Page 9 of First Down Promise

I press the ignition button, then watch in the rearview mirror as he continues to his truck. What the hell was that? Dehydration? When he climbs into the cab, I snap out of it and turn the air conditioning on. It blows hot air at first, and I tweak the settings until the cool air kicks in. Josh drives past me, and I’m sure he has a cold shower with his name on it at home. I close my eyes and exhale. What I’d give to take one with him. My eyes flare back open, and I draw my sunglasses over them.

When I’m home, Pete’s already back from practice and freshened up, judging by his damp curls, shirtless torso, and basketball shorts. I giggle to myself that some of the squad members would kill to see him like this.

“We’re going to Coop’s later,” he says. “He has ribs on the smoker.”

“Oh, nice,” I reply, dropping my stuff on the edge of the counter. “I’m hitting the shower first.”

“Sounds good. Oh, how was practice?”

“Made a friend—Sadie. The other girls are still a little weird with me.”

“That’s a start.”

“Something,” I say, turning for the stairs.

“We’ve gotta leave in an hour for Coop’s,” Pete adds.

“Got it!”

My hair is still damp at the scalp with sweat, so I head straight for the shower, dropping clothes on my bedroom floor as I undress. I turn the shower to a lukewarm temperature—much cooler than the normal level of scorching I prefer. Because I have to wash my hair and I’m short on time, natural curls will have to do. I should wear my natural curls more often than I do, but my hair’s so much longer when it’s blown out or flat ironed. Plus, the squad requires certain hairstyles.

Reaching up to massage shampoo into my scalp makes my shoulders scream from the recent increase in activity, so that’s another reason not to heat-style today.

After the shower, I apply my usual moisturizing routine and leave my hair dripping wet. Scooping out a hefty amount of curl gel, I apply it to the lengths of my hair, scrunching the gel into my locks. Then I put the mostly unused diffuser attachment on my hair dryer and use it to cup and dry my curls. It somewhat controls the frizz too because Nashville is wildly humid. I shift my weight as I stand in one place while diffusing, so my lower back aches less.

I slip into a midi-length floral summer dress with a square neckline and thin straps and step into tan leather flip-flops. I add a dainty gold necklace Pete gave me and a touch of mascara and lip gloss. When I head back downstairs, Pete’s waiting for me in the same pair of basketball shorts, but he’s added a Stallions tee. Athleisure is normally my go-to as well, but it’s already late summer and this dress hasn’t seen the sun yet this year.

“We’re just going to Coop’s,” Pete says with raised eyebrows.

“God forbid a girl dresses up,” I snap.

He puts on a pair of sunglasses. “Whatever, let’s get going.”

Getting buckled into Pete’s car, I ask, “Who’s going?”

“Uh, just us, I think. Dane’s flying to LA for an event tonight, then coming back tomorrow,” Pete answers and turns the ignition on.

I playfully roll my eyes. “That’s such a Dane thing to do.”

“Pretentious bastard,” Pete jokes. “I don’t know what Josh is up to.” I pale and smooth out the fabric covering my lap to distract myself while Pete backs out of the garage.

Unlike Pete and Josh, Coop lives south of Nashville in a single-story ranch-style home on a good-sized plot of land. He once mentioned he has plans to add a chicken coop someday, raise turkeys, and maybe get some goats. So far, he hasn’t, but with how much the guys travel, I’m not sure if it makes sense logistically.

As we pull up, I recognize the dated but cozy nineties-style exterior. It reminds me a bit of our childhood home in Wisconsin, but unlike that house, Coop’s has been renovated inside without losing its warmth.

Coop’s slobbery bloodhound meets us at the front door before Coop does. “Hi, Blue!” I greet the dog.

“You’ve gotta get that thing a drool bucket,” Pete teases Coop.

“I go through a case of paper towels a week, it seems like,” Coop exaggerates.

“We brought a side salad and some sourdough,” I add. Store-bought, but it’s the gesture that counts, right?

“Oh, great. Thanks!”

I kneel on the floor to scratch Blue’s shoulders and chest. He’s reddish-brown like most bloodhounds, with huge ears that droop down. He’s built like a Great Dane, which, funnily enough, is Dane’s nickname.

“The neighbor picked up Ole Blue yesterday and brought him home. If he catches the faintest scent, he’s a goner,” Coop says to me.