Waltzin' Blind, page 1
Waltzin’ Blind
Connie L. Smith
Table of Contents
Title Page
Waltzin' Blind
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DON’T MISS THE BEGINNING OF LILA AND AUSTIN’S STORY IN JIVIN’ TANGO
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Waltzin’ Blind
Copyright © 2022 Connie L. Smith
All rights reserved.
ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-958136-17-1
(print) 978-1-958136-18-8
Inkspell Publishing
207 Moonglow Circle #101
Murrells Inlet, SC 29576
Cover art by: Fantasia Frog Designs
Edited by: Yezanira Venecia
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
DEDICATION
My absolute favorite person in the world once told me she didn’t want me to stop writing books.
This one’s for you, Mom. I love and miss you every single day.
CHAPTER ONE
AUSTIN
It’s not that our quarterback thinks he’s Peyton Manning.
It’s just that our quarterback thinks it’s funny to pretend he’s Peyton Manning.
You might consider this a risky act since we’re in Denver, but the whole school finds the situation hilarious, especially since said quarterback moved from some city in Pennsylvania and joined our backyard football games the same year Peyton signed with the Broncos. I mean, come on. Some new, shaggy-haired eight-year-old shows up to play, yells “Hurry! Hurry!” every other breath, and rambles about Colts growing up to be Broncos, all while wearing a Pittsburg t-shirt.
That quarterback, Owen Everson, joined the school’s football team as soon as he was old enough, and he came to be known by his fellow teammates—and the football civilians by extension—as Bandwagon. It’s not really the most appropriate nickname in light of the fact that he never abandoned the Steelers as his favorite team. But he latched onto the Peyton fiasco at the same time that way too many football “fans” were throwing their support at the Broncos due to the new face on the team. Added to Owen’s ridiculous antics, the nickname was too good to pass up, despite technicalities.
Besides. It wasn’t like he was pretending to be Elway. That would’ve crossed a line.
The humor of the scenario was so priceless, in fact, that everyone on the team insisted Owen proudly wear the number 18 on his jersey.
Years after Manning’s retirement, Bandwagon is our high school quarterback. Even now, during what’s sure to be one of our most intense games yet this season, he guides his players in true Peyton fashion.
“Omaha!” Bandwagon bellows, and I chuckle from the sidelines.
I play defense, so I can waste a second or two to react to the war cry. Once the ball is snapped and Owen falls back to look for an opening downfield, I focus on what’s happening as much as if I was out there playing. It’s the first play of this mid-September game, and I’m hoping we start off on a good note.
Bandwagon gets a wide receiver in his sight and lets the ball fly. That receiver catches the ball just before he gets tackled, but it’s enough yardage for a first down. I smile and nod my approval as my buddy Tony drops to the bench beside me.
“Now that is how you start a game,” he brags, like he was on the field to make the play.
“Definitely didn’t stink,” I say. “They still have a long way to go though.”
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, “but we got a lot of talent on that offensive line this year. Maybe better than we’ve had since we’ve been on the team.” Then he frowns in a pensive way. “Dude. We’re the old guys on the team now.”
I bark out a laugh and shake my head. “You’re just realizing we’re seniors?”
“Just realizing what that means. We’re the team elders.”
“Now you’re making it sound like we’re some kind of village overseers.”
“Maybe we are,” he mumbles, his fingers tapping against his knee. “If so, we should’ve grown beards over the summer.”
“Nah. Lila doesn’t like guys with beards.”
Lila’s my girlfriend. She has been for a few months now, since we finally admitted how much we cared about each other and dove into a relationship that’s been beyond amazing. Every day she makes me smile, and every day I try to return that favor.
“Can’t have her not wanting to kiss me, you know?” I add.
Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that would complicate things.”
I can barely hear the last word of his statement, given the sudden roar of the crowd. Not surprising, considering we’re at our home field and Bandwagon has just completed another pass. This one gets us six yards.
“If I had a girl that hot,” Tony jokes, “I wouldn’t want her keeping her distance either.”
I’d bother complaining about what he’s said, except for two details. One, he’s right. Lila’s hot, so why bother correcting him? She’s a dancer, and she definitely looks the part. Add that to her unbelievably blue eyes, her long blonde hair, and that sassy little smile of hers, and there’s no rational argument against how beautiful she is.
Second, Lila’s heard him say those kinds of things, and she laughs them off. If she doesn’t mind, I don’t mind. I’ve known Tony since we were kids, and I don’t doubt that he’s just talking. He’d never make a move on my girlfriend, just like I’d never make a move on his.
