By the end of dinner, we acknowledge that we’re just going to be friends, and while I drink wine and he drinks beer, he whips out a deck of cards and we play a few rounds of Texas hold ’em, seven-card stud, and poker. That’s right, he carries a deck of cards and two rolls of pennies in his pocket.
Pulling out my phone, I sneak a picture of the cards splayed across the table then post the image to Instagram with the caption: My date tonight is a pro sports bettor. What do y’all think—should I go all in or fold?
By the time I finally walk through my front door, there’s a comment from Jack, and I’m smiling before I even read it.
Jack: As long as he’s betting on me, the odds are ever in his favor.
I reply: Who are you, Effie Trinket?
Jack: More like Peeta and you’re my Katniss.
Me: In your fictional fantasy dreams.
Jack: *wink face emoji*
For Scott’s dish, I’m reliving a trip Shelby and I took to Vegas a few years ago, where we stopped in at a place called Dirt Dog. Its menu consisted of street food, including crazy hot dogs and fries, and it was so super delicious. As such, the dish will be an elote hot dog with garlic fries.
Elote Hot Dog with Garlic Fries
THANK GOD FOR the cold front that hit Tampa yesterday. Well, when I say cold front, I mean the rainstorm that brought the humidity-free, eighty-degree weather. I love living in Florida, I do, but sometimes we just need a break. Fortunately for us, it happened the weekend of the team family picnic.
The picnic has always been one of my favorite events. At practice we are all focused and split up into offense, defense, and special teams. We all work out in the gym at different times so we don’t see each other all that often, and at our weekly offensive dinners, it’s only a small group of us. So, unless it’s game day or we have an event like this one, we are never all together, and I love it when we are, especially when the family vibes are flowing hard.
The picnic is hosted in the stadium, and the north end zone has been completely transformed for the event. There are white tents, covered tables and chairs, balloons, flowers, a disc jockey—you name it, it’s there, along with the people: people laughing, people hugging, people just being themselves. Man, I love this team and these people.
We are a little over two months into the season—an undefeated season, that is—and I have a feeling that this year, we are definitely going all the way. I can sense it deep in my bones.
Walking around, I stop and say hello to my friends and their families. It’s great to see so many kids here running around on the field and tossing the ball. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to grow up in an environment like this one, especially if you love the sport.
“Hey, Jack!” I hear from behind me, and next thing I know a ball is flying toward my head. A little boy about the age of eight is grinning at me with a crooked smile, and I can’t help but tuck the ball under my arm and hold out my other to pretend I’m blocking fake oncoming tackles. The boy jumps up and down delightedly as I toss the ball back, and then he runs off to play with someone else. I haven’t given much thought to having kids, but I’ve always thought they’d be in my future somewhere down the line and we would play catch just like this. Girl or boy, we’ll play together, because that’s what dads are supposed to do.
Heading over to the food and drink tent, I grab a bottle of water and, off to the side, I spy the thing I’ve been wanting most just arriving.
“Well, butter my biscuit, if it isn’t the third leg of the tripod,” I say as Bryan and a woman I assume is Lexi due to her Firefly Kitchen T-shirt walk under the tents dragging a large flatbed dolly with thermal boxes on top.
She pauses and turns at the sound of her and her friend’s nickname then smirks at me. “Let me guess—Jack?” she says, giving me a once-over.
“The one and only.” I throw my arms out. “And you’re Lexi.” I wink at Bryan before wrapping her up in a giant bear hug and grinning. Lexi laughs and returns the hug while the scowl on Bryan’s face says he would strangle the lights right out of me if he didn’t love me so much.
Pulling away, I reluctantly release her, and she giggles.
“Meg was right about you,” she throws over her shoulder as she moves toward the tables assigned for dessert, not realizing that just the sound of Meg’s name being tossed my way has sent this weird and unexpected spear of excitement or something through my chest. “Come on, Jack,” she continues, “make yourself useful. Help us unload these pies.” My mind has gone foggy as she reaches for the first box and unhinges the door to open it. I’m trying to maintain my composure at the thought of Meg talking about me to her friend. Me.
“Meg mentioned me to you?” I ask curiously, looking at Lexi as if she suddenly has the answers to solve the mysteries of the universe.
“She might have a few times. You sure love to get her all riled up.”
I certainly do.
An involuntary smile breaks free, and that’s when I spot Bryan watching me closely. He tilts his head a little as if trying to read between the lines, and I decide it’s best to change the subject. He already knows we banter on social media; if he thinks there’s any interest in her beyond that, I’ll never hear the end of it. So, I pretend to get distracted as the sweet smell of home-baked pies hits us.
“Pie,” I mumble, breathing it in and successfully redirecting the conversation.
One of the event staff sees us and runs over. “Oh, hi! We were expecting you, and I can take it from here.” She smiles warmly at Lexi.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind,” she says, wiping her hands on her pants and taking a step back toward Bryan.
“Absolutely. Y’all just enjoy your afternoon and eat lots of food. I hear the shrimp salad is to die for.”
Shrimp salad . . . my stomach grumbles.
