by Melissa Tagg
Oh yes. Thick and so sweet just half a cup could put a person in a diabetic coma. “At least we successfully participated in Booster Club Friday and did our part to help the cheerleaders afford new pompons.”
Booster Club Friday was always the first weekend of the school year. School let out early, and the town square played host to tables and booths and, of course, the football player auction, during which community members “bought” players for an afternoon of volunteer work.
“Yep, now all we have to do is use the money Dad gave me to buy a player. He said to get someone who looks like he’d be good at shingling a roof. How are you supposed to assess that skill by just looking at a person?”
They walked toward the gathering of townspeople fanning around the band shell, Coach Leo’s auctioneer voice rattling over the square. “Don’t know, but you better hurry up and pick someone. There are only a few players left.” They stopped at the edge of the crowd. “I still don’t see why I needed to come along to this, though.”
She should be helping Dad at the depot. Or clearing the mess of branches and storm debris still littering the backyard. She’d felt compelled to come, though, when Raegan asked. Ever since their argument at the bonfire, she’d been looking for ways to smooth things over with her sister.
Raegan poured the rest of her hot chocolate in the grass and tossed the cup in a bin. “Believe me, you’ll be happy you came. Today is going to be . . . rewarding.” The hot pink scarf fluttering under Raegan’s chin matched the streaks in her hair.
“You sound like a personal trainer trying to get someone to do push-ups.” What wasn’t her sister telling her?
“This will be way more fun than push-ups. Trust me.”
“Can’t. Not when you’ve got the same look in your eyes as that time you convinced me to perm my hair in high school.”
Raegan clapped her hands together. “Oh, my goodness. I forgot about that. Your hair was so short back then. You were like the brunette version of Annie.” Raegan’s burst of giggles competed with Coach Leo’s auctioneering. “And then your date showed up with his head shaved and it was just too perfect. Annie and Daddy Warbucks off to the prom.”
“And this would be why I can’t trust you. Because you’re still mocking me for something that happened thirteen years ago.”
Raegan clamped down on her laughter and leaned in. “You’re right. That was ages ago, and I’ve got much newer material to work with.”
“If you say one word about me getting into bed with—”
Raegan held up one hand. “Fine, not a word. But you were talking about him. Finish spilling.”
“Nothing more to tell. He won’t talk about himself. Period.” Kate swallowed the last of her watered-down cocoa.
“Next up, we’ve got T.J. Waring.” Coach Leo’s booming voice echoed through the park.
“Ooh, the Waring kid. His dad owns a roofing company. Hello, obvious choice.” Raegan waved her hand in the air. “Fifty bucks!”
Kate ditched her paper cup and crossed her arms. “You ever stop to think this town could get in trouble for auctioning off kids for work? Like child labor or something?”
“They’re high-school guys. I don’t think they like to be called kids.” Raegan flapped her hand again. “Sixty-five!” She continued bidding until she’d secured her purchase for ninety dollars. “Mission accomplished. And for ten bucks less than what Dad sent me with. Almost thought Lenny Klassen might outbid me, but behold, the power of a pouty smile.”
“You’re shameless.”
Raegan counted out nine ten-dollar bills and pocketed the tenth. “And ten buckaroos richer.” She turned to Kate then, the buzz of Leo’s voice continuing in the background. “So here’s a question about the Colton thing. Why not just research the guy? He’s famous. There can’t be much about his past that hasn’t hit the Internet.”
Rain clouds tussled overhead, and Kate zipped up her black fleece. “I don’t want facts, Rae. I want stories, anecdotes, memories. I want to know what shaped him, turned him into the man he is now.” Her gaze sought him out—standing across the square, leaning against the old oak tree, bulky arms folded. Surprisingly, he’d bid on one of the team members earlier—Webster, the one who’d rejected his offer to practice together earlier in the week. “He’s interesting. One minute he’s joking around, teasing, loaning out his hoodie. The next he’s . . . broody.”