So I cluck my tongue instead of gripe and let out a deliberately long sigh. “Yeah, she’s hot.”
“So hot, I can’t help but wonder what in the world she’s doing with you,” he says in a serious voice right before a smirk breaks free on his face. “I can see why you’d be worried about giving her a reason to run the other way.”
At that moment, the crowd goes wild yet again because Bandwagon has managed to throw a sixty-two-yard touchdown pass. Tony and I both smile, eyes wide at the early score from such a distance.
“Maybe he really is Peyton,” Tony jokes as we stand.
We have a few more minutes before we have to be on the field, but we head over to get our helmets anyway.
“Yeah,” I reply. “And maybe you’re Deion Sanders.”
He gets a bright-eyed look, holds his hand up to his chest in a fist, then gazes skyward. The pose is kind of regal, kind of arrogant, and a whole lot idiotic.
“Oh, wait,” I say, feigning disappointment. “Deion wasn’t a Bronco. Maybe you’re more like—”
He moves his hand away from his chest so he can point at me. “Dude, if you say a third stringer, we’re having problems.”
Before I reply, Bandwagon runs by us with a too-wide, dimpled grin while yelling “Hurry! Hurry!” to the defensive players, effectively announcing it’s time for us to head to the field. With a chuckle, I clap Tony on the shoulder, and we both start jogging toward the field.
I stop on my way there when someone calls my name. I recognize that voice, and I’ll never get tired of hearing it. Smiling, I turn toward the crowd and search for her face until my eyes finally lock on her too-blue ones.
“Good luck, baby!” Lila yells, and then she blows a kiss in my direction. “Hit somebody really hard!”
I shake my head and snort. “Will do, Munchkin!” After a quick wave at her, I sprint to the field, ready to hit somebody. Really hard. Like my weirdo girl told me to do.
CHAPTER TWO
LILA
“I don’t even sort of understand what’s going on,” Jacey complains from her spot on the bleachers next to me.
Jacey’s one of my best friends, but she desperately hates sports. To be honest, I wouldn’t have dragged her out tonight, but I’ve missed her like crazy. She spent the summ
I sigh in good humor. “The one’s wearing navy blue are about to try to keep the one’s wearing green from scoring.”
She turns to me with narrowed eyes. “I know that, Lila.”
“Well, then. You do kind of understand what’s going on.”
“Way to be annoyingly literal,” she retorts. “I get the basic premise. Get the ball to the big painted area, right?”
I roll my eyes, but nod.
“It’s all the rest of the stuff that confuses me,” she admits.
I shrug. “You hate football. Why bother figuring it out?”
“Why bother bringing me here if you know I hate it?”
“You hate football.” I grin far too innocently and bump shoulders with her. “Not me. And I’ve been Jacey-deprived since May. Humor me.”
She lets out a long, dramatic breath and gives her right hand’s manicured fingernails a quick examination. “The things I do for this friendship.”
“You’re a trooper.”
I’m not really paying attention to the last part of my own sentence because the ball’s been snapped, and my linebacker boyfriend is diving over the line of scrimmage and into the offensive line of the other team.
It never fails to amaze me how good Austin is at his job, and I don’t mean just physically. He has almost a sixth sense about upcoming plays, meaning he seems to recognize what the offense is planning a good percentage of the time. I get that reading the play is a skill for the position, but he goes above and beyond the other players on our school’s team in that regard.
Or maybe I’m just in love with him, and therefore biased. Very, very biased.
He keeps the player he’s covering basically in place, and a few seconds later, Tony’s tackled the receiver with the ball to the ground. Hard.
“Wow,” Jacey says through a wince. “That poor guy. Do you think he needs medical attention?”
“I doubt it, Jacey. These are tough guys.”
“These are stupid guys. Why in the world would you play something where you’re gonna get knocked around like that? How stupid do you have to be? I mean, he could’ve gotten a concussion!”
Her eyes widen in alarm while my shocked ones fasten on her. You see, it wasn’t too long ago that my hobby of choice, dancing, laid me up with a concussion. For a few days, anyway. I had a dance competition to participate in, and I was performing again within a week.
“Not that you’re stupid!” she insists. “Dancing isn’t football!”
“It got me a concussion, and I danced while still dealing with that concussion. Isn’t that stupid?”
