Just like him. A quick glance down at his feet was all it took to remind him. Obviously J.J. hadn’t noticed. Yet.
When the kiddos left, he took her by the hand. “Skate with me?”
“Now?” She gave him a curious look. “Aren’t you exhausted?”
“Yep. But, skate with me? I need a partner.” He gave her a little pout and she laughed.
“Sure.” She took his hand and they sailed across the ice. Well, sailed was hardly the right word. These stupid toe-picks, or whatever you called them, hindered his glide and caused him to stumble several times in a row.
“You okay over there?” J.J. asked, grinding to a halt.
“Yeah. Sort of.” He glanced down at the boots and groaned. “Just on a learning curve.”
“You? On a learning curve?” She chuckled…until she noticed the figure skating boots he wore. Her gaze shot upward, to his face. “Kevin? What are those?”
“What do they look like?” he answered, his words coming out more playful than he’d intended.
“But, what in the world…?” She stared down at them, clearly perplexed.
“Hey, we had an extra pair in the shop. Decided to try them on for size to see if they fit.”
“Cinder-fella?” She laughed.
“Yeah. If the boot fits…and it does.” He took her hand once again. “But trust me when I say I’m going to need some assistance. This doesn’t come naturally. I’m going to need coaching. Lots of it. Do you know anyone who can help me?”
“Sure do.” She giggled. “And happy to be of service.” They circled the rink once more and he nearly lost his balance a time or two, but she kept him upright. When they arrived back at the gate, he reached into his pocket, ready to move forward. He snagged the little ring box and gripped it tightly in his left hand. Not that J.J. seemed to notice. She’d reached for her blade guards and fastened them into place, clearly oblivious. Perfect distraction.
Kevin chose his next words with great care. “You were right, you know.”
She finished with the blade guards and stood up straight, her eyes locking on his. “Right? About what?”
“Everything. The rink. The classes. The students. The Dream Team…”
“Technically, the Dream Team was Ann-Marie’s idea.”
“Whatever.” He rolled the ring box around in his palm, keeping it hidden from view. “You were still right…about everything.”
“Are you saying you give your stamp of approval on Jaden’s costume?”
“Yes. The pants”—he stressed the word—“are great, thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome. They’re just right for the number. And a perfect match for Libby’s dress, as well.”
“Perfect match.” He couldn’t have chosen better words, himself. “And I get it now. They’re a great couple.”
“Yep. Doesn’t matter if they place or not, this will be wonderful exposure for him.”
“True.” Kevin nodded. “But I have a feeling they’ll place.”
“Yeah.” She smiled. “Me too.”
A lengthy pause followed and Kevin rolled the box in his now-sweaty palm once more.
“You okay over there, Kevin?” Little crinkles formed between J.J.’s eyes. “You don’t look well.”
“Oh, I’m well, thank you very much.”
“O-okay?”“One more spin around the ice with me?” He extended his free hand.
“But I just put my blade guards on. Remember?”
“I know, but…please?”
She sighed and reached down to pull of the guards, then took his right hand, which he’d extended her way. They circled the ice, but he found it hard to balance with the ring in his other hand. He should’ve thought this through more carefully. Maybe the figure skates could’ve waited till another day.
Kevin managed to slow down and hobbled his way to the center of the ice.
J.J. gave him a curious look. “What are we doing?”
“Oh, just a little choreography I’ve been working on.” With his right hand still holding hers, he tried to kneel down on one knee, but in doing so hit the ice and pulled her down on top of him.
She let out a little yelp and the ring box went shooting across the ice. Kevin groaned and slapped himself on the forehead.
“What in the world?” She sat up and rubbed her arm. “Well, that was different.”
“More different than you know…and not at all the choreography I’d planned.” He crawled over to the box and then crawled back, now sitting beside her on the cold ice.
“W-what’s that?” she asked.
“Well, it’s not a costume, but it is something I plan to ask you to wear.” He popped the box open, the diamond inside sparkling under the soft glow of the halogen lights above.
~
J.J. gasped as she clamped eyes on the gorgeous ring. “Kevin?”
“Mm-hmm?” He fought to get up on one knee but slipped and fell again, landing squarely on his belly. “Ugh!”
J.J. got so tickled she couldn’t stop laughing.