Like when Leo had asked him to coach and he’d refused so swiftly she’d have thought coach was code for skinny-dipping in the Blaine River. Colton had barely said a word the rest of that night.
“And with Miles Venton going at eighty bucks, we’ve reached the end of our squad.” The coach pulled his mic off its stand. “But not the end of our event. Boys, bring up the baskets.”
Wind wrangled through the square. Kate slid a glance to Raegan. “Baskets?”
“Kate, this is where I’m going to need you to remember I’m your sister and you love me.”
Suspicion plunked in. Up front, a bunch of guys from the team climbed the stairs to the band-shell stage, four or five baskets each dangling over their arms. “Talk.”
“Couple years ago, the boosters needed to raise extra money to replace the marching band uniforms. So they tacked on a basket auction.” Raegan’s explanation released in a whoosh of words. “Girls put a basket together, guys bid on it, they go on a picnic or a date in the evening or whatever. Everybody had so much fun, it became an annual thing.”
“And.”
Raegan backed up a step. “And I made a basket for you.”
“What?”
“See, there’s this guy—”
“Nope. Uh-uh. Not happening.” She turned.
“He’s sweet and nice and a math teacher.” Raegan followed her, grabbing her elbow. “His name is Sheldon.”
“First up, we have a basket that’s so heavy I’d be willing to bet there’s a pan of lasagna inside.”
Sheldon. Somewhere in this crowd was a guy named Sheldon who Raegan had talked into buying her basket. A basket she hadn’t even put together for a date she didn’t want.
“You can’t leave, Kate. I gave him fifty bucks.”
She halted, mouth gaping as she spun. “You paid him?”
“Well, I . . . I just wanted to make sure . . .”
Oh no. No, no, no. A flash of blue caught her eye then. Colton. Still standing under that tree. Yes. Before she could talk herself out of it, she jogged toward him, skirting around Raegan, out of breath by the time she reached him.
“Hey, Ros—”
“I’d tell you it’s Kate, but clearly you’re ignoring that, and it doesn’t matter anyway because I don’t have much time and I need to ask you a favor.”
His dimples curved with his smile. “So what’s up with this basket thing? Like something out of a prairie novel.”
“You read prairie novels?” She shook her head. “Beside the point. Please, Colt. Please, please, please, bid on my basket.”
His grin turned into a laugh. “Can’t. Word on the street is there’s a math teacher in the picture.”
“Raegan told you?”
“She’s super excited about it. Told me she packed this gourmet meal and everything. I know all about the dude.” He placed one hand on her shoulder, tease lighting his eyes. “And look, don’t let the fact that the guy has a pet iguana bother you. I’m sure he doesn’t sleep with it or anything.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Completely serious—except for the gourmet meal part. I think I saw her put a box of Pop-Tarts in your basket.”
Kate narrowed her eyes. “Colton—”
“Oh, hey, if I’m not mistaken, that’s your basket up for grabs right now.”
Coach Leo’s voice bounced through the park, and Kate whirled to see him holding a small basket with a blue ribbon.
She turned back to Colton. “Bid on my basket, Greene.”
“You kidding? It’s the tiniest one up there. If I was going to bid, I’
d bid on that huge one that probably has a steak dinner inside.”
“Save me from the math teacher with the iguana. Please.”
“Fifteen dollars!” The call came from somewhere in the middle of the crowd, a nasally voice.
Colton’s expression turned apologetic. “Shoot, only fifteen? That’s a low start.” Her glare cut off his chuckle, and he sighed. A long, exaggerated sigh that whispered over her cheeks. “Fine.” He lifted his hand. “Twenty-five bucks.”
“Thirty.” The same voice from the crowd.
“Kate.” Raegan appeared at her side, phone in front of her.
“Thirty-five.” Colton winked at her.
Raegan pulled on her elbow, tugging her away from Colton. “I know you’re mad, so I thought I’d do you a favor, and all I could think to do was get you some quick answers on Colt.”
