Whisper Me and Roar: A Second Chance Romance

by Bri Stone

  I mean really down because she’s a measly five feet and I stand at just over 6’5. I was regarded as a big lunk by everyone until I started football in middle school. I like the game, but it isn’t my passion or anything. It got me a college education for free, and a monthly paycheck from the NCAA, so I can’t complain.

  Momma helps me tally the barrels and then follows me as I head to the back of the barn to rinse off. The wheat catches on my skin and my hair, but the first thing I ever learned from Momma was to not track farm work in the house.

  “Your daddy is way out with the cows. Apparently, a few of them are lacking milk,” Momma says, leaning on an old haystack.

  “Because it’s so damned hot.”

  I laugh. shake as much hay off my boots as I can. I hold my boots as I walk alongside her back to the house.

  A few hundred yards from the house, one of the little ones come running out. I call them that sometimes because my sisters’ kids all look alike. Three out of the four, that have kids. Pepper is the oldest and has four kids with her deployed Air Force husband. Phoebe is right after her and doesn’t have kids, but that’s because she’s a model in her prime. Price came right after her, and they’re Irish twins; her kids are four and six, and her husband is a hotshot lawyer who is too good for our Sunday family dinners. Then Penny is the one closest to me, only three years older, but started having kids when she was seventeen. But her husband and high school sweetheart is now a petroleum engineer, and their three kids are always at the house.

  “Peepee!”

  “Hey little man, I told you my name is Pete.” My mother had a theme with the names, as hers is Penelope.

  “Peepee!” The little runt just grabs on my leg, latches like I’m a tree, and I keep walking. I ruffle his dark blond hair and roll my eyes at Momma, who just shrugs. Sanders and I are the closest, the first of my nephews.

  We get to the porch and walk through the main door to the farmhouse. I’m immediately graced with the smell of honey and flour, and I know biscuits are nearby. The little man unlatches from my leg and meets his siblings in the living room. I think it’s pretty cool that they’re growing up in the same house I did, right down to the decorations. The dark wood floors still open right up to the family room, flanked by the dining room that and its table that seats fifteen, and then the den that stays locked unless Pops is in the cigar smoking mood. The kitchen hides behind all that and stays bright because of the wide bay windows and the white cabinets.

  “What did you make?” I clap my hands and peer in the oven, smiling when I do see biscuits.

  “Grits are on the stove. But you shouldn’t eat so close to practice.” Momma pours me a glass of juice, and I laugh at her because she has been telling me that since I was fourteen.

  “Please. Stack me five, and I want two bowls of grits.”

  Coach Barnes is a tough guy to crack. But so is our D-line. I’ve been a tight end since freshman year of high school, and it’s what I was scouted for. Baylor is pretty good, and we’ve been getting better. But as a fifth-year senior, this is the end for me and come March, I’ll be in the combine waiting to be drafted. My reasons for that are conventional. Small town guy making it big, giving back to the community he grew up in—it’s as conforming as I could be.

  “You eat too many pies on the farm? Hold the damned line back, Bull!” Coach is in my face, and so is the saliva from his breakfast.

  The whole ‘Bull’ thing came about way back, my freshman year because I can drive a D-line back at least ten yards and hold it there, and the last time we did the rodeo here I won the bull riding contest.

  We run some plays and scrimmage for about five hours before we break for the evening. Since I’m a team captain and senior, I get first calls on the showers. My buddies Jim and Daniel are in there too. Jim is the quarterback, a bit shorter for a quarterback with russet skin and what Coach likes to call a ‘pretty face’; and Daniel is the linebacker and captain of the O-line, white like myself, decked in tattoos.

  “Tough one today. I can already tell this season is gonna be rough.” Jim is in the middle of shampooing his hair. The showers have walls dividing each square, but they only come up to about our hips, and for the tall ones, like Daniel and I, they don’t do much good.