“Okay,” Lexi says hesitantly, glancing between the girl and Bryan.
“Come on, they’ve got this, and I want to introduce you to a few people,” he says, holding out his hand. Her eyes drop as she shyly slips her fingers into it, and they walk away from me and the food, toward Billy and his wife Missy.
It’s then that I take a closer look at my friends, and I realize everyone has someone but me. Usually this doesn’t bother me—I’m perfectly fine being on my own—but today, something about it suddenly makes me feel off, like I’m missing something.
Remaining by the desserts, I wait patiently for the staff member to hand me the first slice. I know everyone here welcomes me with open arms—after all, it is a group event—but have I become the third, fifth, seventh wheel?
“Here you go, Mr. Willett,” the staff caterer says as she hands a plate my way. My mouth waters as I see it’s strawberry rhubarb, and the discomfort I just felt dissipates.
I don’t know why I love food so much; I just do.
Well, I take that back. I love food so much because as a kid, it was when my father was home and we were a family.
See, I was an unexpected addition late in my parents’ lives. My father had just celebrated his twenty-fifth year in the army and was promoted to general, and my mother was his doting wife. They never planned on having kids, but then along came me and their lives were changed.
We didn’t move around a lot, but we did move. I grew up under strict but loving conditions, and really the only time I saw my father was when he joined us for dinner. We had dinner every night. Even when I started playing football at ten, he would come home early and we would eat before I headed out for practice.
Much to his dismay, I didn’t follow in his footsteps and head off to West Point. Instead I went to USC, the University of Southern California. I don’t know why, but the military never appealed to me the way it did for him. I have nothing but an insane amount of respect for those it calls to, but it just wasn’t me.
My father has since retired and they now live in Arizona. He spends his days playing golf, and I’m not sure what my mom does. I try to make it out to see them a cou
ple times a year, but they’re so regimented in their schedules, I know after a few days they’re ready for me to go. There’s no question that they love me; they’ve just always lived a very different life.
Which is why I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m heading to Georgia for Thanksgiving.
Last month, Zach sent out an invitation for several of us to travel north and spend it with him and Shelby, and I would be lying if I said the only reason I’m interested in going is the food. Meg was on the invitation, too, and when I asked Zach on the sly who all was coming, he mentioned that she was.
Pulling out my phone, I contemplate sending her a direct message. Neither one of us has opened that line of communication yet, but I think, What the hell—why not?
Me: Your friends are nicer than you.
I laugh to myself because from the few interactions we’ve had, I know this will get her fired up.
Now that I’ve finished the pie, I head over to the rest of the food and make myself a plate.
“I’ve got my eyes on you, Jack,” says our offensive coordinator from a few tables over. He complained about me eating all of Bryan’s pies and his eyes have narrowed now as he takes in my plate, but I don’t care. As a high-performing athlete, it takes a lot of calories to keep me fueled. Yes, eighty-five percent of my diet is clean, but he knows I still need to consume between four and five thousand calories a day.
Picking a table that overlooks my friends, I sit down and place my phone next to my plate. It lights up with a message, and I can’t help but grin.
Meg: What’s that supposed to mean? And why are you messaging me?
She’s always so quick to respond or leave a comment . . . I love it.
Me: Just met Lexi (her pie is delicious), and because I can.
Meg: You stay away from her. You’re not her type.
Yeah, I know I’m not her type. From the few minutes I’ve spent watching her this afternoon, it’s easy to see the poor girl definitely has eyes for Bryan—not that the feeling isn’t mutual, because it is. He was more nervous about seeing her today than I think he was last year when we entered the postseason.
Me: Type . . . hmm, am I your type?
Meg: Not in a million years.
This has me laughing as I take a bite of food. The girl was right—the shrimp salad is delicious.
Me: You’re wounding my already fragile ego.
Meg: Lies. There’s nothing fragile about you.
Me: I think you should come find out just how unfragile I am. *wink face emoji*
Meg: Gross. That’s what your groupies are for.
Groupies . . . yeah, the novelty of those wore off years ago. Now I find even the idea of it is a hassle. They are all about posting pictures on social media and tons of tagging, and it takes forever for these things to go away. Honestly, I’m just not interested anymore.
Me: A gentleman never kisses and tells.
Meg: You’re not a gentleman—you’re a hopeless flirt.
Me: Only with you.
Meg: *palm on forehead emoji*
Which is true. For whatever reason, I can’t seem to stop myself when it comes to her. I know we’re just going to be friends—she made that more than clear at Zach’s over the summer, which I think has me more excited than much of anything lately—but it’s just so much fun provoking her.
Meg: Seriously, though, how’s the picnic?
Me: How do you know we’re at a picnic?
I shovel the last of the food from my plate in my mouth.
Meg: I talked to Lexi.
Me: You should have come as her assistant, then we could have hung out.
Stretching my legs out in front of me, I lean back to let the food settle and chug down half my water bottle in one go.
Meg: Because that wouldn’t have been awkward.
Me: Why would it have been awkward?
Meg: Because I’m not family, and I barely know you.
