25 25 We need bees. And chickens. Goats, maybe. But only if we can keep them from eating the yarrow. We’ll need smart, highly trainable goats with a taste for bad weeds, but an aversion to cover crops. So, magic goats.
I scratch down the word goats in the margin of the book I’m reading, then underline it twice. Once it was settled that I would spend the winter in Hotchkiss, I decided to educate myself as much as possible on orchard management, organic practices, and biodynamics. Whitney watched Friday Night Lights to try to understand my world, but I’ve yet to find a well-crafted, heartwarming, poignant serial drama about organic apple farmers, so all I could do was order every book I could find on the topic.
The biodynamic crap will take me a bit of time. I’m from rural West Texas. Where the words spiritual stewardship and holistic harvesting aren’t usually uttered, especially by farmers. Taking care of your soil? I get it. Honoring the wider cosmos? Not so much.
All my research has led to lists. Lists of things I want her to teach me more about. Lists of ideas I gleaned from my research, new endeavors she might want to consider next year. A list of supplies I suspect she hasn’t been able to pay for lately, though I’m pretty sure she needs. But with one phone call, I’ll be able to show up at her place bearing gifts only a girl like Whitney would appreciate. Another woman might turn up her nose at a truck bed full of surprises purchased at a co-op, but not Whitney.
I end up grinning broadly as I dial the number for the co-op, intent on giving Garrett free rein to burn up my credit card.
“Hotchkiss Co-op, Garrett speaking.”
“Garrett. Cooper Lowry.”
“Cooper! Good to hear from you, man. You in town? Braden and I are goose hunting this weekend—you can jump in if you want.”
Christ, this kid and bird hunting. God help whatever woman manages to lure him into a love trap, because she’ll have to get used to playing second chair to whatever feathered fowl is overhead.
“I’m not there yet, just trying to tie up some loose ends here in Denver. But I appreciate the offer. Next time?”
“Hell, there’s always a next time. What can I do you for, then?”
I flip through my legal pad of notes and find the supply list I amassed. “I want to get some stuff for Whitney. If you don’t have any of this in stock, I figured you could special-order it.”
Garrett doesn’t respond right away. When he does, his voice wavers a little.
“Stuff for the orchard?”
“Yeah. She uses you for most of the supplies she needs, right?”
Another pause. “Well, yeah, but . . .”
If I were there in person, I might be able to glare at him properly, because unless I’m crazy, he does work at a retail establishment where such supplies are for sale. This pussyfooting around while taking my order is weird. I flip the page on my supply list again, just to feel like I’m somehow prompting the conversation forward, even when I know the poor kid can’t see what I’m doing.
“You ready? It’s kind of a long list. More of that dormant oil; I’m sure we’ll need to respray in the spring. Do you know anything about sweet alyssum? She’s been using yarrow as a cover crop, but this other stuff seems like it might be a nice change. She can return it if she doesn’t want it, right? A couple of new pairs of pruning shears, the best kind you can get. And some of the traps for codling moths. Maybe she doesn’t need more, I don’t know, but better to have them if she does.”
“OK, um, Jesus. I don’t know—”
“Dude, get a pen, write it down. You sound like you’ve never sold this stuff before.”
I’m sure I was talking a mile a minute there. I take a calming breath and work to ratchet down my zeal a bit, before everyone in Hotchkiss decides to steer clear of the wacky football player who has decided to tackle apple farming like a defensive lineman on a stumbling quarterback.
“No, man. I just don’t understand. Are you sure you want all this stuff? No need to throw good money at some other guy’s setup. Let him do this stuff in the spring.”
I narrow my eyes.
What. Other. Guy.
Cue the obnoxious alpha bullshit, because no other man will be in Whitney’s orchard, literal or otherwise—not if I can help it.
I speak slowly, hoping he hears every word the first time so I don’t have to holler. “Garrett, I’m going to need you to explain what you just said. Don’t leave anything out.”
“Fuck.”
My thoughts exactly, kid. I grind my jaws together and try not to bark into the phone. Garrett sighs.
“Whitney’s orchard is on the county foreclosure sale list that just came out. Her place is going to auction on the tenth. So unless you somehow fixed that in the last twelve hours, you’re throwing money at a place where she won’t be living soon.”
Garrett’s explanation takes a few moments for me to fully process. Foreclosure. Auction.
My gut starts to hurt when I finally take it all in, filter those words through what I already know and spin-dry the rest through what I thought I knew.
Fact: She needed a loan.
Fact: She wouldn’t let me help her with that loan.
Fact: We fell in love.
Or so I thought. Maybe I was the only one who fell. Maybe I was showing her my underbelly, letting her scratch it while I nuzzled up against her, and she was just playing along. Maybe I was thinking about how to put down roots, while she was figuring out how to pull up stakes.
“Sorry.” Garrett offers, likely hoping to fill the awkward silence with something, just so he doesn’t have to listen to my unsteady breathing anymore. “I have no idea why I’m the one telling you this instead of her. But that girl’s got pride, you know? Dirt-under-your-nails country pride. I’m sure this isn’t easy for her to talk about.”
He mutters another apology and I manage to work my way through an obligatory thank-you before hanging up. When I drop the phone onto the coffee table, it clatters loudly.
The tenth.
If Whitney was planning to let me in on this shit, she was taking it to the wire. Unless that wasn’t the case. Maybe she had no intention at all of sharing this with me. Maybe I was going to drive down there and find that she’d bailed, no beater truck in the driveway, nothing but a swinging screen door and the faint scent of coconut in an empty house.
