Clash (Crash 2)

Lou’s face flattened in surprise before, looking from side to side at the other employees around him, he leaned across the counter, his eyes gleaming. “I hope it’s a good one.”

My hands were sweating. Not clammy, not damp. Sweaty.

They weren’t the only things. Every part of my body seemed to have grown excessive sweat glands that were dripping liquid like I was going through some purification ritual in a steam hut.

Not to be excluded, my heart was about to burst out of my chest and my knees were strongly considering checking themselves out of the game. If my mind wasn’t so made up, so firm in its endeavor, my body would give out beneath me.

“You won’t have long, Miss Lucy,” Lou whispered over to me, handing me a cordless microphone.

“I won’t need long,” I answered, my foot tapping making its reappearance when I peered into the stands. Where the airports were next to empty on New Year’s Day, the bleachers at college football stadiums were packed to capacity. And I was about to go out in front of all that.

Shit, was the only response my mind had for me. Hopefully it would be more articulate when I wandered out onto that field and put that mike up to my mouth.

“Do you know how to work one of these things?” he asked, eyeing the mike in my hands. It was slippery from my sweaty hands, so now, in addition to not tripping, not passing out, and not saying anything stupid, I had to add “don’t let the mic slide out my hands” to the punch card.

“Slide to on,” I recited, my voice shaking too. “Hold to mouth. Try not to sound like a blubbering idiot.”

Lou smiled that warm one of his that settled deep into the lines of his face.

“I happen to be partial to blubbering idiots,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “My wife was one, and I swear, that’s what won me over. She had to say everything that was on her mind without putting it through a filter.” Those brown eyes of his took on a faint sheen. “Five years later, after she passed, that’s what I lie in bed missing the most.”

Wrapping my arms around him, I gave Lou a shaky, sweaty hug which he seemed to melt into. When I pulled away, he wiped at his eyes.

“Mr. Jude’s a very lucky man,” he said, backing away.

I smiled after him. “I didn’t exactly draw the short stick.”

“No, hun, you sure didn’t,” he said, nodding his head towards the field. “Go get him.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling like I was about to vomit.

“When you’re ready, just give your head a nod and I’ll make sure that mic streams all the way to the parking lot.”

I flashed him a thumbs up because my nerves were clenching at my throat.

Peering into the stands, another wave of nausea rolled over me. The teams hadn’t taken the field yet, but were about to. Lou had assured me whether Jude was in the locker room, or in the tunnel, or on the field, there would be no way in hell he couldn’t hear my voice coming through the speakers.

Along with fifty thousand others.

Vulnerability was hard enough without a crap load of impartial strangers witnessing it. But this was what I had to do. Jude had put himself out there so many times before, not caring what others thought about him and the way he felt about me; it was my turn. I was the one who had much to atone for.

And atonement was one short walk to the fifty yard line.

Closing my eyes, I visualized Jude’s face. His many faces. The one that burst into laughter when I tried to be tough, the one that had smoothed into a smile when I’d told him I loved him, the one that had broken when I’d walked away too many damn times. And finally, the one of acceptance I hoped I’d find waiting for me when I said what needed to be said.

With renewed resolve, I opened my eyes and took my first step onto the field. I held my breath, hoping no one would tackle me or Taser me when they noticed I didn’t have a badge swinging from my neck, but no one seemed to pay much attention to the girl wandering to the fifty with a mic in her hand.

My hands were shaking by the twenty, and the rest of me by the thirty, but as I took my final steps to the fifty, everything calmed. I’d jumped‌—‌that was the hard part‌—‌now all I had to do was enjoy the free fall.

Holding the mic up, I scanned the crowd. People were starting to shift their attention my way. I pretended they were checking out the water boys on the sidelines. Glancing towards the dark tunnel, I gave a nod of my head.

The mic buzzed to life. I flinched in surprise. It was the first time I’d held one of these things and hadn’t anticipated that. Dancing didn’t require microphones.

“Hello?” I said, cementing my spot for the idiot of the year award. Was I expecting someone to greet me back? My voice blazed around the stadium.

Now I’d gotten every one’s attention. Including the tall, broad guys with black tees that read “SECURITY” across their backs.

Lou was right. I’d have to be fast.

“My name’s Lucy,” I began, my voice breaking. I cleared it.

Just pretend you’re talking to no one else but Jude.

“And once upon a time I fell in love with this guy.” The stadium went silent as everyone took their seats to the Lucy Larson Gut Spilling Show. “He wasn’t exactly a fairy tale prince. But I’m no fairy tale princess.” I paused, reminding myself to breathe. This would all be for nothing if I passed out from oxygen deprivation. “He didn’t ride in on a white horse or say all the right things at just the right time. But he was my prince. He would have been the kind I wrote about if I’d written all those fairy tales.”

squo;s face flattened in surprise before, looking from side to side at the other employees around him, he leaned across the counter, his eyes gleaming. “I hope it’s a good one.”

