Page 8 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Do you know my number?”

Her face contorts with confusion. She pulls out her cell phone.

“I don’t have your number. Did you want to give it to me for some reason?”

I chuckle. This woman. As if I’m going around giving out my cell phone number. It leaked once and I had to get a new number the next day.

“My jersey number,” I mutter, wondering why it’s so important to me. I should just drop this.

“Your jersey number?”

I should say never mind. But I press on, my habit of pursuing a matter until it’s resolved rearing up. Now I need to know if she noticed. And I need her to know it if she didn’t.

Why? What does it matter?

So, one woman in all of this small, practically unknown town doesn’t love football, doesn’t know I exist. So what?

“All the players have numbers on their jerseys,” I say. “Those never change. It’s like our driver’s license number or social security. It’s how they identify us.”

“Huh.” Winona looks perplexed.

“Our name’s on there too,” I add for no understandable reason.

“Why do they need a number if they have your name?” She pauses, her brows drawing further in. “If your coach can’t find you on that field, I think he needs an eye exam at the least. Even I recognized you, and I’ve only seen you in passing over the years. Tell them you don’t need numbers. There has to be a better system of keeping track of you.”

I break into a full laugh.

Her face contorts even more.

“You’re not wrong,” I laugh lightly, reining in my laughter but unable to get my smile to subside.

I can’t wait to tell Linc and Delaney about this conversation.

Our group starts walking toward the front doors of the Fork & Fiddle.

Why do we have numbers? She’s actually got a point. Our names are on our jerseys.

“I’m eighty-eight,” I tell her.

“Eighty-eight,” she repeats. Her eyes go skyward and she repeats it like she’s trying on the sound. “I like that. It’s symmetrical and nice.”

I shake my head, that smile returning. “Glad you approve. I share that number with a long line of notable tight ends.”

“Wait,” she stops in her tracks. “You share the number? This just gets worse.”

I laugh again, my shoulders shaking with my laughter. I don’t even try to clarify. For this brief moment, I’m seeing our numbers through her eyes. “It seems to, doesn’t it?”

“How do you get the number?” she asks. “Do you pick it? Is it assigned to you?”

She’s interested. And I can’t explain why that matters. Maybe it’s the thrill of winning someone over to my side. I could tell her the whole system of number assignment—how some of us go to the mats for the numbers we had in high school or the number worn by our NFL hero. I could help her like football. She could even become a fan.

Something about that trajectory feels wrong. I kind of like the way Winona’s unaware and unimpressed. Would fandom kill that? I hope not.

I hold the door open and Winona passes through in front of me. She smells like flowers—wildflower fields, not roses. There’s nothing contained about this woman. She’s a field of wildflowers on the outskirts of a small town, undeveloped and colorful. She’s the woman spinning, face to the sun, arms outstretched, twirling like no one’s watching.

“Thank you, Eighty-eight,” Winona says with an amused smile.

“You’re welcome,” I say.