“I don’t need you to do shit for me. I do have friends, you know.”

“That’s not what I hear.”

“Well, how ’bout thirty-six teammates who depend on me for their success? Trust me, if I need a lift, I can get one.”

She considered this, then shook her head. “No. Sorry. I don’t buy it. You don’t want to have to speak with anyone today, Logan, and I’ll tell you why. Because you don’t want to tell anyone what really happened this morning.”

He came up holding a tangled extension cord. “Look, either get the hell out of here, or—”

“What? You’ll call the cops?” She moved to the bottom of the steps. “Look, Logan, I’ll make you another deal. I’ll take you anywhere in town you want to go, keeping you clear of the police and anyone else you want to avoid until it’s time for you to get on that bus. In return, you let me write about everything that you do today, from this minute until the final tick of the clock in tonight’s game.”

“Hell no. I told you, I’m not gonna be your damn news story.” He pointed at her with some kind of electrical tool that she couldn’t name.

“Fine. Have it your way.” She pulled her cell phone out of her jeans pocket. “Let’s see now, what’s the sheriff’s number? Oh, silly me, nine-one-one, right?” She started to dial.

“Ah, hell!” He descended the steps. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I happen to be in need of a news story and you happen to be one.”

“You think anybody in this town gives a shit about anything I do outside of throwing touchdown passes?”

“I think a lot of people in this town would love to read about how their heroic quarterback began a day by losing two of his fingers and finished it by leading his team into the district championship game.”

Cole winced again. His hand dribbled red at his feet. Painful tears watered his eyes.

“All right,” he said in surrender, jabbing a finger toward her. “But you don’t print shit until after the game. Got it?”

“Fine.”

“After the district game, not just tonight’s game. I don’t want to read a word about me until the season’s over.”

“You have my word.”

“But first you have to do something else for me.” He doubled over at the waist.

“What’s that?”

He raised the tool in his hand. “The ironing.”

CHAPTER 7

EXCUSE me?”

“You heard me.”

“Heard, yes. Understood, no.” Savannah indicated the rusty tool in his hand. “What is that thing?”

“A soldering iron.”

“What do you do with it?”

“Solder stuff.”

She followed him onto the porch, where he plugged the extension cord into an exterior outlet and attached it to the iron. “You’re not really going to use that thing on your hand?”