by Melissa Tagg
“Afternoon, everyone. Thanks for coming out today.” Ian spoke into the mic extending from the podium. “We’ll make this brief with time for a few questions afterward. Colton?”
Colton stood, far too tall for the wimpy podium, and as he took his place behind the mic, the flash of cameras whited out the already stark walls. Nerves, the kind he was way too seasoned to be experiencing, dashed through him.
“Hey, everyone. I’m sure you can guess why we’re here today. I wish it was for a better reason.” Glimpses of familiar faces poked through the haze of camera flashes. His gaze landed on a writer from Sports World, the one who’d been so sure all last season Colton would lead the Tigers to the Super Bowl. “I saw that column you wrote a couple months back predicting I’d be ready to play again by training camp, Crosby. Wish I could prove you right.”
Crosby returned his nod, a mix of sympathy and resignation in the movement.
“But the truth is, I’m not ready to play. And unfortunately, according to my doctor, knee and shoulder specialists, surgeons, and probably every patient at St. Luke’s who ever heard me groaning my way through physical therapy, I’m not gonna be ready. Not for this or any season.”
And then came the pitying hush he’d known was coming. Lasted barely a second before more camera snaps, only long enough to blink. But it was enough to tighten his jaw and set to twitching muscles that had already been tested to their limits during months of therapy. Just finish the speech.
“This has been an amazing journey, one for which I’m incredibly grateful. I’m thankful to Coach Johnson, coaches Peterson and Dreck, my teammates . . .” The list spilled out just like he’d rehearsed, his navy tie batting the skinny mic, knuckles turning white as he gripped the podium.
“It’s been a great privilege playing for this team and this city. And though it’s ended much sooner than I would’ve liked, I’m carrying good memories into my future.”
My future. Ian had instructed him to add extra verbal punch to those last words.
Instead they’d come out sounding slight and unconvincing. Ian was probably itching to kick him. Guess he just wasn’t any good at faking it.
And that was the real reason he was here, wasn’t it?
Because he hadn’t been smart enough to leave his emotions on the sideline and focus on the game.
“You’ve got to ask yourself what Greene was thinking, going in for that tackle.”
“Never a good idea for a QB to try and play hero after an interception like that, not unless the game is on the line. Which it wasn’t up to that point.”
“He’s always had an impulsive streak. Saw that in his days playing college ball at the University of Iowa. But today? That was pure recklessness.”
He could still hear the drone of voices from the TV in his hospital room. The sports analysts dissecting the fourth-quarter mess of what would turn out to be his last game.
Good memories? Sure, they were there somewhere. Just hard to find under the one that nagged him day in and day out, reminding him that the only one he had to blame for his future without football was himself.
He reached under the podium, fingers closing around a bottle of water. Almost done. He unscrewed the water bottle.
“So today I . . . I . . .” Water sloshed over the edge of the bottle and puddled on the table. Say it. “I’m regretfully retiring from the game of football.” Almost before the words escaped, he lifted the bottle and gulped down a drink, thankful for the distraction as he mentally grasped for composure.
And then Ian was standing, acknowledging Coach Johnson, who replaced Colton at the podium and said something about Colton’s contributions to the team and how they’d miss him and blah, blah, blah.
And Colton was back in his metal chair, shoulder aching and the sharp pang in his knee he’d almost gotten used to taunting him under the table.
Then came the questions.
Did his injuries require future surgery?
How long had he known his career had come to an end?
Had he still been hoping to make a comeback while in PT all these months?
Eyes to the clock at the back of the room. Ian had promised they’d cut this off at the thirty-minute mark. Only five minutes to go. At least no one had asked about—
“About the play that caused your injury—”
The last swallow from his now-empty water bottle slid down his throat, his gaze riffling through the room until it landed on the source of the question. Blond hair in a high ponytail, gray pantsuit, youngish, standing in the middle of the pack. Didn’t recognize her.
“I believe that’s been fairly well covered by you all. Many times.” Uneasy chuckles fanned through the room. “Listen, it was a bad pass. Great interception by Fallon. I saw him take the ball down the field and my instincts kicked in. Yeah, maybe I should have let him go, but it’s football, folks. The point is to not let the other team score.”
A few grins peppered the crowd, and for the first time since that brutal game, he almost felt . . . heroic. Or at least justified.
But the feeling died in an instant as the glaring memory of that failed pass pressed in, along with the reminder that it wasn’t his first intercepted throw of the game—but his third. The result of going into the evening game unfocused and ticked off. When the Eagles’ corner had picked off the pass, he’d simply lost his mind. Anger took over, and he’d gone after the defender in a desperate flying leap that ended with him at the bottom of a pile.
Cocky, stupid, and, worse—as he’d realized when his throwing shoulder hit the turf—dangerous.
The reporter cocked one eyebrow. “Yes, well, you probably saw some of the headlines—the ones speculating that your on-field actions were the result of your off-field turmoil.”
Oh, now that was a craftily worded sentence if he ever heard one. What outlet was this reporter with anyway? “Was there a question in there somewhere?”
Another round of tense laughter, but to her credit, the reporter held his gaze. “I suppose if there was, you’re not answering.”
