When the trees turned scarlet and bronze in the fall, the town of Red Leaf turned blue and gold, the windows of every storefront on Main Street proudly displaying the school colors. Following a Red Leaf tradition that predated Mac’s years at high school, before every home game the players and cheerleaders would ride to the field on the back of a flatbed truck decorated with crepe paper streamers.
The cheerleaders wore the players’ letter jackets over their uniforms, and Mac would hear them arguing in the locker room over whose turn it was to wear Ethan’s. Kristen Ballard usually won because she and Ethan were a matched set in terms of looks and popularity.
It didn’t seem to matter that Mac had spent hours making posters and the miniature papier-maché footballs that hung from the tailgate. Even when Coach was the driver, she’d never been invited to sit with the team.
The one time Mac had scraped up the courage to scramble onto the back of the float, Hollis had stared at Mac like she was a stain on her cheerleading sweater and then coolly informed her that there wasn’t any room.
It wasn’t the first time Hollis had snubbed Mac, but she’d never done it in front of a group of people. People who hadn’t come to Mac’s defense or made room.
At least Ethan hadn’t been there to witness her slink back to the front of the truck and take her place next to Coach in the passenger seat . . .
“Have a seat, sweetheart.” Her dad set the bowl of popcorn next to a bottle of root beer on the coffee table, freeing up a space on the couch. “This is going to bring back a lot of memories.”
That was what Mac was afraid of.
“I—”
A cheer erupted from the television and drowned out the excuse she’d been frantically trying to come up with. Mac glanced at the screen just in time to see the camera zoom in on the cheerleaders, who wore short blue skirts and sweaters as white as their smiles.
Hollis stood at the top of the pyramid, of course, directly under the floodlight. On the scoreboard behind her, the numbers under the home and opposing team were the same.
Dread trickled down Mac’s spine. “Which game are you watching?”
“Homecoming 2005. Lumberjacks versus the Lions.” Coach chuckled. “Never going to forget that game.”
Unfortunately, neither would she.
The camera panned the players sitting on the bench and then paused on a familiar face.
Her face.
“Is there another root beer?” Mac pitched her voice above the cheerleaders’ screams. Desperate measures and all that.
“On the coffee table—help yourself.” Her dad pointed at the television. “Look! There you are, Pumpkin.”
Mac stifled a groan. The nickname described the color of her hair anyway.
She stood on the sidelines, wearing a lion suit because Beetle Jenkins had come down with a case of food poisoning during seventh-hour study hall. It wasn’t the first time Mac had subbed as the school mascot, but she hadn’t realized the costume was so . . . big. And fuzzy.
Mac hadn’t realized the camera was trained on her, either. She’d yanked off the headpiece—probably so she could breathe—but instead of an intimidating jungle animal who prowled the sidelines, urging the fans to cheer for their team, Mac looked more like a little girl dressed in footie pajamas who’d just woke up from an afternoon nap. Flushed cheeks. Hair every which way.
Gazing adoringly at the star quarterback as he ran for a touchdown.
And she’d thought homecoming had been humiliating the first time.
Coach shook his head. “You had amazing instincts, Channing.”
“I don’t know about that.” Ethan’s gaze shifted to Mac. “I don’t think I always saw what was right there in front of me.”
The bottle of root beer slipped through Mac’s hands, but she caught it before it hit the floor. “I should take Snap for a walk.” The w-word roused her faithful Lab from his evening nap but Mac beat him to the door.
She’d bolted from Ethan that night too.
Only this time—thank you, God—he didn’t follow her.
Ethan woke up the next morning to the mournful call of a loon. He rolled out of bed and squinted at the clock, amazed to discover it was almost seven. He hadn’t slept more than five hours in a row since he’d started at Midland Medical, the hospital where he’d completed his residency.
The competition to fill a spot on Dr. Langley’s team was fierce, and sleep had become a luxury Ethan couldn’t afford. The doctor expected his residents to give 100 percent so Ethan had given 150 percent. Langley mentored only one resident and he’d chosen Ethan, a decision that had ultimately led to an invitation to join his team.
He still wasn’t sure when—or how—to break the news to his mother that he wasn’t returning to Chicago. Sometimes Ethan thought her aspirations were even higher than his. He’d overheard his parents arguing once. Heard her telling his father that he was wasting his medical skills in a place like Red Leaf.