  “Shit. Of course, it is. We haven’t graced the top ranks for a while now.” Daniel agrees. We’re a Big Twelve school, so it’s hard to be noticed amongst the bigger hitters.

  “But it is the last year for us,” I add.

  I finish and towel off before heading to my cubby, they follow because theirs are right next to mine.

  “Five years to get a degree. They must pay us well.” Daniel uses his towel to smack Jim over the head, joking because Jim gets paid the most. The athletic stipend is the same for every player, except the quarterback and a select few players.

  We get dressed and head out to eat like we always do. They clamber into my old-fashioned blue Ford truck. Jim sits in the back, leaning over between Daniel and me.

  We are all equally close and have been since about freshman year here at Baylor. Some guys you just take to easier on the team, others not so much. I hate to say it, but the south still has its problems, especially the college culture at Baylor. Some of the guys on the team used to hound Jim because he’s black and the quarterback. There was a whole thing about it a while ago when the second and third string quarterback and their friends claimed Jim didn’t have any talent, that he got the position because the coaches wanted to be diverse.

  After a rib dinner at BJ’s, where the manager tries to give us free food because he recognizes us by our green team shirts, we head back to campus. The three of us have a house by the stadium, and I’m not there that much because I go back to the farm a lot. We rented it at first before the owner scrapped it as a leasing property, and we got it real cheap, so we own it now.

  “You know, that NCAA rule is dumb. If people want to treat us, we should let them!” Daniel shouts over the mumble rap playing.

  “I don’t know, it makes sense to me. We don’t get special treatment, just because we’re athletes.” I shrug.

  They give each other a look and I laugh. They always make jabs at me for being the ‘moral’ one.

  “Right.” Jim flicks my ear, I feign punching him before I focus back on the road and my now empty gas tank.

  I roll into the convenience store by campus, the same one everyone uses. It’s relatively empty for six on a Friday night, but I know it will fill up later on when everyone makes their beer runs for the parties.

  “Don’t break anythin.’” I hop out to go in and pay with cash. As I walk in, I peer back out to see which lane I parked at.

  Four, four.” I say to myself, since I forget number easily. The cashier has their back to me, and I can’t make much out with their hooded sweater on, and they’re facing the back desk.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  No response. I clear my throat and try again, but still nothing.

  I reach over the small space to tap their shoulder. The squeal and the jumping motion tell me it’s a woman.

  “Jesus, what’s wrong with you? Scaring people half to death like that.” Her voice rises until she breaks off with a heavy sigh, her eyes narrowed and trained on me as her face twists up at the bridge of her nose and her lips press together.

  I smile, staring her down for a good minute. Maybe more because damn, she is one beautiful woman.

  The first thing that freezes me about her is her eyes, these gorgeous globes of chestnut brown and with the sunset coming in, they look even warmer. Her skin is a creamy ochre hiding under her gray sweater, and the waves of her brown hair peeking out under the hood. I briefly notice she had headphones in, that now dangle around her neck after her flight of terror. Her plump lips are pursed in anger, and her forehead creasing as she frowns at me.

  “Would you like to take a picture? We have disposable cameras.” She points behind me, but I don’t follow the gesture. I’m just looking at her a
nd her sweet little face.

  I chuckle, lick my lips and lean on the counter. “Sorry, but I did say ‘excuse me,’ you just didn’t hear me.” I laugh but she doesn’t.

  Her eyes soften, but that’s as much apology as I know I’m gonna get.

  “What do you need?” Her voice is tired, but sweet and firm and flowing like honey.

  “Thirty on pump—shit.” I hold up a finger and go back to check which one. Daniel and Jim are horsing around in the bed like normal.

  “Sorry, pump four.” I slap the money on the counter.

  I notice her roll her eyes as she rings me up.

  “What were you doing over there?” I gesture to the counter she was huddled over.

  She huffs, glancing up at me pointedly, “Nothing.”

  “What if I tried to rob the store? You’d have had no idea.”

