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My phone dings. I swipe—and there’s the video I missed. I stare up. “I…Thank you.”
John jerks a sharp nod, but there’s a smile behind his eyes. “Of course.”
I could get used to this...
His sleeve brushes mine. Voice lifting over the noise, he points. “Is that Jacob? Number eighty-two?”
I nod, grinning. I’m here, actuallyhere!
The visiting team receives the ball, keeping Jacob on the sidelines to start. Helmet in hand, he turns, scanning the stands, almost as if he knows I’m here. I nearly jump up and wave my arms.
The other team goes three and out, and Chandor does the same on their opening drive. The second time Chandor has the ball, Jacob—myson—catches a pass and runs for a touchdown. I launch to standing, pounding the bleacher with my stomp and screaming louder and longer than anyone else.
John grins like something’s funny, then bumps my shoulder when we sit back down. “He’s good, Hollie.”
Yes, he is. I’m told that frequently on the rare occasions I’m able to be in his football sphere.
The best part? Jacob repeats the feat in the second quarter, increasing Chandor’s lead.
With thirty seconds left in the half, John’s shoulder presses into mine. “You like hot dogs?”
“Sure.”
He stands, towering. “Be right back.”
I watch him jog down the aluminum steps and notice a couple women notice him. I finger theJat my throat. Why is he alone? Sure, he’s gruff and grumpy at times, but women flock to men like him, men who are stable and hardworking, solid and upright.
Handsome.
Oh, yes, devastatingly handsome.
Halftime is almost over by the time he returns. The cardboard tray in his large hand holds three hot dogs, some condiment packages, and two paper cups in the cut-out holders. “I didn’t know your drink preference, so water seemed the safe bet.”
“Water’s great, thanks.” I insert a straw in the nearest cup. My throat scratches from yelling.
John nudges the tray. “Take one.”
“What? No. Those are yours.”
“I bought one for you.”
Our eyes meet. “You shouldn’t have.”
Serious, sober John rolls his eyes. “You never ate dinner. Take it.”
I am hungry—but this has to stop. I’ve already tossed him from his own bed, for crying out loud. He says he’s going to fix my car.
Nothing to be done about it now.
Those ridiculous mustard packets are more trouble than they’re worth, so I down the hot dog dry. Oh, my. I was hungrier than I realized, and now my appetite has only been whetted.
Popping the last of a hot dog into his mouth, John wipes his hands, wads a few napkins, and sets the cardboard box-tray, stuffed with trash, at his feet. The band strikes up again and the teams return to the field.
The breeze that’s been with us all evening picks up speed. I unfold my jacket from my lap. Without a word, John takes it, guiding the sleeves over my arms. Our hands brush in the process, and the touch triggers a flush through my limbs. Adjusting the collar, I pull my hair out of the neckline. “Thanks.”
Our gazes find each other. His slides away, along with his fingers down my sleeve. “Sure.”
Chandor’s offense is on the field after allowing a touchdown that’s narrowed our lead to one score. I glue my eyes to Jacob as the ball leaves the quarterback’s hands and sails in his direction, plopping into his palms as if a magnet connected them. He sidesteps a defensive guy and takes two strides. A player in a bright red jersey slams into him. The ball pops out. Someone also in red snatches it up and runs. Beyond that, I don’t follow.