The challenge in her voice was unmistakable—as was the warning in the look Ian shot his direction. Don’t engage. Stay on topic. And whatever you do, don’t mention . . .
“Look, if you’re talking about Lilah Moore, it’s true. We went through a bumpy patch right before that play-off game.” Oh man. Ian’s expression was shooting bullets. Colton would probably find himself without a manager after this.
But what did he have to lose? Lilah—former actress turned political activist—had already walked out of his life, turned him down before he even had a chance to propose that January day. Annoying thing was, he couldn’t even hate her for it. If there was a chance of getting her back, he’d rush at it like so many defensive linemen had rushed him over the years.
And that’s when the idea took hold. Crazy, impulsive . . . scattered pieces of his once-shattered hope slowly forming into a whole picture.
The ring box in his pocket felt suddenly weighty with significance. Maybe there was a reason he’d brought it this morning. Some kind of divine foreshadowing. Not that he’d been much good at praying lately, not since all the prayers about his injuries seemed to go unanswered. But what if God was opening a door?
What if he won Lilah back right now, in front of the cameras and everything?
If he could just find the right words.
“So you do credit your performance in that game to your high-profile break—”
“I credit my performance to a bad pass.” He avoided looking at Ian. Instead made eye contact with the nosy reporter who he just might thank if this turned out well. “As for Lilah, she’s . . . she’s an amazing woman.”
She really was. In addition to her political activities, she still directed Colton’s foundation—not that they’d gotten very far turning the foundation into anything worthwhile. He’d mostly started it last year because that’s what other athletes did. But if anyone could make something of it, Lilah could.
&n
bsp; “Even after all these months, I . . . I still . . .” I still love her. The words stalled in his throat, hazy uncertainty fogging over him. Say it, Colt. Make the grand gesture.
Why couldn’t he get the words out?
And then that same reporter. “Well, have you talked to her since her engagement?”
A thudding silence dropped like an anvil.
“To Ray Bannem. The governor’s reelection campaign manager. Have you spoken with her since the news broke last night?”
Another camera flash.
“I . . . have not.”
Lilah? Engaged?
To someone else.
Hadn’t his world already tilted enough?
Congratulate her. Say you wish her the best. Smile. Don’t let them see . . .
But all he could do was stand, empty water bottle tipping and rolling down the table.
“I believe we’re done here.”
2
Kate probably would’ve lost this game regardless. But with Frederick Langston’s words ping-ponging around in her brain, her demise was a certainty.
“I know it’s a crazy thing to ask. A long shot. And an expensive one at that. But after I got your letter—”
“Stay on the road, Katie.”
Breydan’s laughter bounced into her thoughts, and she angled her Wii remote, eyes latched on the TV in the eight-year-old’s bedroom. “I’m trying.”
On the flat screen, Breydan’s car whizzed past the finish line. He dropped his controller, lifting skinny arms into the air. “First place.” The futon they sat on barely shifted at Breydan’s movement.
“Every stinkin’ time.” And then, just like it had for the past four races, the game cut her off before she had a chance to finish the course. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to buy my own Wii, practice in my free time, and next time, I’m so gonna win.” Or at least steer well enough to complete the race.
“It’s not my fault I’m good at Mario Kart and you’re not.”
“Why, you . . .” She reached out as if to tickle him, then instead leaned in for a side hug. He tried to wriggle away, feigned an annoyed protest, but then—just like she knew he would—gave in and let her squeeze.
When she finally released him, Breydan looked up at her, brown eyes brimming with playfulness despite the circles of purple underneath. “Another race?”
His bald scalp and tiny frame might have been his standout features to anyone else, but to Kate, it was still Breydan’s gap-toothed smile that captured her heart without fail. She reached for her remote. “Another race, for sure.”
And not only because she’d lose to Breydan a hundred times if it made him happy, but also because she’d heard an unfamiliar male voice drifting from the kitchen when she arrived at Marcus and Hailey’s.
They thought they were so sneaky, didn’t they? Another blind date. And a surprise one, at that. At least she’d been able to escape up to Breydan’s bedroom before Hailey had a chance to whisk her into the kitchen to meet their latest scrounged-up Prince Charming.
And here she’d been hoping to snag some alone time with Hail. Advice. She needed advice way more than she needed a man. Because while she’d been praying for an open window, in one short phone call with Frederick Langston, God had gone and blown the walls off her house.
And she had no idea what to do.
“You ready to go, Brey?” Hailey appeared in the doorway of Breydan’s bedroom. “Your ride’s going to be here any minute. All packed?”
Breydan stood and walked to the twin bed nudged up to the opposite wall, its football-patterned comforter matching the rest of the room’s décor—football-shaped lamp on an end table, framed posters. “Katie doesn’t want me to go.” He picked up his backpack.
Kate rose, palmed his head as if it were a basketball. “Oh, I’ll get over it and forgive you, B-man. This once.”
Breydan’s focus flitted from Kate to his bag and back to her. “It’s just . . . Luke is the only friend whose house I ever get to go to ’cause he’s sick too, so his bedroom is all sterile and stuff. But I don’t have to go.”
