while you were putting the cart away.”
“What’s that?” I put the truck in reverse and hook my arm around the back of Twyla’s headrest, reversing out of the parking spot.
When she doesn’t respond, I glance at her before putting the truck in drive and stepping on the gas. She’s looking at me kind of funny.
“What’s wrong?” I ask and glance at her again before I make a right.
She gives her head a shake. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit. What is it?”
“It’s embarrassing.” She brings her hands to her face and covers it.
“Well now I’m gonna make you tell me.” I’m curious what she would find so embarrassing.
