Chapter 7: Practice

On Sunday morning, the first sandwich arrived before eight.

The delivery driver stood on the porch with a paper bag, looking at his phone.

"Delivery for Sandwich Girl," he said.

"There's no one here by that name," I said.

"It says Alder Street. It's a prepaid order. There's, uh, more coming."

There were nine more by ten o'clock.

Turkey, ham, tuna, egg salad, and one with Hungry for you written across the bag in marker.

I stood in the doorway with a stack of paper bags up to my chin, and I felt my face go from pink to white.

Dane came down the stairs in his gray sweatshirt.

He looked at the bags, and at me, and he took the whole stack out of my arms.

He carried it into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and began taking sandwiches out of their wrappers.

"What are you doing?" Rory asked from the table, with a bowl of cereal and a hangover.

"The team eats at noon," Dane said. "Linemen eat anything."

He wrapped them in foil, one by one, and lined them up in a grocery bag.

By the time he had finished, the joke was ten linemen's lunch, and I was no longer shaking.

Rory pushed his bowl away.

"I owe you the whole thing," he said. "Okay. Here it is."

He told it badly and quickly.

He had not put the gas station together with my roommate until the day of the tailgate, when he'd seen her in the crowd with her phone out.

After that he had watched Lance, and Lance had begged him not to tell me.

"I should have said something sooner," he said. "I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

I looked at him for a while.

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