I’m honestly not mad, but it’s fun to make her panic. She’s usually levelheaded and laidback, so finding things that make her uncomfortable and fidgety happens to be one of my favorite pastimes.
We pause talking after the ball is snapped again, and this time the opposing team loses yards. One of our linemen shoves his way right through the offensive line, tackles the quarterback, and ensures that the next down will be third and twelve. It’s a beautiful thing.
While the teams get ready for the next play, I turn back to Jacey to wait for her reply.
“There’s a difference in accidentally getting a concussion doing something,” she explains, “and playing a sport that’s basically begging for one.”
“But I danced with a concussion.”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times like she’s trying to form words before she shrugs. Levelheaded Jacey has apparently reappeared, and the remainder of this conversation will involve much less fidgeting and wide eyes on her part.
“That doesn’t make you stupid,” she says. “Crazy, yes. Not stupid. And your third-place trophy looks fantastic in our high school, so it’s hard to hold that moment of insanity against you.”
“It does, indeed,” I agree, amused at Jacey’s words and at how easily she got her mental bearings back. “But I don’t think football players are stupid for playing. I think they love the sport. They love the energy. When you love something that much, it’s worth a risk or two. Take it from your crazy friend who knows.”
We both laugh as the ball is once again snapped. The team’s quarterback goes to throw the ball toward one of his receivers, but Austin seems to have read the play perfectly. See? Told you he was awesome! By the time the football is anywhere near the intended receiver, Austin’s there and jumping enough to catch the pass. Then he dances and dodges around every attempt to tackle him, holding the ball high when he reaches the endzone for a touchdown.
I’m on my feet and screaming as loud as I can. Like I said, he never fails to amaze me on that field.
A second later, Jacey’s standing beside me, and her lips are pursed in a confused look. “Is he allowed to do that? I thought he was a defensive player.”
“He is, but he intercepted the ball.”
Her shoulders tense, and she huffs a breath through her nose. “I don’t get it. At all.”
“Just go with it, Jacey.”
She hums in an agreeing way before lifting her fingers to her lips to let out a loud whistle. “There. I have officially supported your boyfriend.”
“Don’t overexert yourself,” I joke as we sit back down.
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
Then the confused purse of her lips is back when the other team’s kicker sends the ball spiraling into our territory toward our players. I explained to her earlier that, when a team scores, they kick the ball in that manner toward the other team, so I know she’s not confused about that part of the equation. The only difference this time is that the player has called for a fair catch.
“Who’s he waving at,” Jacey balks. “He’s supposed to be paying attention to the ball.”
I grin. “He’s calling for a fair catch.”
She turns to me, incredulous. “As opposed to the unfair ones, like when Vikings run onto the field to pillage and plunder?”
I bark out a laugh and shake my head. “Not quite. It just means he’s gonna catch the ball—”
“Oh, so he called dibs?” Jacey asks, and then she peeks again at the field. “How come they’re not running at him?”
“Because he called for a fair catch,” I explain. “That means nobody can hit him, but he can’t run the ball forward once he catches it.”
“Because he waved... at nobody.”
I pat her twice on the shoulder, then shake my head and look back to the field. “Something like that, Jacey.”
“Then why doesn’t everybody do it? They’d get hit a lot less...”
I groan in good humor.
“But, hey,” she continues, “a self-directed wave makes John Cena invisible, so, why not?”
“What do you know about John Cena?”
She shakes her head, so serious. “You can’t see him.”
“So you know about wrestling, but football is weird?”
This time, she pats me on the shoulder. “Precisely.” Then she points toward the field. “Oh, look! They’re posing at the invisible line again. I hope that invisible guy who got waved at approves.”
This time, I just chuckle.
****
“And Everson will take a knee,” the commentator reports, his voice echoing across the bleachers.
“What? Are they gonna knight him?” Jacey asks.
When I snort at Jacey’s train of thought, she turns to me with narrowed eyes and a wrinkled brow.
“What does any of this mean?” she almost demands.
I sigh, shaking my head at my friend before tipping my chin toward the field. “We’ve won the game already. He’s taking a knee so there doesn’t have to be another play.”
“If we’ve won, why bother? Why don’t we just go home?”
“Yes, Jacey. I know you want to go home. You’ve been telling me since halftime.” I’m teasing her. I knew she didn’t care for sports when I asked her to tag along, and I have no real right to complain. “They can’t just quit, though. They have to run the clock down. The teams gets thirty seconds before they have to start each play, and they have four downs until they’d lose possession.”