Until the music came on. “When I Fall in Love” played overhead, just as the lights above the rink brightened. Rusty must be hiding out in the sound booth. Who knew?
She turned her attention to Kevin, who’d finally managed to get on one knee. Unfortunately, the ring box had slipped from his grasp again. She snagged it for him and placed it in his hand.
“Would you mind standing?” he asked. “If for no other reason than the pictures? At least that way I won’t look like such a goober.”
“Pictures?” She looked off to the side of the rink and laughed when she saw Ann-Marie snapping photos.
“Yeah. For our grandchildren. I want them to see that I tried.”
Oh, he’d tried, all right. And succeeded, too. J.J.’s heart swelled with joy as she gazed at this awesome, godly man on his knee in front of her.
Kevin cleared his throat. “Uncle Rusty always says, ‘When something’s right, you know it’s right. And there’s no point in waiting around.”
“I’ve always thought Rusty was a sage.” J.J. grinned. “What else does he say?”
“That when we’re lucky enough to find someone who will put up with us, we’d better move real quick.”
“I see. This is pretty quick.”
“Right. But I’ve seen God do some awesome things in a hurry and I don’t want to miss a minute.” He pulled the ring out of the box. “So, I have a question for you, J.J. Williamson.”
“Yes?” Her heart skipped a beat.
He took hold of her left hand and slid the beautiful princess cut diamond ring on her left finger. “Will you do me the honor of marrying me? I’ll give you full custody—er, half custody—of The Big Skate, if you say yes.”
“Is that your best offer?” She quirked a brow and laughed. “Just kidding!” She stared first at the ring, and then into his eyes, joy overtaking her. “You bet I’ll marry you, Kevin!” J.J. extended her hand to help him stand but as he tried, he slipped and tumbled to the ice, pulling her down once again.
Kevin let out a groan as the ring box went skating across the ice. “I. Can’t. Do. Anything. Right.”
“Oh, yeah?” She laughed. “Well I know one thing you’re pretty good at.” She inched her way over, placed her lips on his, and—with the camera clicking away in the background—gave him a passionate kiss that sealed the deal, once and for all.
Epilogue
The following afternoon J.J. and Kevin looked on as Libby and Jaden took to the ice for their first-ever pairs routine. Hand in hand, the two looked quite natural together—just like J.J. felt with Kevin’s hand in hers.
She glanced at her wonderful fiancé out of the corner of her eye, gratitude filling her heart. He slipped her arm over her shoulder and leaned down to whisper, “They’re gonna do great, watch and see.”
J.J. nodded, her thoughts in a whirl. She faced the ice and waited for the music to begin. Jaden led the way, with Libby following, through the opening moves.
Excellent work. Next came the footwork section. Lovely. Then the spins…not bad at all. Finally, the moment everyone had been waiting for. As Jaden and Libby soared through the air, side-by-side, their Axel jumps in tandem, J.J. pinched her eyes shut. Only when the roar of the crowd rang out, did she open them.
“Did you see that?” Kevin hollered. “They did it! They did it, J.J.!” He reached over and gave her a sweet kiss, but her gaze traveled back to the ice, where she caught a glimpse of the joy on Jaden’s face. In that moment, her heart traveled back in time to her very first competition, when she was eight. The joy, the freedom, the peace…she suddenly felt it all over again.
And now, wrapped in Kevin’s loving embrace, J.J. knew she would go on feeling it…for the rest of her life.
The Reversal
A Love’s Sporting Chance novella
T.I. LOWE
Copyright © 2015 by T.I. LOWE
Forget Me Not Romances, a division of Winged Publications
All Scriptures taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
In memory of Benji Blanton
Football #82 and Baseball #31
And to his lovely mother, Mrs. Gail Blanton, who passed away while I completed this book. Mrs. Gail read the book and gave it her approval only weeks before she fell ill.
Love ya, my Gal Pal.
A Season of Life
A pro-football season goes beyond the sixteen scheduled games. Several factors—such as draft day, training camps, and conditioning—lead up to opening game day. Preparation is the key to how well the game will be played. Wins or losses. Victories or defeats.
Audibles, reverses, blitzes and many other trick plays can turn a game on its head. All the team can do is plan and be prepared for whatever the opposing team is willing to dish out.
