Rafe Mendez, 53, had spent 12 hours on his feet by the time the homecoming game ended, hauling 30 sets of shoulder pads, tightening 17 facemask screws, and patching a frayed wire on the head coach’s headset mid-fourth quarter. He’d been the small Ohio town’s high school football equipment manager for 18 years, ever since a blown knee ended his semi-pro playing career, and he’d perfected the art of fading into the background: no loud opinions, no messy drama, no one paying him any mind unless they needed a new chinstrap or a roll of athletic tape. It was a routine he’d clung to hard after his wife left him for a timeshare salesman in Fort Myers seven years prior, when he’d promised himself he’d never give the gossips in town anything to whisper about.
He leaned against a splintered support pole in the festival beer tent, holding a cold IPA that was sweating through the paper napkin wrapped around its middle, the mud caked on his steel-toe work boots crumbing onto the pine plank floor. The air smelled like fried oreos, burnt charcoal from the nearby grill, and the sharp, hoppy tang of cheap draft beer, and the faint roar of the post-game crowd still hummed at the edge of his hearing. He was half considering finishing his drink and heading home to rewatch the 2002 national championship game when he spotted her.
Clara Voss, 38, the school’s former volleyball coach, was leaning against the opposite pole, picking at a loose thread on her faded navy puffer jacket, holding a spiked cherry seltzer no one had offered to buy her. For the last three months, she’d been the town’s favorite topic of gossip: she’d left her pastor husband after the county announced he’d embezzled $42,000 from the youth group mission fund, and half the town was convinced she’d helped him do it, that she’d spent the money on designer bags and weekend trips to Chicago, that she was a manipulative homewrecker who’d gotten exactly what she deserved. Rafe knew better. He remembered when his daughter Lila tore her ACL junior year, when Rafe had been stuck 45 minutes away at an equipment sale and Clara had sat with Lila in the ER for two hours, holding her hand, bringing her homemade chicken noodle soup every night for a week after her surgery. He’d never said thank you properly.
He froze when her eyes locked with his across the tent. She gave him a small, lopsided half-smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes, and waved him over. His first instinct was to shake his head, to pretend he’d been looking at something behind her, to grab his beer and bolt for the exit. He could see the group of PTA moms at the table by the tent entrance staring, already whispering into their plastic wine glasses, already drafting the text threads they’d send to their friends before the night was over. But he thought of the way Lila still texted Clara every time her college volleyball team won a game, thought of the empty couch at his house, the frozen lasagna he’d left in the fridge for dinner, and he started walking.
The planks creaked under his boots as he crossed the tent, and when he got within three feet of her, a group of teens carrying cotton candy ran past, one of them slamming into Rafe’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble forward. His left arm, crisscrossed with an old scar from a 1992 helmet collision, brushed her upper arm, and he caught a whiff of her vanilla lotion, warm and sweet, cutting through the beer and fried food smell around them. He mumbled an apology, but she shook her head, shifting closer so their shoulders were pressed together, not stepping back. “Don’t be. Half the people here have been ‘accidentally’ bumping into me all night just to make sure I know I’m not welcome,” she said, and she laughed, a low, dry sound that made his chest feel tight.
They talked for 20 minutes, first about the game, about the sophomore quarterback who’d forgotten his cleats in the locker room before kickoff, about Lila’s recent game-winning spike for her college team, and slowly the tension seeped out of his shoulders. She leaned in when he talked, her hazel eyes flecked with gold locked on his, no phone in her hand, no glancing over his shoulder to talk to someone else. When he made a dumb joke about the head coach’s habit of screaming so loud he lost his voice every third game, she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, and her hand brushed his where it rested on the pole, her fingers soft, calloused only at the pads from years of hitting volleyballs. He could feel the heat of her arm through his hoodie, the cold of her seltzer can seeping through to his skin when she shifted her weight, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t care who was watching.
She leaned in then, her lips almost touching his ear, her breath warm against his jaw. “I know they’re all talking about us right now,” she said, quiet enough only he could hear. “You don’t have to stay. I won’t be offended.” He paused, his thumb brushing the back of her hand where it rested next to his, and he thought of the last seven years: eating frozen dinners alone on the couch, polishing his collection of vintage Ohio State bobbleheads on Saturday nights, waking up to an empty bed every morning. He reached up, brushed a stray piece of chestnut hair behind her ear, his knuckle grazing her soft cheek, and she didn’t flinch. “I don’t care what they say,” he said, and his voice was steady, no hesitation, no fear. “I know who you are.”
She smiled then, a real smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes, and she laced her fingers through his. His palm was rough, calloused from years of tightening helmet screws and hauling heavy gear, and hers was softer, smoother, and the contrast made his chest feel light, like he was 17 again, sneaking a girl into the back of his pickup after a game. They finished their drinks, still holding hands, and when they left the tent, he didn’t glance at the PTA moms, didn’t wonder what they were saying. The sidewalk was lined with hay bales and strung with orange fairy lights, the air crisp enough to make his cheeks pink, the sound of the festival’s cover band playing old Tom Petty songs fading behind them as they walked toward the edge of the park.
They stopped under an old oak tree, the leaves rustling red and gold above them, and she leaned up, kissing him soft and slow, the taste of cherry seltzer and mint gum on her lips, her free hand resting on his chest, right over his heart. When she pulled back, she squeezed his hand, and he lifted their tangled fingers to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. A group of kids ran past, screaming, carrying glow sticks, and he didn’t even glance up to see if any of them recognized him.
