Page 36 of Worth the Try
Shit. “Did I say something wrong?” I ask.
“No!” she blurts. “No, it’s only,” she exhales. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for.”
“Right. Sorry. I mean—crap—I’m not sorry. I mean that I say sorry too much, and I’m sorry for saying sorry?” Her voice rises as she speaks.
“Breathe, Elle.” I chuckle. “It’s okay. This is day one of not being nice, remember?”
She exhales. “Right. But I’ve actually been working on it longer than that.”
“Fair enough.”
“Excuse me?” A voice pipes up on my right.
I look down and see a little boy, probably about ten years old, staring at me. He’s wearing an Atlanta Granite shirt, and his mother stands a few feet away, grinning. “Hi,” I say.
“Are you Ansel Miles?” he asks.
I smile. “I am.” To the phone, I say, “Hang on one sec.”
“Whoa,” he breathes.
“You like rugby?”
He nods furiously. “You’re my favorite.”
“Really?”
“He’s got a poster of you in his room,” his mother says.
“That’s pretty cool,” I say. “Do you play?”
“I want to, but there aren’t any teams my age in town,” he answers, his disappointment clear.
“Well, that’s no good,” I say. “We need to fix that.”
He nods again, his eyes still wide as saucers.
Behind him, his mother asks, “Mind if we get a picture?”
The boy whirls to his mother and back to me, but all I do is nod and grin. “Of course.”
We take the picture, and they disappear down the aisle. I pick the phone back up and hear Elodie call out, “So close! That was a nine!”
“I’m back,” I say.
“That was downright adorable,” she gushes. “How often does that happen?”
I think about it. “Eh, depends. When season is in, it’s fairly common. But I’ve never been recognized in the grocery store.”
“Wait, are you famous?”
I laugh. “I’m a professional athlete, Elodie. So…sort of? Nothing like the pro footballers or basketball players in the city, but I’m known enough.”
“Huh.”
I can’t decide if I’m insulted or charmed that she’s utterly clueless. “Anyway, back to me being in the grocery store. I need you to tell me what you want to eat.”