Anger rushes through my body before I can rationalize it away. There were a million moments when she could have told me, when Whitney could have looked me in the eye and trusted me with this—the same way I’ve trusted her to be my safe space. So much that she was at the front of my mind as I walked the sidelines during the last game of the season.
When the fourth-quarter clock counted down to a win, I stayed rooted in place, refusing to look away from the scene in front of me. I wanted to soak up the moment, make sure I was right there as it came to an end. All the noise. The scent of crisp mile-high air and success. The way the sun sets behind the upper decks of the stadium, blue and magenta, bright and beautiful.
The idea of leaving behind that part of my life? It hurt. Hurt big and deep and hard.
But I had a future. A future that was supposedly waiting for me in Hotchkiss.
Two hours later I’m at our team headquarters, reporting on time to my end-of-year assessment appointment. Inside the training room, it reeks of sweat, salt, and menthol. I drop my gym bag on the floor and swing up onto a padded table to wait for Hunt. He’s still in his office, on the phone, pacing the way he does when he’s trying to figure something out. A stress ball is in his left hand, at work under the flex of his fingers. He catches my eye and nods.
After another few words, he hangs up the phone and heads my way, shutting the door to his office behind him. Hunt pulls a file off the wall and flips it open, scans a sheet inside, and takes a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket, yanking the cap off with his teeth.
“How’s your hamstring?”
Fucking Hunt. No hello, no mindless small talk. Always straight to the goddam point.
“Fine.”
“Any concussion-like symptoms? Headaches, nausea, vision problems, trouble sleeping, or balance issues?”
“Nope.”
“The knee?”
“Still fucked up.” Hunt undoes the clasps on my brace and rolls up my track pants, then proceeds to poke and prod at the remaining bruised areas on my knee.
He jots a few notes down and keeps his eyes on the file. “Have you made a decision on surgery yet?”
“No.”
“Any other injuries you’d like to discuss or have noted in your exit assessment?”
“No.”
Hunt lets his pen hover just above the page and I know what’s coming as well as he does. Based on his hesitation, Hunt already knows that for the first time in my career, the answer won’t come easy.
“Do you consider yourself fit to play football?”
Yes. I try to get the word out, force it into the universe and demand that any doubt I’m struggling with just vaporize, and recommit myself to the only life I’ve ever known. But doubt is all I have right now. Doubt about this job, doubt about Whitney, doubt about what’s next.
I grit my teeth together and look over Hunt’s shoulder. He repeats the question.
Finally, I give him the only answer I can. The one that leaves a door open to this life, the word that will give me, at the very least, options.
“Yes.”
Hunt makes note of my answer and hands the form my way. I sign where I always do, but this time, with a shaky hand I’ve never had before.
My file flips closed and Hunt goes to place it back with the others.
“Now that we have that out of the way, how about you cut the bullshit? You still want this, Lowry?”
The sensation of crumbling inside takes over and all that doubt I’ve worked to keep in check begins seeping through every fissure in my body, leaving weakness in its wake. Too many places on my body are broken—from my limbs and ligaments to my heart and soul.
“I don’t know.”
“What about the girl? Does she have a dog in this fight? Because take it from a man who’s been married for a while, they’re usually right. Women analyze all the working parts of a problem before they decide what to do. If she’s giving you her opinion, I’d listen to it.”
I let out a snort. “I thought she did. But as of this morning, it seems she’s failed to clue me in on the results of her deep fucking analysis of the problem.” Hunt creases his forehead. I roll down my pant leg and reset the brace. “Are we done here?”
When he doesn’t say anything, I grab my bag and head for the door, but before I clear the room, he calls out to stop me. I halt in place but don’t turn his way. If I do, I’ll break.
“Eight years, kid. That’s how long we’ve known each other. And not once in those eight years have I ever seen you back down from a challenge. Not from a loss or an injury, a bad game or a tough team.”
He pauses.
“Don’t start now. Do what you do best, Lowry. Knuckle down and figure out a fix. Whatever you do, don’t back down, not until you’re positive that this is worth walking away from.”
The door to his office shuts with a click. I can’t decide if I want to storm in there and tell him exactly where to shove his wise words or just clear the building before I put my fist through one of these gleaming trophy cases that line the walls.
What’s worse is that he’s right. I’ve never let a challenge stand in my way. I gave Hunt that yes because I wanted options. And if Whitney thinks I’m about to walk away without being damn sure I’ve stood up to the challenge of loving her, she’s out of her beautiful, stubborn, crazy mind.
When I step outside team headquarters, my chest remains tight. Hunt may have reminded me what I’m made of, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less fucked up or pissed off. My knee hurts worse than usual today and now I have a screaming headache to match. I pause under the front-door canopy and adjust the shoulder strap on my gym bag, hoping that will lessen the tension radiating from around my neck.
When I look up, my day continues to go to shit.
Bodie Carmichael and his cameraman are just feet away, scuttling in my direction with almost bloodthirsty intention. Bodie slows and lets his cameraman catch up, then they both approach in step, stopping far too close to me. He doesn’t even bother to ask for permission before launching in.
“Good to see you up and around, Lowry.” I nod, putting a death grip on the shoulder strap I still have clasped in one hand. Then he does his thing. The obnoxious hair-slicking-and-smirking thing.
“So, Coop.” He pauses, tilting his head as if he knows my answer will be sound bite–worthy.
“What’s next?”