Beauty and the Baller(8)

Through the glass door I have a view of the kitchen that leads to an open area, a huge den where several women are watching a football game on the big screen. Some lounge on the kitchen stools, chatting as they sip drinks and munch on the appetizers on the countertop.

Not a man in sight.

Frowning, I pause, realization dawning. “You mentioned a special committee. Did they invite these women?”

“Yes, I planned it. I’m head of the Blue Belle Booster Club. In hindsight, I should have invited you. My mistake. I’ll be sure you’re at the next football event.”

“Don’t bother. You’re trying to get him married?”

She lets out a gusty breath. “How many times do I have to say it? We want him to stay, Nova. We’ve introduced him to some of the prettiest girls in town. Melinda Tyler is here. She was Miss Texas. Very good family. She might be the one.”

Ohh, a beauty queen. Only the best for a coach.

I huff out a rueful laugh. I’m not surprised at all by the machinations. When I was in high school, the Blue Belle Booster Club bought a new Escalade for our coach after he won state. Once they rented a $2,000-a-month billboard in Huddersfield—our biggest rival—with just 34–10 on it and kept it up all year. Everyone knew what it was. The score from the game where we’d decimated them. The boosters—and their special committees—will do whatever it takes to keep the team happy. Need a million-dollar jumbotron? Done. Want a college-size stadium? You got it. Want a wife in a small town? We’ll find her.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter.

She shrugs. “He had a woman, but she lives in New York, and you know how those city girls are.”

“I’m a city girl.”

She harrumphs. “Not in your heart, dear. Anyway, she’s some model and never would have settled down here. She came to some of the games last year and was highfalutin, just plain old pretentious. That’s who took out your bush, dear. I saw her peel out of here, and if you let me, I can call a landscaping company to fix them, and I’ll even pay for it—”

“Aunt Lois! Great party!” calls one of the girls from the other side of the porch as she swings in the wicker seat. She waves. Round face, brown hair. Pretty. Chewing gum.

“How old is your niece?”

She bristles. “Twenty.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-two today. He likes them young.”

My teeth grit. “Well. I can’t wait to meet this fine, fine man.”

I murmur sweet words in Sparky’s ear and set him down on the porch. I adore my cat, the only male who’s never let me down, but he’s not a people person per se, which is why I keep a firm grasp on his leash. Straightening my shoulders, I open the door, step into the kitchen, and scan the room.

Eventually the women take notice a few at a time and turn to look. They are all younger than me and look fabulous: cute shorts and skirts, low-cut slinky tops, hair long and styled. I don’t recognize a soul. Most of my high school friends have moved on to bigger cities, or I’ve lost touch with them. Part of me wilts as I take in the fashionable crew—then I shove it aside. Not here to impress anyone.

One of them, a leggy redhead in a shimmery green pantsuit with a belted tie, arches a carefully manicured brow at me as she sips on a martini. There’s a small diamond headband on her head. Hello, Miss Texas.

She rises from her seat in the den, as graceful as a swan, and glides toward us in that way that beautiful women have when they’ve had classes in posture. I had those same classes.

She gives a perfect smile to Mrs. Meadows, then takes me in. “Hi there. Who are you?” She says it like I’m a five-year-old and lost.

I’m wearing gray joggers with a hole in one leg and a wrinkled Johnny Cash shirt, and my hair is scraped up in a messy bun. I’m desperately in need of highlights. Not a stitch of makeup.

You wouldn’t believe it now, but a long time ago, I was a beauty queen. The memories of those days prick at my heart, and I shove them down and give her my sweet, sweet smile. I add a little extra Texas to my voice as I run a sweeping gaze over the ladies. “Hey, y’all.”

“Hey . . . ,” comes from a few as they size me up.

Yes, an interloper is here. Someone not in fashion and considered elderly.

“Come on, Sparky.” He prances ahead of me as I walk to the island and grab one of the cold sodas that are resting in a cute little tin tub—a woman did that. I twist off the top, then take a long drink as I glance at the myriad of food, streamers, and balloons, all in maroon, gold, and navy, Bobcat colors. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, COACH is written on a large banner that’s been draped from the ceiling over the fireplace in the den. Whoever this guy is, they’re laying it on thick, and if he’s winning games, well then, he’s their new favorite person.

I note the stainless steel appliances and the large white marble island. The new cabinetry. The ash-colored hardwood floors, the rustic wood-and-metal pendant lights. It’s all very urban farmhouse. The renovations make me yearn to fix Mama’s—my—house. That knot of responsibility tightens again in my chest. One day at a time, Nova.

“And you are . . . ?” comes from the redhead, her voice inquisitive. She’s followed me.

“I’m Nova Morgan.” I grab a chip, swoop it through what looks like homemade guac, and chew. “Great party. ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’ on repeat is just fantastic, but I’d love it if you turned it down. I have a sister next door who’s trying to sleep.” Lie. She’s not even close to going to bed.