He actually smiles, full this time. It transforms his whole face, like someone turned the lights up behind his eyes. “You have no idea.”
“Enlighten me.”
He leans his elbows on the invisible rail of air in front of us, shoulders relaxed. “Okay. Imagine this town at its mostcompetitive. Now take away any stakes that actually matter. Keep the pride.”
I squint. “That sounds… dangerous.”
“Oh, it is,” he assures me. “From what I’ve seen, the Coyote Cup started as a casual excuse to drink beer behind The Hollow and throw bean bags at wooden boards with holes in them. Now there are brackets. Jerseys. Lani runs odds behind the counter. Terry and Joanne bring themed floral arrangements. Dottie live blogs it in the farmers market newsletter.”
I choke. “You’re lying.”
“Ask Sloane.”
I can, in fact, immediately picture Dottie in a lawn chair with a clipboard, whispering stats into her phone like a sports commentator.
“And the guys?” I ask. “Where do they fall in this… hierarchy?”
“Boone pretends he doesn’t care,” Creed says. “Shows up in the same worn hat, throws like he’s just passing time. But if you watch him after, he’s replaying every shot like game footage.”
That tracks unsettlingly well.
“Caleb only plays if someone needs a partner,” Creed continues. “He’s stupidly good. People keep trying to draft him. He declines by disappearing.”
Also tracks.
“And Silas?” I ask, already laughing.
“Silas has custom bags,” Creed says. “And a victory playlist.”
I lose it, doubling over with laughter that feels like it’s washing something sour out of my chest. Tears sting my eyes again, but this time they’re from hilarity, not hurt.
“Oh wow,” I wheeze. “Of course he does.”
“He tried to convince Roman to sponsor his ‘team’ last year,” Creed adds. “Was working on logo designs.”
“I hate how much I want to see that,” I groan.
“You’re about to. Trust me. Once the season starts, it’s all anyone talks about. You’ll be making themed snacks by week two.”
“That implies they’d trust me with their precious carb supply during competition.”
“Fair point,” he concedes. “You might have to prove yourself in preseason.”
The absurdity of it all. The world touring rock drummer and the disgraced sous chef standing on a mountain ridge discussing small town cornhole leagues, hits me square in the chest.
We used to measure our lives in cities and venues and chart numbers. In ticket sales and sold-out nights and reviews left by strangers who had Opinions about our work. Now the biggest sporting event on the horizon involves bean bags and beer.
“Do you ever think about how different things look from here?” I ask quietly.
He follows my gaze.
“Onstage, everything feels… huge,” I say. “Every mistake. Every compliment. Every decision. It’s all amplified. Up here, the town looks like something you could hold in your hand. Like you could just… set it down somewhere safe and nothing bad would ever happen to it.”
His jaw shifts.
“I used to think the only way I’d feel alive was behind a stove in a Michelin kitchen,” I admit. “Pressure. Adrenaline. Tickets flying in. Marcus shouting. Being… needed.”
“And now?”