Looking up, I glance at all the people standing around laughing and talking. The organization has well over five hundred employees; add in their dates, spouses, and some children, and there are a lot of people here.
Me: It would have been fine. Actually, it would have been better than fine, and you could have gotten to know me.
She doesn’t have a comeback to that (not sure what she would even say), and there’s a lull in our conversation. A few people stop to say hello as they pass by, but for the most part I’m content just sitting here people watching. Seeing my friends happy makes me happy.
I spot Bryan and Lexi, his arm wrapped around her shoulders and hers around his waist. They are laughing with Reid and Camille, and I can’t resist snapping a photo and sending it to Meg. If Lexi told her she was coming, I’m sure she’s wondering how things are going with Bryan. I think all of us were interested to see how the two of them would interact today, and they look good, at ease. Meg responds immediately.
Meg: You have no idea how much this picture just made my day.
Me: Good, I’m glad. I’ll let you make mine at Thanksgiving.
Meg: Wait! You’re going to be at Zach’s, too?
Me: I am. I’m looking forward to tasting your food.
Meg: Jack . . .
Me: I mean it! I love food. Like really love food.
There’s a pause, and then it shows me that she’s typing.
Meg: All right, then for you I will make something special.
Me: Special—see, I knew you loved me.
Meg: *eye roll emoji*
A bit later I put up my post for the day, a picture of a few of us on the field. The stadium is blurred in the background, and Reid, Camille, and Lexi are laughing as I’ve scooped Lexi up and tossed her in the air. Bryan, not so much, but the look on his face had me throwing my head back and howling with laughter. Poor dude’s got it bad. I’ve captioned it Catching fireflies, as her shirt is visible and shows her company name, Firefly Kitchen. I added a few hashtags about the event for Lexi, and it takes no time at all for Meg to comment.
Meg: Keep your paws off my girl.
To which I reply: Volunteering?
Meg: *green puke face emoji*
Three weeks and counting till Thanksgiving. It can’t get here fast enough.
Strawberry Rhubarb Pie
I WOULD BE lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit excited about seeing Jack this weekend. When he finally confirmed he would be spending Thanksgiving at Zach’s, I may have sacrificed all holidays for the rest of the year to make sure Taylor and Lee, my sous chef, would cover for me on Black Friday. Yes, I know our morning rush gets a little crazy after the late-night shoppers, but when are we not crazy? Business has been good, real good, and I have complete confidence in my team.
Team . . . team makes me think of the Tarpons, and immediately my mind drifts back to Jack and the picture he posted last week. It’s one of him midair, at least three feet off the ground, and he’s catching the ball over his head. His long, lean body is stretched out, and his arms and hands seem to go on for days. It’s a great action shot of him, and he captioned it: Jack Attack.
I know that’s a nickname that has followed him for years, and I know that because I might have looked him up on the internet once or twice.
Name: John Robert “Jack” Willett
Birthdate: July 12
Astrological sign: Cancer
Profession: Wide receiver for the Tampa Tarpons
Height and weight: 6’2”, 221 pounds
History: Second-round draft pick from USC by the Denver Stallions, two years later traded to the Tarpons
College degree: Communications (This doesn’t surprise me—his personality is bright enough that he would make a great sportscaster one day.)
Family: Single, only child to General Mack Willett and Cindy Willett
Favorite candy: All, but primarily Swedish Fish
Least favorite food: Actually not a food, but a beverage—coffee (Tried his mother’s once and that was it. Never again.)
Favorite th
ing to do in the offseason: Golf with his dad and snowboard
I mean really I could go on and on. The information about him feels endless. There are pictures of him going back twenty years to when he played on a little league team, pictures of him with friends over the years, and even a picture of him in a suit standing next to his father, who’s in full military uniform, and it looks like they’re at a funeral. It’s like his whole life is showcased for the world to see, and I find it a little intimidating. I also hate to use the word starstruck, but in a way I am. I don’t know why; it’s just such a different life than I’ve known.
Winding through the mountain roads at the base of the Smoky Mountains, I roll down my window. There’s a hint of fall in the coolness of the air and on the leaves of the trees and bushes. Although it’s only a five-hour drive, I feel as if I’m somewhere completely different and far, far away from Charleston. The feeling is welcome, too, as I haven’t really taken any time off in months.
Excitement flutters in my stomach as I turn down the driveway of the winery and get my first glimpse in months. It’s so beautiful and rustic with its fairytale castle, and I’m continuously in awe that this is where Shelby lives now.
I park in the circle drive and breathe in deeply as I climb out of the car. Someone is already up and burning leaves, and the smoke smells so good. Carefully, in my new Prada heels, I walk on tiptoe across the gravel and to the front steps.
Helping myself, I walk through the front door of the winery then wander through the foyer and into the tasting room. It’s empty—obviously, since it’s a holiday and they are closed—and I call out, “Hello?”
“Back here,” a male voice answers from the west wing.
The door that leads toward Zach’s private part of the estate is open, so I head in that direction and spot Jack as he appears in the hallway just outside of what most would call a living room, even if the size is comparable to the square footage of my house.
Lessons in Lemonade Page 4