“That boy thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport,” the woman beside me says. Her statement has me sitting up a little taller, pinching my shoulder blades together, and tipping my chin up. Am I Rhett’s number one fan? No. But after spending a week with the guy, after seeing how hard he’s taking this whole thing—how vulnerable he was at the kitchen table that morning—my protective streak is fired up and ready to burn.
