Touching Down(18)

In twenty-four years of life, I’d never seen a herd of people move so quickly. Never even close.

In less than a minute, the restaurant had cleared out, even most of the employees, and people were tearing through a couple of boxes in the truck bed.

Turning around, I was met with a victorious-looking Grant. “You keep a pile of signed jerseys on you all the time?”

“Only when I want to step out in public.” He shrugged, moving for a couple of empty stools at the end of the counter. “I don’t travel anywhere without a few signed somethings on me. Or, in this case, a bunch of signed somethings.”

I kept staring out the window at the mass of people around his truck. Surprisingly, they were all working together, instead of every man for himself.

“Because you don’t want to get mobbed by your adoring fans?” I guessed.

“Because I’m thankful for my adoring fans,” he said, settling onto a stool.

It made me smile, seeing him propped up on that tiny thing. He’d been too big for them when he was fifteen, but now he looked like a lion trying to balance on top of a Barbie chair.

“Do you need a menu?” He pointed at a stack of menus down the counter.

“Do I ever?”

Smiling, he motioned at the waitress who had just stopped in front of us. “Then take it away.”

“Your usual?” I asked him.

He nodded. “Always.”

After I rattled off our order to the waitress, she turned to Grant as she stabbed her pencil behind her ear. “Nice to see you come in here with somebody beside you for once.” After patting his hand resting on the counter, the waitress disappeared into the kitchen.

I didn’t recognize the waitress as one of the regulars that had been here before I left, but she obviously knew Grant. I turned in my stool to face him. “How many artery-packing trips have you been making here, Grant Turner?” He’d made it sound like he came every once in a while, but maybe he was more of a regular than I’d guessed.

“I make it a point to make a stop at Mickey’s every time I’m in town. Sometimes two stops per trip.” His gaze wandered around the diner like that should have been obvious.

“How often are you in town?”

“In the off-season, I’m here a lot more, but I try to make it back once a month or so.”

My eyebrows lifted. I had no idea he came back here so often. If anything, I’d guessed the opposite now that he’d made it big. This area was not the kind of place a person thought of nostalgically.

Then I realized why. “To check on Aunt May.”

“To check on her . . .” He cleared his throat, hesitation sweeping across his face. “And to check on the football program I started in The Clink a few years ago.”

“The football program?”

He swallowed, studying the wall across from us. “I had a couple of football fields made and hired a few people to hold practices and games for the kids in the community, free of charge. Their equipment, gear, snacks, everything, it’s all taken care of. Boys, girls, toddlers, teenagers, there’s a place for them to get out of their homes and play ball.” Grant shifted on his stool, still unable to look at me. “Francis’s grandson is one of the kids who plays on one of the league teams,” he said as Francis returned with a couple of milkshakes.

“This boy is an angel. A real-life angel. My James was getting into a whole heap of trouble before Mr. Turner started the Football For All program.” Francis winked at me as she set a strawberry shake in front of me and a vanilla one in front of Grant. “A real living, breathing angel among us.”

Grant snorted as Francis patted his hand again before she wandered away. “If I’m an angel, then humanity is screwed.”

“Here, angel,” I teased, which got me an eye roll, “milkshake switch.”

Grant didn’t say anything as I switched so the strawberry was in front of him and the vanilla in front of me.

“So you started a free football program for kids, hand out free jerseys to your adoring fans, gave my mom a funeral she didn’t deserve, and took care of an aging woman until she passed.” I circled my straw around my shake a few twirls. “Where did the troubled, hot-headed boy I grew up with go?”

Grant stared at the wall. “He’s still right here. He’ll always be a part of me.”

I didn’t know how my hand found its way into Grant’s, but it did. It was a reflex, reaching out for him when the past seemed like it was right smack in front of us. His large hand enveloped mine, looking like it had almost swallowed mine whole. The warmth radiating off his skin transferred to mine, spreading into my core. I’d always known I carried a piece of Grant with me, but I didn’t realize how many pieces until I felt them all resurfacing from the sensation of his touch. I could feel his presence everywhere—in the depths of my lungs, the tips of my fingers, the hollows of my heart.