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“I have to keep track of the families and what they get … for taxes and for future planning.”
He runs his hand down his face. “I messed that all up. I should have asked.”
He’s taking ownership. Huh.
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“Well, let’s fix it. What can we do?”
“Just get the remaining families to line up and sign in, and then have them bring their paper with the list of what they need to the seatrain. Then, someone needs to fill a bag or box with everything on the paper and hand it to them.
“Got it. On it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
Marcus heads back to the seatrain, but when he’s not even halfway there, he turns back to me. “Have you eaten today?”
“No.”
“Go put your feet up. You’ve got another half to play in this game. You need to rest. Let the offensive line run the ball. We’ll call you onto the field when we’re ready.”
“So I’m defense in this scenario?” I ask.
“The way you come at me like a linebacker?” He smiles a dazzling smile. “A beautiful linebacker …”
“Go,” I tell him. “Fix your mess.”
“Got it, coach.” Marcus jogs backward and then turns to run over to the seatrain.
His southern charm is going to be the death of me.
Marcus snaps into leadership mode. I watch everyone organize under his direction on my way back to the volunteer canopy.
The crowd dwindles over the next few hours. Some of the volunteers leave. The Thunder players take off. Eventually, it’s just Marcus and me left on the property. The guys folded tables before they left. Winona tossed the leftover chunks of donuts and boxes from the coffee. The deli stopped by at lunch and brought sandwiches. All that mess has been picked up.
I bag the rest of the trash and haul it to the dumpster on the other side of the seatrain.
“What’s left?” Marcus asks when I come back around.
“You can head out. I have to do inventory of what didn’t get distributed and pack some things up to be taken to the school and local shelters.”
“Trying to get rid of me, Carter?”
“It’s Cass to you.”
He just smiles and doesn’t correct himself.
“You’re horrible at following rules,” I say, walking toward the seatrain.
He trails behind me.
“I really am,” he says. “I’m good at makin’ them, though.”
“You can go, QB.”
“And yet, I’m staying.”
I smile. He’s behind me, so he can’t see it.
