My cheeks slowly take on the tint of a couple of slices of pepperoni because they could easily replacepizzawithPippa.
Okay, it’s not fair to say I love her, past or present tense. But she was my first real crush. When I got a glimpse of what it would be like to do anything for a girl, to go anywhere, be anyone, her name was attached.
Instead, I fumbled. Choked. Clammed up. I should’ve been brave and explained everything senior year instead of succumbing to my fear of losing Freddie as a friend.
“Are you sure it’s not spaghetti and sauce that Chase loves? Oh, wait. My mistake. I recall now. He despises spaghetti with sauce.” Pippa doesn’t give me a sharp look, but daggers pierce the air between us.
What feels like a painfully long silence follows as if everyone at the table recognizes the weight of those words.
Our fathers talk among themselves. Meanwhile, Mrs. Thompson wears a look of concern. Pippa must’ve told her what happened—I take responsibility for the sponge cake, but cannot lay claim to the saucident.
All the same, my stomach drops and flaps around like a fish under the table. I have three sisters and have a legitimate reason to fear the fury of a woman scorned, sauced, sponged...or something like that.
Swallowing thickly, I say, “It’s true. I do love pizza, but I don’t hate spaghetti and sauce. Quite the contrary.”
“I was going to say, who could hate spaghetti and sauce?” Pippa’s mother adds.
“Certainly not Chase. Usually, he has the appetite of two men. He has to maintain the energy needed to keep up with his workouts.” I receive a motherly pat on the arm.
If the guys on the team were seated at the table instead of our parents, they’d be egging me on, prodding me to flirt with Pippa, or at the very least have a story to tell by the time the night isover. True to Bruiser form, an idea takes shape. I’m a large man with broad shoulders and fill up a fair amount of space. Maybe it’s time I make it so Pippa can’t sit here and ignore me.
Letting out a bewildered sigh, I say, “The spur-of-the-moment travel must’ve thrown off my inner meal time clock.” Elbows out, I dig into the food on my plate.
The moms resume conversation while I gradually cross the invisible boundary and work my way into Pippa’s personal space. After a few more bites, my elbow brushes hers. A warm thrill rushes through me at the contact.
Pippa flinches and pins her arm to her side as though dangerously close to a hot stove.
Cha-ching!At last, I get a reaction.
I join the conversation with the moms and my gestures get larger and my feet, planted on the floor under the tablecloth, take on a wider stance, man spread style. With a laugh, my arm nonchalantly drapes over the back of her chair.
She sits bolt upright, back as flat as a board, like she balances a stack of books on top of her head.
When dessert comes, flaming crème flambé, I lean out of the way and toward her. Our arms brush and linger longer this time, heating me up and giving new meaning to the termrubbing elbows.
All the while, Pippa stares ahead, unflinchingly tight-lipped and not looking my way.
Mr. Thompson brings the conversation back to football and asks, “Can we expect another Super Bowl win this season?”
“We’ll do our best,” I answer.
“Dad, I didn’t know you were a football fan,” Pippa says, finally breaking her silence.
“What’s it like playing football? Rough sport, eh?” Mr. Thompson asks.
My father grunts. Long ago, he drew a hard line in the sand. I stand on the football side. He stands on the other. It’s been a point of contention for my entire life.
“What’s it like? Well, it seems like fun and games,” Rhett scoffs.
My mother shakes her head. “He’s sore over the little prank the boys pulled recently.” At a stage whisper, she adds, “Look up moon-gate.”
“Thelittleprank? It was a scourge against the Collins name,” my father fires back.
He lays the guilt on thick, ironic since he’s been threatening to smear the Collins football legacy for months.
I want to prove to my father that football is a good thing. I’ll never understand why he is so against the game that’s literally in his blood. His father, my grandfather, is in the Hall of Fame and eventually owned the Miami Riptide.
However, there’s more to it than that. The most recent issue is the inheritance from Cap—the inheritance left to me instead of Rhett, his son.
