Under the Autumn Sky. Liz Talley
intent on shedding her virginity, but it still felt like a bad deal. He’d dinged her pride and there was no telling the ramifications of his nonaction.
But he couldn’t dwell on it. Louise would be a faded memory in little over a week, even if her innocence and beauty had struck a chord in him. She’d fall in love someday and find the right guy to hold her and love her.
Something jerked in his gut at the thought of her in another man’s arms, but he ignored it. It was like missing the numbers on the lottery by two numbers. Regret. But what could a guy do?
Move on.
Today he started his recruitment of the top prospect on the athletic department’s tight end list. The Panthers needed Waylon Boyd, and Abram aimed to land the boy—starting with his high school coach.
The diner moved around him, blue-collar sorts with white utility trucks parked outside along with older women and men reading the newspaper. Clinking forks, clattering dishes, and the low hum of conversation. This place suited him fine. Real people. Real jobs.
He caught an older gentleman reading the sports section of the Opelousas paper glancing at him. Finally, on the fourth or fifth glance, Abram nodded.
The man narrowed his eyes. “You by any chance with the ULBR program?”
Abram wore an ULBR windbreaker, but that meant little. Almost everyone in Louisiana had something ULBR in his or her closet. “Yep, I’m with the program.”
The man cracked a smile, stood and offered a hand. “I’m Tom Forcet. Forcet Construction. I’m godfather to one of your prospects—Waylon Boyd.”
Abram stood and took the man’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Forcet.”
“Tom, please.”
“I’m actually here to meet with Coach Landry about Waylon. Always good to run into a friend of his.”
“Good kid. That’s the most important thing. Raised right. His late father was my college roommate. Wish he could have seen what Waylon’s become. Of course, Lou’s done a fine job with him.”
Abram hadn’t had much time to look over Sam Moreland’s notes on Waylon. He knew the kid’s parents had been killed in a plane crash about nine years ago. Rather than place the kids in foster care, an older sibling had stepped up to care for them. “Character counts. His talent is evident on the field, but we pay close attention to kids with good values who will reflect well on our program.”
“Dang right,” the man said, wiping his mouth with a napkin from an adjoining table. “Waylon’s the complete package. Does odd jobs around the construction site for me from time to time. Course Lou works for me so makes it easy to keep an eye on the boy. I’ll let you get back to your breakfast. Eggs aren’t good cold. Good to meet you.”
Abram nodded and reciprocated the acknowledgment. Then he sat down to his breakfast, pulling the folder on Waylon Jennings Boyd and spreading it in front of him. Most of the information had been purchased from a reputable recruiting service but also contained comments from the Bonnet Creek coach—height, weight, times in the 40, bench weight, etc. There was a small section noting his personal information—basically address, contact information and name of guardian.
Louise Boyd.
Huh.
Surely, it wasn’t the same person he’d danced with last night? The same woman he’d kissed and held in his arms. And nearly had sex with.
The disturbing feeling sliding into the pit of his stomach had nothing to do with the eggs and waffle he’d gulped down. Louise. Not a common name, was it?
He thought hard. She’d said she’d remained a virgin because of circumstances. Or something like that. Raising a younger brother and sister would definitely squash dating. Not to mention working full-time to support a family.
He glanced back at the file. No age given for the guardian.
Tom Forcet had told him Lou worked at the construction company, but he couldn’t imagine the beautiful woman he’d met the night before working something as difficult as construction. And being called Lou. Maybe she did the books or something?
Either way, if Lou Boyd was his honky-tonk Cinderella, he’d unknowingly committed a recruiting violation—and not just the slap on the wrist kind. This was the kind that could blow up into a scandal. Opposing fan bases and the press that catered to their neuroses were hungry for dirty tidbits like a coach messing around with a recruit’s sister, mother or cousin. If someone found out he and Louise Boyd had nearly done the dirty deed on a dock on Lake Chicot, there’d be shit hitting a fan. Really messy.
But maybe he worried for no good reason.
He took a sip of cold coffee. It tasted oddly of ashes. Or maybe it tasted like unemployment.
“Check, please.”
* * *
“LORI, I CANNOT LEAVE work to bring you the essay. If I don’t move this dirt, they can’t frame up for the concrete, and Manuel will be all over my butt. We’ve finally had enough dry days to make progress. Sorry. You’ll have to take a lower letter grade.”
“Lou, please. You don’t understand. Mrs. Rupple will not knock it down one letter grade, but two. Please. Just on your break.” Lori’s voice had dropped to a plaintive low whine. It was one she used often. Too often.
Lou pushed her gloved hand against the gear of the front-end loader, knocking the loose knob back and forth. “You’re a big girl, Lori. You say you’re old enough for a license or working at Forcet, but want me to bring your forgotten—”
“Pleeeease! I barely have an A in her class. I’ll wash dishes for a whole week.”
“No.”
“Lou, I’m begging you. Begging.”
Lou pulled off her heavy gloves and tossed them on the dashboard of the large piece of equipment. “Fine, but you have to wash the dishes and do the laundry.”
“Thank you, Lou. I mean it. You’re the best.”
Lou pressed the button on her cell phone and sighed. “Sure I am.”
So much for sticking to her guns this go-around. It was the seventh time this year Lou had taken her lunch by running home, grabbing something Lori had forgotten, and then speeding back to the school to deliver her sister from the horrible repercussion of leaving behind her practice uniform or the flash drive holding her PowerPoint presentation. Lori was a lovable, absentminded goofball with an angel’s face. And a pretty big heart. What else was Lou to do?
“Manuel,” she called across the worksite.
The project manager jerked his head up. “Yo?”
“Taking my lunch early.”
“Lori again?”
She gave him the same look she’d given him the other six times that year. “I won’t be long. Then I’ll get that dirt moved and in place so you can start the framing after lunch.”
“Go.”
She walked toward the vehicle that had once been her father’s shining joy, a 2003 Tundra pickup. The silver truck now held a dent in the bumper, courtesy of Waylon’s first attempt at parallel parking, and a huge scrape along one side from a hit-and-run when she’d gone to the Opelousas Home Depot. But it ran well thanks to her second cousin Reeves who owned Taylor Auto and insisted on giving the truck a free tune-up every year. Reeves took care of what little he could for her, but Lou did her own oil changes. She had to draw the line somewhere.
After banging her work boots against the front tire and taking off the bandana she wore to keep the baby-fine hair that escaped her braid out of her eyes, she climbed inside the cab. She saw one of the guys frown at her, and resisted the urge to give him a specific finger wave. That guy didn’t like her much anyway. He was old school. Women belonged at home,