The boy presses his lips together and leans in closer to his mom. It’s cute that he’s reluctant to speak, because it’s obvious that his favorite player isn’t Coop. He’s wearing Saint’s jersey.
“It’s all right if it isn’t me.” Coop pats his shoulder. “I can take it.”
“Mr. Barnes asked you a question, Craig.” His mother encourages him to answer.
“Well … I really like you a lot.”
“Uh-huh and?”
“But my favorite player is Saint Stevenson.”
“Yeah?”
“Is that okay?”
“Definitely. Because guess what? Saint is one of my favorite players too.”
A look of relief washes over the boy’s face that makes me believe there is hope yet for my employer. In this moment, I can see a glimpse of the man Coop can be: sweet, kind, warm and compassionate.
“Really?”
“Best quarterback in the league.” Coop signs and hands back the photo and a football that the boy was holding. “Here you go.”
“What do you say, sweetie?” his mother asks.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”
“You’re welcome.”
It’s inevitable that when Coop signs one autograph a line starts. I’ve come prepared with plenty of photos and Sharpies, and we whiz through the line like a well oiled machine. After we’re finished, Coop jogs around the side and under the bleachers to retrieve my phone.
“Listen, I’m done for the day,” he says as he wipes off my phone screen on his shorts. “Gonna hit the showers and then I’m going to need Tito to bring the car around here in thirty.”
“I’m the one who needs abloodyshower.”
“Have you been watching that British version ofAmerican Idolagain?” he asks while handing me my phone back.
It’s irritating that he knows me so well. I have a bad habit of picking up accents or the colloquialisms of people on shows that I binge watch. It must be the actress in me.
“Sugar, honey, iced tea—the screen is cracked!” I stare at my phone in horror. “I can’t text Tito. You’re going to have to do it.”
My whole life is on my phone, and as a matter of fact, Coop’s whole life is on it too.
“Did you just spell out the word shit?” he asks mid chuckle. “Sugar,honey,icedtea?”
“I don’t use profanity in the workplace,” I say. “Something you should consider.”
“Where’d you hear that saying? You even used a bad southern accent when you said it.”
“My accent isn’t bad, and it’s an old saying.”
“Yeah, but you must have heard it recently.”
I suck my teeth.
He really does know me too well.
“On a reality show, but never mind about that, because the more important issue right now is that my phone looks like Charlotte’s Web and I won’t be able to get any work done.”