  She hands me a receipt. “Look, what do you want?” Her hands fall on the counter with her annoyance.

  “Hospitality, I mean we are in the south.” I grin, but she doesn’t bite. She just gives me an odd look that twists her lip in thought. “It was biology. Principles,” she answers.

  I nod once, feeling like I made a small victory. “I took that freshman year. Do you go to Baylor?” I ask her.

  “Who lives here and doesn’t go to Baylor?” She retorts and I laugh. I think I see a hint of a smile on her lips, but I could be wrong.

  “What year are you?”

  “Are you the damned second inquisition or something?”

  I chortle, a little hurt. “No, but I am a senior. Peter James Buchanan,” I hold out my hand for her to shake and she looks at it the way Darcy, our main cow looks at me when I come to milk her. Sheesh. I drop my hand and shove my receipt down my pocket.

  “What’s your name?” I clear my throat.

  “You’re a stranger, so I don’t think I’m going to tell you.” She peers behind me, probably hoping for another customer.

  “Damn, my bad.” I knock on the counter once. “I’ll leave you alone, but I fill up my tank every week, so I think we’ll be seeing each other again.” I think for a moment as I glance at her notebook. Everyone puts their name on their notebook, right? She doesn’t have a name tag, or I suppose she just doesn’t want to wear one.

  Her eyes follow me when I step to the side of the small, dingy counter, but she isn’t fast enough to stop me from seeing the front page of her notebook.

  “Nice to meet you, Melinda.”

  Maybe I am a stranger, and perhaps it is creepy, but she took all rational thought from me when I first looked into her eyes and it isn’t coming back anytime soon.

  “You weirdo!” She huffs under her breath and brushes past me, to go to the other side of the counter. All it does is blow a whiff of her scent my way and my knees nearly buckle like I’m going in for a tackle. The sweetness of it, the rush of oils and coconut, makes me crazy. So much so that I pull back and she walks to the back of the counter with an angry huff.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “You wouldn’t tell me your name, and I can be very persistent.”

  “Obviously. I bet you aren’t even a student here, just some creep.”

  “Oh really?” I lean on the counter again, palms face down as I gaze at her.

  She scrunches up her nose and narrows her eyes. “Yeah, one of those hot guys who lure women away with their charm and turn out to be serial killers.”

  I only get one thing out of that. “You think I’m attractive?” I arch my brow and grin down at her. She looks right in my eyes before looking past me instead, and it’s the most intense second I’ve had in a while.

  “I think you’re odd.” She blinks twice.

  I chuckle and am a little surprised she doesn’t recognize me. I’m on posters in the dining Hall with other players, I go to almost every function as a part of collegiate athletics. People see me on campus and know who I am most of the time. But she doesn’t know and it’s a breath of fresh air.

  “I’m not, Melinda. But like I said, I’m here every week. I’ll change your mind. Hopefully, by then you’ll stop turning your back to the real creeps who come in here.” I wink and turn to leave and I know—I just know she watches me as I do. Because I feel it.

  I sense it, the same way I know a crop isn’t ready, or a corn stalk is too young. I walk out smiling, fill up the tank and get back in the truck trying to hold on to her scent in my nose and the picture of her I have in my head.

  “What the fuck took so long?” Daniel chides me.

  I turn to him, intending to tell him but change my mind. For now, Melinda just gets to be in my head. I look back at the window by the check-out and before I drive off, I see her take the textbook and move to the front counter. And then she stays in my head all night.

  MELINDA

  * * *

  “Maybe take it in on the sides a little.”

  “More?”

  “Yes. I need to almost suffocate.” I glance at the designer in the mirror.

  A local boutique I found downtown made me a custom dress for the gala on Saturday.

  I aimed to prove every person wrong who thought doctors could only wear scrubs. The crimson dress that cinches at the waist, parts on my right thigh, and dips off one shoulder should about do it.

  “Okay. I can have it ready tomorrow, and we’ll deliver it too.” The designer smiles.