My hands were sweating. Not clammy, not damp. Sweaty.

They weren’t the only things. Every part of my body seemed to have grown excessive sweat glands that were dripping liquid like I was going through some purification ritual in a steam hut.

Not to be excluded, my heart was about to burst out of my chest and my knees were strongly considering checking themselves out of the game. If my mind wasn’t so made up, so firm in its endeavor, my body would give out beneath me.

“You won’t have long, Miss Lucy,” Lou whispered over to me, handing me a cordless microphone.

“I won’t need long,” I answered, my foot tapping making its reappearance when I peered into the stands. Where the airports were next to empty on New Year’s Day, the bleachers at college football stadiums were packed to capacity. And I was about to go out in front of all that.

Shit, was the only response my mind had for me. Hopefully it would be more articulate when I wandered out onto that field and put that mike up to my mouth.

“Do you know how to work one of these things?” he asked, eyeing the mike in my hands. It was slippery from my sweaty hands, so now, in addition to not tripping, not passing out, and not saying anything stupid, I had to add “don’t let the mic slide out my hands” to the punch card.

“Slide to on,” I recited, my voice shaking too. “Hold to mouth. Try not to sound like a blubbering idiot.”

Lou smiled that warm one of his that settled deep into the lines of his face.

“I happen to be partial to blubbering idiots,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “My wife was one, and I swear, that’s what won me over. She had to say everything that was on her mind without putting it through a filter.” Those brown eyes of his took on a faint sheen. “Five years later, after she passed, that’s what I lie in bed missing the most.”

Wrapping my arms around him, I gave Lou a shaky, sweaty hug which he seemed to melt into. When I pulled away, he wiped at his eyes.

“Mr. Jude’s a very lucky man,” he said, backing away.

I smiled after him. “I didn’t exactly draw the short stick.”

“No, hun, you sure didn’t,” he said, nodding his head towards the field. “Go get him.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling like I was about to vomit.

“When you’re ready, just give your head a nod and I’ll make sure that mic streams all the way to the parking lot.”

I flashed him a thumbs up because my nerves were clenching at my throat.

Peering into the stands, another wave of nausea rolled over me. The teams hadn’t taken the field yet, but were about to. Lou had assured me whether Jude was in the locker room, or in the tunnel, or on the field, there would be no way in hell he couldn’t hear my voice coming through the speakers.

Along with fifty thousand others.

Vulnerability was hard enough without a crap load of impartial strangers witnessing it. But this was what I had to do. Jude had put himself out there so many times before, not caring what others thought about him and the way he felt about me; it was my turn. I was the one who had much to atone for.

And atonement was one short walk to the fifty yard line.

Closing my eyes, I visualized Jude’s face. His many faces. The one that burst into laughter when I tried to be tough, the one that had smoothed into a smile when I’d told him I loved him, the one that had broken when I’d walked away too many damn times. And finally, the one of acceptance I hoped I’d find waiting for me when I said what needed to be said.

With renewed resolve, I opened my eyes and took my first step onto the field. I held my breath, hoping no one would tackle me or Taser me when they noticed I didn’t have a badge swinging from my neck, but no one seemed to pay much attention to the girl wandering to the fifty with a mic in her hand.

My hands were shaking by the twenty, and the rest of me by the thirty, but as I took my final steps to the fifty, everything calmed. I’d jumped‌—‌that was the hard part‌—‌now all I had to do was enjoy the free fall.

Holding the mic up, I scanned the crowd. People were starting to shift their attention my way. I pretended they were checking out the water boys on the sidelines. Glancing towards the dark tunnel, I gave a nod of my head.

The mic buzzed to life. I flinched in surprise. It was the first time I’d held one of these things and hadn’t anticipated that. Dancing didn’t require microphones.

“Hello?” I said, cementing my spot for the idiot of the year award. Was I expecting someone to greet me back? My voice blazed around the stadium.

Now I’d gotten every one’s attention. Including the tall, broad guys with black tees that read “SECURITY” across their backs.

Lou was right. I’d have to be fast.

“My name’s Lucy,” I began, my voice breaking. I cleared it.

Just pretend you’re talking to no one else but Jude.

“And once upon a time I fell in love with this guy.” The stadium went silent as everyone took their seats to the Lucy Larson Gut Spilling Show. “He wasn’t exactly a fairy tale prince. But I’m no fairy tale princess.” I paused, reminding myself to breathe. This would all be for nothing if I passed out from oxygen deprivation. “He didn’t ride in on a white horse or say all the right things at just the right time. But he was my prince. He would have been the kind I wrote about if I’d written all those fairy tales.”