“Texas and Wisconsin are similar, if you really think about it. They both have a very specific type of culture and vibe,” she says.
“Yeah, here it’s cowboy hats, rodeos, BBQ, and country music. Wisconsin has beer, cheese, dairy cows, and the Butchers.”
“At least Wisconsin respects volleyball. The stands at U.W. were packed for every home game. I was psyched to play here, but I can’t ignore how empty the stands were tonight—and at the professional level,” she says, dipping her head, trying to hide how disappointed she really is. “I just really want this to work. How are we supposed to build a league from scratch if we can’t fill that little arena? If we can’t get bodies in seats, why would they bother to put us on cable? How are we supposed to play for Houston knowing they canned their WNBA team after winning four back-to-back championships? It’s just not friendly out here for women’s sports.”
I palm the silver chain around my neck, thinking. “Well, as long as you guys keep playing great, the people will come.”
“From your mouth to the fans’ ears.”
Chapter Eleven
NASH
I’m not one hundred percent sure Wyatt understands the sting of a quiet home game. Football always draws a crowd, and he’s been able to play in two of the biggest football states in the country. Not just any football team, one of the oldest professional football teams whose stadium is entirely made up of season ticketholders. It’s actually part of your Wisconsin legacy to be put on the waiting list for them before you’re even born.
I’m trying not to let my sour mood seep into my favorite tradition, but it’s a tall order tonight.
Whataburger’s bumping since it’s late on a Friday night, and one way or another, everyone ends up at Whataburger after midnight, apparently. I order a number one with everything on it, and Wyatt orders the same thing with a double patty. We get a chocolate shake to share and squeeze ourselves into a booth with our little orange order number tent sitting on the table. We have to sit offset from one another; our miles of legs not meant for regular people-sized tables.
“We used to steal the shit out of these in high school,” I say,holding up the little plastic number card. “We put them on the dash of our cars.” Wyatt laughs like I just told an inside joke. “What?” I ask incredulously.
“You say that literally every time we come here.”
I gasp. “I do not!”
“It’s cute. It’s like you can’t help it.” A small smile splits my lips, and I look at Wyatt over the top of our shared shake. He’s dressed nice—for him. He’s one of the most casual guys I know, but tonight he’s wearing a Dri-FIT Nike polo and tan joggers. His chest and arms bulge at the seams, and his hair is cropped close at the sides, but the length in the front folds over his forehead, pulling your line of sight to his crystal blue eyes. He’s built like real Wisconsin corn stalk. Thick and huge. Like he was destined to either play lineman or throw around bales of hay.
I take a long sip from the chocolate shake they already served us and then hold it out for him. “What was up with all those people in the stands? It looked like Noah was directing traffic.”
“I thought we were flying under the radar pretty well until they flashed a video of us on the big screen with the Hurricanes logo on it. Then every football fan in our section, plus a couple ones over, were coming up to us trying to get photos and signatures. Noah sacrificed himself so that I could watch the game.” He takes his turn sipping the dessert.
“That’s crazy,” I say, but it’s not very convincing. I don’t want to admit that I’m jealous that they’re the kind of athletes who get noticed. It’s not Wyatt’s fault that he plays the most profitable sport in the world. I guess I should have just been born a man. At my height I would have made a great football player. Too bad I fell in love with the feeling of flying through the air, hand making perfect contact with the ball as I snap mywrist on the follow through. There’s a small silence between us, but I’m not going to break it with my envious thoughts, so I let it simmer.
It stays long enough that Wyatt taps his phone to wake the screen. I catch sight of his background photo. “Is that our pic from flag football the other week?”
He chuffs like he’s been caught. “Yeah, it is. Why?” When I look at it again, I remember when Chrissy first sent it to me; when I saw the look on Wyatt’s face as he stared down at me and not at the camera. The soft smile that, to an unknowing person, could look like more than friendship…
I bite at the inside of my cheek, thinking. The way the crowd cheered for them when they were shown on the jumbotron…Megan being so mad that they were the focus… What if we made their popularity work for us instead of against us? If he was there as a supportive boyfriend instead of a football player, would that—could that—benefit the Moons? And the attendance and recognition of us as athletes?
This is nuts. If we pretended to be together to bring fans to the games, everyone would see right through us. Not to mention, why would Wyatt want to fake date me? We kissed one time and never talked about it again. He probably isn’t attracted to me, and the look in his eyes in that photo is platonic fondness and nothing else. Still…
I couldn’t help but think about the people who were waiting patiently in line to get a chance to meet Noah. I want that. Ineedit. You’d think I was an investor with how much I cared, but I have more than money in this game. I have my whole life, and all my heart and my soul.
That’s priceless.
Wyatt squints at me. “What are you thinking? You have your scheming face on.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Come on, tell me. I’m your best friend.”
I hesitate, then lean forward conspiratorially. “You would help me with anything, right?”
His eyebrows scrunch up. “I mean, theoretically, yes. Anything. As long as it’s nothing illegal. But if it was illegal, maybe—if you really needed me.”
“What about getting fans to our games?”
“I meant what I said: if you’re there, people will come.”