“What?” Her gaze darted to Colton—he was bidding in the fifties now—and she stepped farther away.
“I think I know why he doesn’t want to talk about his past.”
“Not the time, Rae.” Kate’s voice came out a hiss.
“Trust me, you need to read it.” Raegan thrust her phone at Kate.
“Trust you? After you dragged me to this thing and tricked me into—” Her argument cut off as her gaze landed on the headline of the article Raegan had pulled up on her phone.
Two Dead in Train, Car Collision
She sucked in a sharp breath.
Heaviness filled Raegan’s eyes. “Read it.”
In the background, Colton’s voice mingled with that of the other bidder. Kate took the phone, scanned the opening paragraph, pieces coming together in snippets.
Deadly crash.
Alan, 32, and Joan Greene, 30.
Declared dead at the scene.
And beside the paragraph, a photo of a barely recognizable car, flipped on its side. On a railroad track.
“Eighty-five dollars,” Colton’s voice called from mere feet away.
Kate kept skimming the article, compassion expanding inside her until it almost physically hurt.
“One hundred bucks.”
She looked at Colton, then Rae.
“Read to the end.”
Kate lowered her gaze to the article once more, cold air slinking up the sleeves of her fleece and raising goose bumps on her arms.
Also found at the scene was the couple’s nine-year-old son. He was treated for minor scratches at Lake County Memorial Hospital. He is currently in the care of Lake County Human Services.
Oh, Colton.
“One hundred twenty-five.”
Found at the scene.
What did that even mean? She looked at the photo. If he’d been in the car, how could he possibly have survived? But what would he have been doing out of the car?
“One hundred twenty-five dollars to Colton Greene. Going once.”
Colton flashed a smile her way, but she dipped her head to avoid his gaze. And swiped the tear from her cheek.
“Going twice.”
He’d watched his parents die.
“Gone.”
Colton had no idea how this was going to go down—or what had possessed him to do this. Webster Hawks sat in the passenger seat of the truck Colton had been borrowing from Case Walker for the past week, arms crossed and head turned to the window. Not exactly a picture of eager anticipation.
But he didn’t have a choice—Colton had bought and paid for five hours of the kid’s time. What he’d originally thought was going to be his only buy of the day. Until Kate had come begging. He couldn’t have said no if he’d wanted to.
Wished he could figure out why she’d gone quiet, though, after he’d finally won her basket. He’d teased her, told her he expected to find an amazing dinner in that basket when they met back up later tonight.
She’d barely laughed.
The first drops of rain splattered on his windshield now as he turned into the parking lot that edged up to the high-school football field.
Good. A rainstorm should make the afternoon interesting if nothing else.
Although he probably shouldn’t be happy about the rain—not when worry about flooding was the biggest news in Maple Valley at the moment.
“Those clouds are almost black,” Webster huffed. “What are we going to do if it pours?”
Hey, so the kid knew how to talk. “Same thing we’d do if it was sunny and clear skies.” Colton shifted into Park and reached around for the football on the backseat. He tossed it into Webster’s lap. “Play some catch.”
Minutes later, they’d passed the ticket stand and made their way onto the field, what had been a sprinkle of rain now a drizzle.
“Why are you so convinced I need to play wide receiver?”
Colton pulled on his windbreaker as they walked. “You were itching to ask me that the whole drive here, weren’t you?”
Webster only grunted.
“That night when we caught you breaking in at the depot, you knew we were coming in, but you kept picking the lock of that cash register for a few seconds. Methodic, completely focused.” Was that pride on Webster’s face now? Hmm. It was probably better not to make the kid think Colton admired his efforts at burglarizing. “A receiver has to have the ability to block out all distractions. You need single-minded concentration.”
Webster stopped. “And you think I’ve got it?”
“That and you’re quick on your feet.” He zipped up his coat. “And you’re a bit of a drama queen.”
Webster’s eyes narrowed, but the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth gave away the laughter he held in. “False.”
“All I’m saying is, most of the receivers I know like attention. They want the ball in their hands and the game at their mercy.”
