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“I’m sorry to keep you. Good luck to you this season. My husband and I sit near half-court, so I’m sure I’ll see you soon.” She pats my chest before swinging her hips in that tight AF dress, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Lettie punches me in the arm. “She’s going to think I have diabetes. And why are older, married women hitting on you?”
I chuckle. “She was just being social.”
“And you are clueless.”
If anyone is clueless, it’s you.
The waitstaff offers bacon wrapped shrimp and Lettie wrinkles up her nose. Popping two in my mouth, I drag her to the charcuterie table. I fill up a plate and we go to the outside patio. We lean against a rail consisting of iron spindles topped with a cedar-wood slat.
Our drinks are nearly empty, and it hasn’t done shit to relax us. Every sentence feels forced. She’s so damn beautiful with her blonde waves and her make up that enhances her natural beauty instead of competing with it. The shades of brown on her lids makes her green eyes pop and sparkle. And the stain on her lips is the color of a deep mouth watering peach.
I rest the plate on the railing and pick up a cheese cube and hold it a hairsbreadth from her mouth. Her lips open up like a blooming flower. She’s fucking beautiful, always has been.
“Dane?”
I realize I’m staring. “Hmm?”
“They’re chanting Greathouse. It’s your cue.”
Letting out a deep sigh, my admission of wanting her as more than friend will have to wait and I guide her back into the ballroom.
The emcee asks for everyone to take their seats at the dinner tables. Wealthy men and women take the stage one after the other announcing they are endorsing my dad for U.S. Senator. I notice Lettie only eats half of her steak and a few bites of her grilled asparagus which she loves.
Something is wrong and my guess is she feels the distance between us.
I place my palm on her bare shoulder and ask, “Do you want me to request a different dinner?”
“No, I’m fine. Like I said, I'm just nervous about leaving for a month. Will I be able to keep up with my classes and keep my academic scholarship?”
My fingers naturally drift over her skin. “I have faith in you. But Lettie, we really need to talk, alone.”
“Put your hands together for the Greathouse family,” the emcee says, energizing the crowd, but postponing the talk I need to have Lettie.
“Looks like you’re up, number 11.”
My jersey number is eleven and I’ve never told anyone why. Coaches, teammates, and friends have asked, “Why don’t you wear your dad’s number?”
I’m my own person that’s why.
One day I will share, but not tonight.
Standing at the podium with my family behind me, I give the crowd what they want. “Do you want a Stallion in the U. S. Senate?”
“Hell Yeah.”
“Do you want a Greathouse in the U.S. Senate?”
The crowd chants, “Greathouse.”
I look out and find Lettie’s eyes locked on mine.
“Do you know why I want my father in Washington?” I pause and a hush falls over the room. “Because when I brought home a pig tailed girl that lived next to our farm with her grandmother, he didn’t act like we were better than her. My mom and dad welcomed her with open arms. Her parents had problems and so my parents worked to give her everything she needed.”
Lettie shakes her head no.
“I just know that my dad will do everything in his power to fight for people that have been dealt a bad hand in life. Ladies and gentlemen, my dad, Gregg Greathouse.”
