The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(84)

“I do have a request,” Pat says.

“Of course. What is it?”

“Come watch my football game.”

This takes me aback. I hadn’t thought about coming to the games, because it’s not like Pat was playing. It just hadn’t even occurred to me he might want my support as a coach. “You want me to come to your game?”

“You and Jo. It would really mean a lot. Coach Bright resigned this week.”

“He did?” I feel bad that I didn’t know, that I haven’t even asked anything about football or Pat’s life.

“Yep. Now, it’s just me and Chevy.” He pauses, and his next words sound like a confession. “I’m nervous.”

“You, nervous?”

“I always got nervous. Playing or coaching, it’s no different. Before every single game, even in the pros, I would freak out. Sometimes I’d throw up.”

This is hard for me to imagine. Pat seems so unshakably confident at all times. “I watched you play in college.”

“You did? Seriously? That was back before we dated.” Pat sounds so unbelievably pleased, like my words are the equivalent of giving the man a new car with a shiny red bow on top. “And you noticed me?”

Before we met, I was all too aware of Patrick Graham, and not just because of his exceptional playing or how good he looked in tight football pants. I might have harbored a tiny crush on him from a distance for years, one I never told him about. I never thought I’d meet a man who was famous on campus or that I’d snag his attention.

“You were unmissable,” I tell him. “Except for the defense. They never could catch you.” The part of my brain always seeking choice metaphors hopes there’s not one in there for us.

“You watched me play. Huh.” He shakes his head, looking awed and way too pleased with this information. “Why didn’t you tell me back then?”

“And make that big head of yours any bigger? Nah.”

“I still have my football pants, by the way.” His fingertips find a ticklish spot on my neck. When I squeal and try to pull away, he stills his fingers but pulls me closer. “I could wear them sometime, if you’d like.”

“Why would I like?”

I would very, VERY MUCH LIKE.

“Hm. Just seems like you’ve had your share of ogling my top half. It’s hardly fair. My bottom half might be feeling jealous for the same attention.” I shove him, and he chuckles, bouncing right back and curling his arm around me even tighter. “So, you’ll come to my game?”

“We’ll be there. Now, can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he says, and my heart shudders with excitement at the promise in that one word.

“Will you be wearing your football pants?”





Chapter Twenty-Six





Lindy





I haven’t been to a high school football game since, well, high school, but I promised Pat, so here we are. Even though we’re just two days from the hearing, and all I want to do is hold Jo in a viselike grip in the comfort of home. But that’s not really feasible or advisable, so getting out of the house is probably a good thing.

The stadium is the new and improved version of the one where I watched my high school games with Val and Winnie beside me in the bleachers. To anyone who hasn’t grown up in small-town Texas, Friday Night Lights might have seemed like heavy fiction. A caricature of Texas football culture, whether you read the book, saw the movie, or watched the show. Ladies and gentlemen, I am here to tell you Friday Night Lights is not fiction. (Also, literally, the book is nonfiction.) Tonight, though, the game is going down on a Tuesday. Unfortunately, Tuesday Night Lights just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

Sorry, Tuesday. No offense. We can’t all be Friday.

Because we’re running late, Jo and I have to park in the grassy area next to the parking lot. An attendant with a flashlight directs us into a space. Most cars we pass have blue and white flags attached to their windows and sport Sheet Cake Football stickers on the back windshield. Many of the students’ cars have messages written on the windows and windshields.

My car by comparison looks naked. But at least it’s blue! (Other than the rust.) School spirit! Go team!

“Can I get a hot dog?” Jo asks as we make our way in the stadium.

“Ew. No.” I steer Jo away from the concession stand, though I’ll admit, the popcorn smells great. “I want you to live a long, long life.”

“But isn’t a kolache just bread wrapped around a hot dog? And I ate two of them this morning.”

Touché.

“Lindy! Jo!” Tank’s deep voice cuts through the noise of the announcers and the bands warming up. Not that we could miss him. The man is a solid wall in the middle of the crowd, which parts around him like a river on the bleacher steps. Most people stare in wonder as they pass, some of the older generations slapping him on the back or shoulders. I don’t miss that even women twenty years his junior—or more—are eyeing him.

Jo takes off, and before I can even tell her to wait, Tank sweeps her up in his arms. He swings her around, his deep, booming laugh a perfect complement to Jo’s high-pitched giggles.

“Hey, Mr. Tank!”