Page 91 of Bluffed By the Offense

He started some sort of bucket brigade and the Thunder players are handing supplies out willy-nilly to anyone walking up.

I reach him and ask, “What are you doing?”

“Helping.” He smiles broadly.

I hold back a growl. “Stop!” I shout around to everyone involved. Then I soften my voice a little and shout, “Stop, please!”

Every eye turns to me. I’m the bad guy hoarding the school supplies while the hero, Marcus, was freely showering blessings on everyone.

I’d be all for opening up the Seatrain and letting the crowd descend like shoppers at Macy’s on a Black Friday. The problem is we have donors and taxes and a lot of other behind-the-scenes details I didn’t even consider when I first imagined pulling together support for people in need. And that means I need to do inventory and account for where the money went and who got which donations.

“What’s wrong?” Marcus asks, stepping out of the Seatrain.

I pull him aside. Turning to Keller, I say, “Wait a minute, please. Just pause everything. We’ll be right back.” Then turning to the crowd of confused neighbors. “Sorry folks. Give me a minute and we’ll get you what you need. Make sure you sign up at one of the tables if you haven’t already.”

About half the people walk over to the tables. That means a bunch of families already walked off with supplies and I have no record of what we gave them. I was hoping to keep a record of what was most needed and who had those needs so I could better organize future drives.

Marcus looks innocent. And in a way, he is. In my heart, I know he was just trying to help. Winona would be proud of me for not assuming the worst—if only I could level with her about my whole situation.

“Cass, babe,” Marcus says.

“Not babe. Not right now,” I say.

“You look madder than a wet hen,” he says.

“Not helping.”

“A beautiful wet hen?”

“Better.”

“Best looking wet hen I ever saw?”

“Stop.”

“What did I do wrong?” he asks, his eyes wide in an expression that makes me wonder what he was like as a boy.

Danger. Thoughts of Marcus as a boy do not help the cause.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, blowing out a breath.

Treyvon walks over to us. “Aww. Is this your first fight as a couple?”

I huff out a laugh. “Oh … we’re not fighting. We’re just having an enthusiastic discussion … about school supplies.”

Marcus chuckles.

“Enthusiastic discussion?” Trey says. “Man, you’re in the doghouse, Delaney. Better start planning what you’re going to do to make up for whatever you did.”

I laugh. Some of my frustration evaporates.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Trey says. “But don’t be too hard on him, Cass. We’ve got a game on Thursday against the Bills. I need him in good shape.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

Trey leaves us alone and Marcus looks at me, a soft, questioning expression on his face.

“Tell me what I did,” he says.