I let my mind wander again to the way TJ’s touch sent fire coursing through my veins. I shiver at the memory his lips, grazing the side of my cheek when he leaned toward my ear to whisper words for only me to hear.
It’s sad that a square dance at a retirement community chili cook-off is the pinnacle of my real-life romantic endeavors. I’m not complaining. I store it all away as story fodder, and I sigh—in either relief or dismay, I’m not sure—when the screen fades from Anton and TJ to a commercial.
I hoist myself off the couch, remembering what I’m here to do, which isnotto pine over TJ Wilson. That ship has sailed. Actually, there never was a ship. Ships are too romantic anyway, and a ship sailing away implies all sorts of things like kisses goodbye and longing and letters. Nope. TJ and me? We’re more like a platonic city bus.
I pull my hood up and head out into the elements, grateful that, if nothing else, tending to the chickens will give me something to focus on. The chickens are in their run, which TJ has wrapped in some sort of thick plastic. They’re seemingly unperturbed by the snow swirling around outside. They are perturbed byme.I slip on the boots TJ instructed me to wear and step inside, and one chicken flaps its wings and seems ready to charge at me before it settles back down.
“Easy!” I use my calmest voice. “I’m here to help you. I’m a friend.”
I make eye contact with a majestic-looking brown-and-red-feathered hen. Her beady black gaze bores into my soul, and I swear if she had eyebrows, she’d be arching them at me right now. It’s like she’s saying,I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.
“Truly. I come in peace. Just checking on your water. I told TJ I would.”
At the sound of his name, the chickens start clucking, a low, plaintive sound, like they miss their main man. Which is ridiculous. What does he do? Refer to himself in the third person in their presence? How do they know him?
Who knows? I’m in no position to argue.
“I get it,” I say, making nice. “He’s your favorite guy, huh? He takes good care of you.”
The brown-and-red hen continues to stare at me, and I feel like it’s getting personal now.
“Don’t worry.” I hold up my hands. “I’m not going to steal him away from you. Some other women might, but not me. I’m on your team. I’m TJ’s friend.”
More clucking.
“I’m talking to chickens. I’ve officially lost my mind.”
A particularly loud cluck emanates from the brown-and-red-feathered hen, seeming to second the motion that I’m going crazy. It’s enough to jolt me into action, so I make quick work of knocking the snow build-up from their feeder and checking their water, just like TJ explained how to do before saying goodbye on Thursday night.
Mission accomplished, I head inside.
I shuck the chicken boots on the stoop and scrub my hands for a solid two minutes in the kitchen sink. I’m not grossed out by chickens, but I also want nothing to do with chicken diseases. That seems like a fair stance. When I turn off the water, I hear the announcers on the TV talking about Anton Bates. I walk back into the living room and see him lined up behind a row of hunched-over River Fox players. The ball is on the ground in the center of the line. TJ stands behind Anton. I don’t understand why they call it football when there’s not much kicking involved. Except for what that skinny guy did before. The majority of the playing doesn’t seem to involve feet. Football is not a fitting name for whatever is going on here.
“Wilson in the backfield and two receivers wide-set,” the announcer says. “Bates takes the snap and drops back …”
I have no clue what the broadcaster is talking about, but my gaze never leaves TJ. He sprints out from behind Anton and runs directly into a giant of a man from the Buffalo team who is charging at Anton from the other side of the line. The dude is twice TJ’s size, and TJ is not small. I gasp as TJ gets plowed over, but my gaze flips to Anton in time to see him throw the ball. The camera follows the course of the ball, so I can’t see if TJ got up. I barely register the cheers and the River Foxes player sprintingdown the field until he’s knocked down by a guy from Buffalo. My heart is in my throat as I wait for the chaos of the play to subside and the camera to pan out.
I don’t take a breath until I spot number twenty-five jogging off the field, looking no worse for wear.
“Take it easy, TJ,” I breathe aloud to the empty room. “You’ve got chickens who are counting on you. And a friend named Lucy who’d like to see you again in one piece.”
I flop down onto the couch and watch as Anton tosses the ball to somebody else. The name Poe is on the back of this guy’s jersey when he gives the ball back to the referee and huddles up with the rest of the team. They’ve gotten almost all the way to the far side of the field. I know from my research that they’re trying to get the ball over the endzone line. TJ joins the circle, and I bite my lip. I also know from my research that this is either going to be a play to him, or Anton is going to try to dive over the line of big guys himself.
I watch the action unfold, and sure enough, Anton takes a step toward the huge scuffle of oversized men, but then at the last second, he lunges to the side and flips the ball backward to where TJ is trailing him. TJ snatches the ball out of midair, tucks it under his arm, and runs untouched into the endzone.
“Thank you, Jesus.” I throw up the prayer of gratitude in all sincerity. Football is vicious. My research led me down a rabbit hole of gruesome injuries and … yikes. Even some of the hits TJ took in his highlight reel had me wincing. Anytime a guy can get through a play unscathed, it’s a miracle.
The guy with the jersey that reads Poe joins TJ in the endzone, and together, they do their Cinderella skit. I roll my eyes at the empty room, but I’m smiling like Christmas came early. I place my hands on my cheeks because they’re burning up. The camera gets in TJ’s face as Poe slaps his helmet, and they jog off the field together. TJ grins and winks. The tiny gesture is magnified onhis giant TV screen, and I swear my heart flutters like a feather caught in the wind.
I shake my head. That wink wasn’t for me. It was for the millions of fans watching the game.
The Cinderella Act was for you.
My brain is short-circuiting, coming up with unhelpful thoughts like that.
It’s true.
I have a very convincing brain, I must say. TJ didn’t have to do the Cinderella celebration. He found me. I told him I didn’t want to date him. But he’s still acting out our little inside joke. Something about that makes me feel warm and gooey inside. It’s proof that the guy has staying power. Like he actually wants to be my friend.