“Don’t be silly, mister. Go to your sleepover.”
He dropped his bag and barreled into her for another hug—the full thing this time, bony arms extending around her waist. “Thanks, Katie.”
“Count yourself lucky,” Hailey said, picking up her son’s bag and shaking reddish bangs from her forehead. “Anyone else calls her Katie and they get clobbered.”
“I’m special.” Breydan said the smug words into her stomach, squeezed again, and then backed up.
“Oh wait. Can’t believe I almost forgot.” Kate reached for the messenger bag she’d plopped on the futon and pulled out a blue-and-orange jersey.
“No way. Peyton Manning?”
“Of course. You did say he’s your favorite, right?” Wouldn’t surprise her if she’d gotten it wrong. Football was a language she didn’t speak. But for Breydan, she’d do anything—including sitting through a game that made about as much sense to her as Swahili.
Breydan was pulling the jersey over his T-shirt when a honk sounded from outside. “That’s my ride. Thanks for the jersey, Katie. Luke’s gonna be so jealous.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and raced from the room, the sound of footsteps thumping down the stairs tracking his movement.
Hailey stuck her head into the hallway. “Don’t forget to say bye to Dad on the way out.” She turned back to Kate. “I think dinner’s almost ready.”
Kate narrowed her eyes at her friend. “You guys will never give up, will you?”
Hailey flipped straight hair over her shoulder, then bent down to pick up one of Breydan’s abandoned plastic footballs. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kate folded her arms. “I know an ambush when I see one. Or in this case, hear it.” And even if she hadn’t already heard the man’s voice, there’d been the soft lilt of jazz music trickling through the first floor. The fancy setup of the dining room table. Both Hailey and Marcus in nice clothes.
And she, in her oldest jeans and barely enough makeup to count. Lovely.
“Sending Breydan away, though? That was low.”
Hailey tossed the football into a toy-filled net hanging in one corner of the room. “Hey, for the record, we didn’t invite Rhett until after Breydan got asked to the sleepover.”
Rhett, huh. “So many Gone with the Wind references just went through my head I don’t even know which one to pick. I should just leave.”
Hailey shrugged, striped sundress swaying around her ankles as she continued picking up Breydan’s room. “Fine with me. Means more garlic breadsticks and baked ziti with sundried tomato pesto for the rest of us.”
Kate froze in the doorway, blinking to adjust to the hallway’s dim lighting.
“Gotcha, didn’t I?” Hailey laughed.
Turning around, Kate grimaced. “You don’t play fair, Laramie.”
Hailey stopped in front of her, freckled cheeks spreading with her grin. “It’s simply a matter of knowing one’s opponent. I happen to know you eat lettuce straight from a bag most days. And by ‘straight from,’ I mean you don’t even bother with a plate. Just pour the dressing in the bag and stick a fork in.”
“That’s called efficiency.” And a good way to avoid dishes.
Hailey nudged her out the door. “It’s called desperation. Besides, Marcus vouches for this guy.”
She moved toward the staircase, slid one palm along its polished banister as she made her way down. “Marcus is my agent, not my matchmaker.”
“We could’ve had you married eight times over by now if you weren’t so stubborn.” Hailey’s words punched the air behind her. “It’s been six years since Gil, Kate. You gotta move on one of these days. Don’t you think—”
Hailey cut off as Kate stilled at the bottom of the steps, icy hurt sharpening through her. She caught sight of herself in the mirrored entryway hutch—brunette hair trickling from a messy bun. “That’s not
fair, bringing up Gil. You know what that does to me.”
Dredged up a knotty mess of emotions—that’s what. Seriously, a therapist could have a field day exhuming her graveyard of Gil-related memories.
In the mirror, she saw Hailey drop onto a stair and sigh. “You write romance for a living. Don’t you ever want to take a chance on finding your own?”
Kate looked toward the living room, where sunset spilled through tall windows and stained the opposite wall in reds and oranges. Mom used to say the fiery sunsets were her favorite.
“Go write something important.”
She couldn’t think of Mom without thinking of her words. Eight years hadn’t done anything to diminish their pull. If only she’d found some way to live them out.
Now—maybe, finally—she had, thanks to Frederick Langston. That is, if she could conjure up the funds. It meant putting scriptwriting on the back burner for a while. That and the half-dozen half-written sophomore novels wasting away on her computer.
She lowered to the stair beside Hailey. “It’s not romance I’m looking for.”
“Isn’t there even a little piece of you—”
“Nope.” Gil had rubbed the sheen off that once-sparkly possibility, left only rusty disinterest in its place. “Hail, I got this call the other day. When I was on set with Marcus. From the development director at the James Foundation.”
Hailey shifted on the stair. “That’s the foundation your mom helped start, right?”
“Not just helped. She wrote the grant application and made the presentation that got them five hundred thousand in federal seed dollars.” She’d named the foundation after the verse in James in the Bible—the one about taking care of widows and orphans.
The Italian aroma wafting from the kitchen pulled a hungry growl from Kate’s stomach. She’d done her best to support the foundation. Even in the lean months—when she’d burned through her last advance and had to beg for extra hours at the Willis—she’d managed to continue sending small checks.
