Page 36 of The No Try Zone
“To be fair, it’s almost whiteout conditions up here,” she concedes. “But Mom’s going to be awfully disappointed.”
“She gets more of your chocolate chip cookies – how sorry is she really going to be?” It’s my lame attempt at a joke.
“What are you doing instead? You can’t stay home.”
“I have no idea.” I turn on my blinker and swing into the left lane.
“Are you driving?”
“Yeah.”
“In Atlanta traffic? You’re insane. Get off the phone. I’ll tell Mom.”
I don’t want to get off the phone with her. I want to see her in person and tell her everything I’ve gone through and have her give me a hug and then tell me to stop being an asshole and fix it. Instead, I swallow the lump in my throat and say, “Okay. You still letting me fly you two down here for a match when the season starts?”
“Opening game, big brother. Wouldn’t miss it.” Her voice is warm with pride. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
We disconnect and I blow out a breath. The only bonus of this is that I get a few days to myself. I can relax, decompress, maybe read one of the books piled up on my bedside table. And if I’mreallylucky, I’ll get Sam out of my head.
I snort.Not even remotely likely.
Back home, I’m seconds from getting horizontal on my couch, book in hand, when my phone buzzes. My brow furrows as I read the name on the screen.
“Ansel?” I answer. “Everything okay?”
“Hey, Coach,” comes the response. “All good. Listen, this might be weird, but Elodie is making me ask.”
“What’s up?” I remember Elodie from the picnic. Sweet woman, and definitely brought out his nice side.
“She wanted me to see if you were going anywhere for Thanksgiving. Sounds like a lot of flights are grounded and she’s insisting I round up everyone who might not have plans.”
I grin. “That’s awfully nice of her.”
He grunts. “I keep trying to tell her that feeding a bunch of rugby players isn’t for the faint of heart, but here we are.”
“If I’m invited, I’d love to come.”
“That’s why I’m calling. We’ll serve the main meal around seven, but you’re welcome to show up anytime from noon on.”
“What can I bring?”
“Not a thing,” he says.
I scoff. “That can’t be true. Surely I can bring something. Beer? Ice? Store-bought pie?”
He laughs. “Hang on.” A moment later, he’s back. “Tell you what. We’ll take you up on the ice. Anything else and Elodie might string me up by my toes.”
My chest twinges with something awfully close to jealousy, and I shut it down. Since when do I want anything approaching what it seems like Ansel has?
“See you tomorrow. And Ansel?”
“Coach?”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
Ten poundsof ice has to be enough. That’s what I tell myself as I pull up to Ansel’s and park behind a Bronco. I wasn’t about to call him and ask, so ten pounds it is. I haul the bags up to the front, ringing the doorbell and feeling more than a little ridiculous, but whatever.
