Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“Exactly. My mom was all about finding ways for us to pay for school. David, he got academic scholarships. He’s an orthopedist in Pittsburgh now. Then Eric turned all those summers of drum and bugle corps into a music scholarship. He’s a band director a few towns over.” Joe’s voice was affectionate as he talked about his siblings. “And I had a football scholarship. The coaches kept talking about me going pro, so I didn’t even choose a major freshman year.”
“What happened?” I’d immediately picked up on the past tense there. I could easily see someone with Joe’s build and attitude tackling opponents, being the last line of defense, loyal, and not secretly yearning to be a star quarterback or flashy receiver. He’d be the type to do whatever it took for his team to win.
Joe shrugged as his mouth twisted. “Bad concussion and neck injury in preseason training before my sophomore year. Doctors made it clear that I’d escaped by the narrowest of margins and that another hard hit could result in a permanent brain injury, other disability, or even prove fatal.”
“Wow.” My stomach did this weird flippy thing at the idea of Joe hurt.
“Yeah. I had months and months of terrible headaches.” Joe’s voice went more distant as he switched on some sort of sensor wand that lit up as he tested various wires in the square opening in the wall. “Had to drop my classes. Lost my scholarship when it became clear that going back to football wasn’t an option.”
“Oh man, that sucks.”
“Actually, it was kind of a blessing in disguise. I didn’t really have a true direction for my life and being out in football is still a dicey prospect at best.”
Oh. I tried not to let my eyebrows raise too much, but that didn’t stop a little thrill from racing up my spine at Joe’s admission. “Being out in track is a little easier, but I feel you. I had people who knew, but I never did any sort of public coming out either.”
“Right.” Joe nodded, air suddenly heavy with our shared acknowledgment. But Joe seemed determined to give that news a wide berth as he traded out tools. “Anyway, I needed a game plan beyond playing ball. Working with my dad as my headaches started to ease, gave me a purpose. He paid for me to get my certifications, and he was happy to bring me on board, but trust me, it’s not me caving to family pressure.”
“You’re happy, though?” This mattered to me, and I wasn’t even sure why. Maybe part of it was my own uncertainty over the future, but some of it was also an unexpected concern for Joe. “Doing electrical work?”
“Yep. Good, honest work. Days go fast. Plenty of challenges and variety.” He motioned for me to hand him the faceplate then quickly screwed it back in place. “And there we go. All fixed.”
“That was it?”
“Should be. We’ll flip the power back on in a sec, and I’ll give you my number in case it goes off again, but I found a short, fixed it.”
“Wow.” I blinked against the light after Joe restored the power. He began packing away his tools, and I realized he’d be gone in another minute or two. Suddenly, my evening stretched long and empty in front of me. I liked talking with Joe, wanted to hear more about his family and football and electrical stuff. “Can I thank you?”
“Uh?” The faint pink stain on Joe’s cheeks told me I’d maybe phrased that wrong. Or perhaps he too had realized the situation’s proximity to all those repair-dude porno scenarios.
“I meant… A drink? I don’t have coffee, but—”
“Hold up, a barista with no coffee?” Joe’s laugh was rich, and I didn’t mind his teasing tone.
“I don’t really drink it,” I admitted. This was part of why I wasn’t a great barista yet—I wasn’t as familiar with the drink lineup as some. “Too bitter. I’ve got tea though. Lots of flavors. And fancy water the professor left.”
I wished I had some beer or something more adult-sounding, but with strict rules around drinking during the track season, I’d never developed much taste for alcohol.
“That’s okay. You don’t owe me a drink.” Joe’s rejection was almost too gentle, like he was trying hard to spare my feelings and, strangely, that made me want him to stay more, not less. I didn’t want to be some kid he was trying to soothe.
“Pizza? I got my first check today, so that was going to be my treat to myself.”
“Wild Friday-night plans.” That wasn’t a no, but Joe’s voice was still too kind, too big brother-y, and too damn hard to read.
“We could share? And then you’d be around if it starts beeping again.” I tried appealing to his electrician ethics as well as his stomach.