  She is very young, and I remember her saying this was just an internship to pad her application for a more prominent designer. She made the dress from scratch off a rough sketch she drew a few weeks ago and has made my dresses for all the events I’ve had to parade around in the past few years. It was expensive, but I wouldn’t ever worry about wearing the same dress as someone else, and I didn’t lack for money.

  “Thank you so much.” I smile at her and step off the podium to return to the dressing room. Claire unzips me and then I close the curtain to change back into my jeans and overpriced, salmon colored tee shirt. I fix my hair and tighten up the ponytail before I leave.

  I pay for the tailoring hour and head back to the hospital. I plan is to see two of my patients in the research case, then I have a meeting with the chief. He emailed me yesterday, all ominous as usual, so I have no clue what he wants.

  I see the five-year army vet and then a teenager with Paget’s before I send the case file to Seven for updates. Once I finish delegating, I head to the Chief’s office.

  Mite sits behind his desk, with a posh grin on his face as he looks at me. I sit up straight, adjusting my coat as I click the purple pen I always carry in my pocket.

  “You wanted to see me,” I prompt him.

  “Oh, yes of course!” He chuckles, and his lapse makes me smile.

  He isn’t old enough to be forgetful or anything, but he is a little airy sometimes. “I just wanted to talk about the gala this weekend. Some people from the Academy of Surgical Research will be there, and I even heard of some FDA board members being there too.”

  I almost roll my eyes. Both those organizations gave me shit when my research was on the ground. They flagged practically every case file I ran by them when I was trying to get my certification, keeping a closer eye on me than most anyone else trying to get their qualifications. It felt like they were just looking for a reason to blacklist me. Now they not only praise my research but point out that I’m black every chance they get. Today, everyone is trying their hand with the diversity and equality card to either make up for something or be viewed in a different light. It’s sad that it even has to happen, but it does.

  “I heard. Don’t worry, I’ll represent the program well.” I offer a small smile.

  Mite grins, “I know you will. But if you can get a chance to talk to them, maybe slide in the other research programs on the ground here.”

  I smile for real because I didn’t expect it. Now I’m the one stepping in to do the name dropping?

  “Sure. I’ll try, but they may be occupied the entire night.”

  He shrug
s and lets his chair loll back. His pale blue dress shirt makes his skin look even more tired. “True. But some athletes will be there too, a few of them you’ve operated on.”

  I snicker, “A few?” I’d operated on the equivalent of an entire defensive line by my second year as an attending physician.

  “Charles, I knew you would keep me entertained.” He laughs and stands to hint he is finished. I stand too and shake his hand. Mite likes personal meetings; rarely does he use email for what could be said in an email.

  In a sing-song voice, I respond, “All in a day’s work.”

  I have been in the Westin Ballroom for a measly thirty minutes, and every hand that came to shake mine has told me at one point or another, before tonight, that my research would never be good enough to make a difference. But it has, and I don’t care much for the opinions that stood to keep me from it.

  . I weave through the fancy crowd with the live singer and string orchestra playing, to make my way to the restroom. I didn’t have to go, but I needed a moment to refresh before sitting down for the speeches and silent auction. Usually, they raise well into the millions for these events because it’s so diverse. Not only is the medical community here, but the athletes who make a name for themselves by donating and then the city philanthropists that use it as a platform.

  I powder my face a little bit, refresh my plum lipstick, and study my reflection. I used to look so different, and I don’t mean in the way people look different when they grow up. I remember being so happy in college, specifically senior year when I met Pete… god, I miss him. I hate what I did, and I have hated myself for it ever since. At the time, it was my only choice—it felt like my only choice, to leave. I could say I was young, scared of love, and happiness, but that would be too easy, and I couldn’t expect him to really understand why.

  What I have now means nothing. Not without him, not without the love he used to give me. I tried to find him after a safe amount of time, knowing him, he probably did the same. But I could never go through with it.