"Oh pigwash. Tiny boys in peewee football can't hurt big offensive player like you."
"You mean hogwash?"
"Yah. Whatever. You stand there to clap and yell encouragement. Maybe you wipe a few noses, clean off dirt, patch up scrapes-all just standing on the offside."
"Snot, blood and mud is supposed to sell me on this idea, Mom? Sorry, but no." I paused. "And offside is a penalty, not a place. You meant standing on the sideline." Which she well knew.
"See! You know all the important terms and rules. Naturally you are teacher."
I could not win with her. So I did what any desperate son does: I lied my ass off. "Helping with football camps, even through a charitable and respected organization like LCCO, is prohibited because it is in direct competition with the local and national athletic programs set up by the NFL. So I've done research on other options for my annual LCCO project. I'll let you know as soon as I have a solid idea, okay?"
"Do not delay or Priscilla will bring up that bachelor auction idea again since Ash hasn't committed to his annual LCCO project either."
"Bachelor auction." I snorted. "Wasn't that popular in like 2000? Isn't the idea of that laughable now?"
"Yes. I think Priscilla is in midlife crisis. She keeps bringing up the auction because she wants to stare at young, beautiful, built men and pretend it's for a good cause."
"Mom. That is way too much information."
She laughed. "With that . . . my work is done. Have fun with whatever you are doing that you do not wish to tell me about. Love you. See you Sunday."
• • •
Since I'd spent four years on the U of M campus, finding the training facility wasn't a problem. The football team hadn't trained in this building, and that was just another reminder of how segregated we'd been from the other student athletes.
The flannel shirt roasted me, but I had to keep it on. I shuffled up to the registration table and two college girls, one blonde, one brunette, stopped gossiping long enough to acknowledge me.
The blonde wrinkled her nose at me. The brunette kept a bland expression when she said, "You need a pass to get in here."
"There should be a pass left for me by Dante DeLillo."
The brunette sighed and pawed through the D section. "Are you Richard Head?"
Richard Head? Aka . . . Dick Head? Seriously? I'd expected something more creative. "That's me."
She all but threw the lanyard. "That pass is only good for the bleachers section."
"But I can sit anywhere I want in the bleachers?"
"Gee, do ya think?" the blonde retorted. "Just don't talk too loud or bother anyone or we'll ask you to leave."
"Okay." To further annoy them, I said, "Are you both cheerleaders?"
"Duh. Why else would we be here?"
In my experience that snotty attitude was a prerequisite to becoming a pompom waver. I walked away but still heard them snicker behind my back. But then all sound faded. The room darkened. All I could see was her, as if she'd been pinpointed in a spotlight.
Rowan moved with grace and style that set her apart from every other athlete on the mat. Smooth transitions with her body as she precisely executed arm motions and the smile on her beautiful face never faded. She'd pulled her red hair back into a stubby ponytail, and she wore maroon-colored yoga pants with a mustard-yellow athletic tank top, both pieces sporting the U of M logo.
Holy shit did the woman have a hot body-toned, muscled and yet curved in all the right places.
Clapping her hands, she stepped out, raising her arms above her head, mirroring her upper and lower body in a V shape. Then she did a hip-hop dance move, bringing her legs together for a moment before she threw herself back, executing a somersault in the air. Pivoting, she performed a cartwheel/back handspring combo, landing facing forward in the splits with her arms above her head, still smiling.
Amazing.
I started to applaud until I noticed no one else was clapping. Definitely didn't need to draw attention to myself. Turning away, I scaled the bleacher seats, choosing to sit in the center. I scanned the area. There weren't many people watching the tryouts-maybe thirty. But the sections where the competitors waited were completely full.
I'd just settled in when the music started-a mash-up of the peppiest parts of various songs-and once again Rowan was demonstrating, but she had a partner.
No. Way. Her partner was my cousin Dallas-who'd graduated from college last spring. In tandem they performed the same series of movements that Rowan had done solo.