“You think I want attention?”
“You tell me. Why else does a kid pick a train depot of all things to burglarize on a night when half the town is hanging out just a few city blocks away?”
Webster didn’t respond. But to his credit, he didn’t look away, either. Nor did he swipe at the rain now running in rivulets down his face.
“Toss me the ball and head down to the twenty-yard line.”
“Fine. But if it starts to lightning, I’m out.” He chucked the ball at Colton.
Colton caught the football with a light hand. When Webster reached the twenty-yard line, Colton lobbed the ball his direction. Like he expected would happen, the ball slicked through Webster’s hands and landed in the grass.
Clouds shadowed the field, and the rain shifted into a hearty downpour. Wind chugged in gusts over the open space.
Colton grinned. Perfect. The storm was their opponent this afternoon. No, not the same thing as defenders rushing at Webster. But a good object lesson all the same. “Throw it back.”
Webster threw a perfect spiral, and through sheets of rain, Colton connected with it. Seconds later, he returned it. This time Webster’s focus latched on to the ball and he snagged the catch. And so they continued for five minutes. Ten.
“I can’t believe you paid fifty bucks just to play catch,” Webster called.
For that, Colton made the kid run for the next one. But instead of making the catch, Webster slid in a puddle of mud. He let out a curse and slapped the ground before standing. Mud clung to his legs, and by now, the rain had soaked clean through his shirt and track pants.
For the next ten, fifteen, twenty throws, Colton sent Webster racing around the field. When a distant peal of thunder shook the sky, Webster missed another catch and chased the ball to the twenty-yard line.
“Forget the thunder, Hawks. No lightning yet. Focus. Watch the ball, feel the sideline. Watch where your toes come down and stay inbounds.”
And then, as he lifted his arm to send the ball sailing toward the sideline, came the moment Colton had been waiting for all afternoon. A grunt of resolve from Webster. A determined steeliness in his eyes, in his stance, in the way his whole body seemed to zero in on the ball.
He pumped his legs,
moving in a spurt of speed that knew its target. He jumped, hands the perfect cradle for the ball as they closed around it, then tucked to his side. Webster came down, shoes sinking into wet grass mere inches from the sideline.
And then he ran.
Past Colton, past the fifty-yard line, toward the opposite goal post, not even another growl of thunder slowing his pace.
And Colton tasted rain as his surprise turned into a smile.
So worth it.
The thought caught him off guard, bumping into him like a defender he didn’t see coming. But it was true, wasn’t it? It was worth it to see a kid who reminded him of himself running like he had something to move toward.
Webster reached the end of the field and slapped the ball to the ground. “Bam.”
“I’ll be more impressed when you do that with half a defensive line chasing you down.” The wind carried his yell down the field. Hopefully Webster heard the impressed tint to his otherwise sarcastic words.
Webster swiped the ball from the grass, made as if to send it back to Colton, but jerked to a stop. Colton shook wet hair from his forehead, peering through sheets of rain. “What is it?”
Webster looked at his wrist, fiddled with—what? A watch? Wristband or something?
“Dude, what’s the holdup?”
When Webster didn’t respond, Colton shrugged and started toward the kid, trying to ignore the tightness in his knee he’d noticed ever since they started playing.
When he reached Webster, the kid was unfastening what was indeed a watch. He held it up to his ear. Tapped it.
“Not waterproof?”
Webster lifted his face then, and Colton nearly tripped on the anger written in his eyes. Over a watch? Didn’t even look like that nice of one.
“Can I see it?”
Webster only chucked it to the ground. “What next?” All the energy, all the bravado, gone from his voice.
“What’s wrong? If it’s the watch, there’s probably a store in town we can take it to. Or—”
“We gonna throw some more or what? ’Cause if not, I’m out. Not like I really wanted to be here anyway.”
The chill in Webster’s voice sank under Colton’s skin. “If you don’t care about this, fine. No sense wasting your time and mine.”