“Kurtis Matthews, man,” Dad muses to himself. “That guy was a powerhouse coming out of college. I think it was three… no maybe four or five years ago. Anyway, he comes out of the Draft onto the Kodiaks, blows the roof off the place, and gets traded away after one year. He went to the Miners up in Montana.”
“Why’d they trade him away if he was doing so well?”
“No clue. There’s a lot of rumors and speculation but no one knows the real answer. Coach Allen always talked about it like he lost a son. It was sad in a way. And then when Matthews gets to Montana they use him for a year and bench him. He wasn’t gelling with their program so they took this incredible talent and parked him on the pine.” Dad shakes his head in disgust. “Idiots. They should have traded him back right away. He wasted years up there.”
“Why’d they trade him back now?”
“For Trey. Remember when we watched his Draft? He was the upset. He had that messed up hand and everyone was writing him off, then all of the sudden the Kodiaks get Montana’s first round pick to snatch him up, they get Kurtis Matthews back, and all they had to give up was that diva running back Duncan Walker. And now that he’s out of the way Colt Avery is shining like a star. No one knew the kid had that kind of talent.” Dad turns back to his BBQ, the smoke rising around him in a fragrant fog. “What kind of guy is he?”
“He’s really nice. Funny.”
Dad nods. “That’s good to hear. You see these guys on TV and you wonder what they’re really like. If the fame has gone to their head or if they’re good people.”
I look sideways at Michael, gaging his reaction to this topic that touches so close to Cassie.
He has none. He’s parked himself in a lawn chair, his legs stretched out, his face turned to the sun. He’s barely listening.
“He’s got an appearance at the children’s hospital tomorrow,” I tell Dad proudly. “Him and the other guys from the DQ commercials.”
“Tyus Anthony and Trey,” he immediately fills in, the names so easily accessed from his extensive Kodiak database. “Did you meet Tyus?”
“No. Not yet.”
He pauses, looking at me over his shoulder. “Not yet, huh? So you’re going to see Avery again?”
I flush, realizing my mistake. “I don’t know. Probably.”
“When did you say you met him?”
“Last Monday.”
“He showed up to the filming at the bakery the next day,” Michael adds, his eyes still closed.
He’s listening closer than I thought.
“It was really nice of him,” I tell them quickly. “He agreed to be filmed for the episode and he took cookies with him to his practice to share. It was a cool thing to do for the bakery. We’ve had lines waiting outside every morning since.”
I’m downplaying this and I don’t know why. I think it’s because to the world he isn’t Colt, the guy who texts me every day and calls me every night. He’s Colt Avery, the panty-dropping star who’s giving Snicker’s ‘it’ll satisfy you’ slogan a whole new meaning every day. I don’t want to hear a lecture about keeping my head on straight. About how I should be careful because I know all of that. I tell myself that every day when I find myself thinking about him, smiling, rereading his texts and counting the hours until I’ll see him again.
Dad looks at my curiously. “Are you dating this boy?”
“I’ve known him for a week.” And seen him almost every single day of that week. “We’re just hanging out.” A lot. And texting/calling the rest of the time. “I don’t think either of us has a lot time to date. We’re both pretty busy.” Busy making out every chance we get.
“You said he’s a nice guy?”
“Really nice.”
“Well, good.” He grins. “You could do worse, I guess. And he’s not too hard on the eyes, right?”
I shake my head, looking away. “I don’t know. He’s alright.”
“Alright? Your mom told me he’s on the shortlist for People Magazine’s Hottest Ass list or whatever they call it.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not it.”
“It’s close. Is it something about tapping? Tapping ass? Is that a thing?”
“Yes, but no.”
“Twerking? Does he twerk? Have you twerked with him, Lilly?”
“No,” I laugh.
“Is that a dance or a drug? What is that?”
“Stop. Oh my God, just stop.”
He laughs. “Stop what?”
“Trying to be current,” Michael tells him. “It’s not going to happen.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m current. I’m hip!”
“You’re not though.”
“I am. I’m thinking about getting a sports car.”
“No!” I shout in shock.
“A Miata.”
Michael chuckles. “You mean a mid-life crisis mobile?”
“Is he talking about the Miata?” Mom asks from the door. She’s standing in the opening, her arms crossed over her chest against the cold, a small, hesitant smile on her lips.
I look to her pleadingly. “You won’t let him, right?”
“I think it would be cute.”
“Did you hear that, Dad?” I ask him. “’Cute’. You’d be ‘cute’.”
He grins at my mom. “I’d be sexy. Right, bae?”