‘Conor McGrath, you’re an asshole!’ Shawny hollers after him and both Harmony and Kathleen’s eyes flash in her direction.
‘You okay?’ Jewel asks me in a whisper.
I nod, dust myself off then glance back again for barely a second. Jake Walsh has a face like thunder, all his ire directed toward the opening of the tunnel, where Conor McGrath’s waving mascot is being met by cheers from the crowd.
It’s at that moment, I don’t know if I can hold out. I don’t know if I can continue to resist him.
Kathleen is given the green light. That’s our cue. The sound from the crowd raises up a notch. The atmosphere thrums under the floodlights as we emerge into a packed stadium, to begin our opening number.
Monday Night Football. It feels like the whole of America is watching.
I want to look back at Jake. But I resist.
Girls Girls Girlsbegins over the sound system. My heart beats fast. The Danube has a natural grass pitch, rather than artificial turf. We use the full-length of the field for our routine, forming one line by linking arms over our shoulders so that the duration of the chorus is made up of synchronized high kicks. We bend and wind for the remainder, shaking our poms, so that the crowd is well and truly entertained.
I see Kathleen to one side of the field, wearing a mic. She indicates to Harmony that we’re going straight into our second number, Guns N’ RosesWelcome to the Jungle, and we’re still dancing to the track when the players are announced over the sound system.
I’m facing the direction of the tunnel. I get a good view of Jake, emerging through dry ice, his image beamed onto the jumbotron above his head. He doesn’t look at me, not for one second. He pulls on his helmet and runs right past me, his eyes steely, focused solely on the game.
It stays that way, for the duration.
And when it’s over, the team walks away with the win.
Watching him, mud-splattered yet victorious, I know I can’t hold out anymore.
Friday night, it’s almost dark. In the car, I lean forward, one hand on my steering wheel, the other holding onto my phone and Jake’s note. The way through Canyon Rock is winding, narrow and treacherous. Tall trees rise up on both sides.
Am I taking the right road?
The week has dragged. Every shift at The Bounty. Every dance on stage at Surly’s, since Monday night. All building up to this moment. My request for a night off from the club was turned down by Kale.
I’m late. Jake’s note said 5 p.m. but it’s almost six now. I definitely took a wrong turn back there somewhere when I lost navigation, due to no signal.
I slow down when I see a crooked green-and-white sign pointing to the left. It reads ‘Parkland View’. I hold my breath and switch on my indicators. This is the one.
There are no streetlamps out here. I slow right down and squint through the windshield because the trees cover the sky. The ground is uneven, making my C-Max rock from side to side.
Then I see light up ahead.
A cabin.
Just as he described.
There’s no driveway, just a clearing, a steep incline beside a red mailbox. The cabin has a porch, and I recognize his pickup parked up outside the garage.
We’re thirty miles north of central Canyon. Nobody is gonna see us out here.
I kill the engine and wait in the driver’s seat. I exhale. There’s no going back now.
I swallow when I see the front door open and Jake Walsh comes out onto the porch. He’s wearing a fitted pale green T-shirt and grey flannel shorts and there’s a smile of surprise on his face. He’s had a haircut since Monday night’s win.
My heart flutters. I shouldn’t be here. I can’t even stay that long.
I open my car door. I changed at the diner into jeans, boots and a red top. The top is like a corset, except a little more demure than something I would wear for a shift at Surly’s. From the way his eyes roam over my body, I can tell that he likes it. I’m nervous, so I clasp my fingers together.
‘Hey,’ he says softly.
‘Hey,’ I say back, glancing around to double check that we’re alone. There’s more light further up the road, perhaps more cabins nestled in amongst the trees.