A season of life is no different. Well, in my eyes anyway. It goes beyond just the individual. Factors to our success weigh heavily on the choice, the preparation, and the pursuit.
Life can meet you at the line of scrimmage with an array of trick plays. It’s up to you to play on the defensive side or the offensive side. I’m better suited for the offensive game. Although, I’ve had fate put me on the defense for a few games.
The season was in my sights, completely planned and conditioned and practiced. I had my game plan figured out, but no matter how much I had prepared, I never saw that sneaky reversal until it was too late.
Chapter One
A delicate blanket of dew aids in releasing that sweet perfume of grass and earthiness, filling my senses with the familiarity of absolute contentment. Inhaling a deep breath of it, I lift my head to the southern Texas sun and greet it with a smile. That warm beacon is just as anxious as I am to start this summer day. Oh yeah. It’s going to be a great season. No doubt about it. Standing proudly off the ten yard line, my gaze scans the patiently waiting rows of stadium seats—a fortress of black and gold that protectively overlooks the 120 yards of pristine turf.
Careful not to disturb the damp gems twinkling along the surface of the football field, my feet direct me to the path of my mower. The green-mean machine sits stoically at the back bay, reels sharpened and ready for action. My dutiful day as this fine stadium’s head groundskeeper awaits my response to it, and I’m as giddy as a kid in line for ice cream to get on with it. Before I climb on the mower, the echoing sound of a door banging shut from the home locker room tunnel grabs my attention. Taking pause, I’m a little surprised to find none other than Wiley Black, the ridiculously talented quarterback—the very same star who caused the football nation to foam at the mouth in madness when his professional career ended in just its first glorious season. It was a flawless season that was only one infamous game away from the game of all games. A season football history won’t forget any decade soon.
Shaking off my own bitter disappointment for that terrible fate, I regard his large, lean form as he lugs giant buckets and a mesh bag full of footballs along with him. Hermes is what the world deemed him from the start way back in his days of college football. He is definitely the modern day Greek god of athleticism.
There’s no holding back the cringe when I helplessly watch on as he wrecks my perfectly dewy field by walking right on it like he owns the place. I’m near the back bay, and he takes no time to check for spectators. Hermes has already ruined my plans of mowing, so I scoot a bit deeper out of sight to observe.
Dumping the bag at the fifty, the man moves to the end zone with determination. There’s no evidence in his walk as to what I know hides under the leg of his black track pants. My curiosity is piqued as I watch him set up three barrel-sized buckets in front of the goal—left edge, center, and right. Turning on his heel, Wiley beelines it back to the fifty, hat shoved low on his head and shrouding his angular features. After a quick glance at his watch, he pulls the first of probably forty or so footballs out of the bag.
My heart picks up its pace with anticipation of seeing this legend in action. It’s definitely a gift I wasn’t expecting to stumble upon this fine July morning. He adjusts his position a few steps before launching the pigskin in a perfect spiral. The ball ricochets off the left upright in a gratifying ping before descending to the barrel. When the ball bounces off the rim and lands in the wet grass, neither one of us seems too thrilled by it. I’m gonna have no dew left to guide my mower if he keeps this up. I don’t need it, but I do find satisfaction with it directing my path.
With no noise passing inside the brick and steel walls of the stadium, his deep sigh easily reaches my ears from where I’m hiding behind him. I can do nothing but curiously watch on as Wiley pulls off his hat and runs his hand through his dark, wavy hair in frustration. The fan in me wants to rush the field and beg for his autograph like some psycho. Behaving myself instead, I stay rooted in my spot and take in his every move like he’s some abstract artwork needing to be studied. Thoroughly.
After cramming the hat back on, he swipes another ball and readjusts his feet once more. Launching from a slightly new alignment, the ball collides with the upright once again, but this time it makes it into the barrel with precision.
This drill continues with consecutive pings ringing out until each barrel has its own share of balls and my grass only shares company with that very first ball. Each throw is precise with its path in such a severe focus I want to throw my hands in the air and scream, “Why him?” My heart somewhere in there fluttered up to a sprint until it all but stopped completely in amazement at the talent before me. My mind says it before I can reprimand—such a waste of talent.
Wiley Black disappears back into the tunnel as quietly as he appeared—his meeting with his new home, Cooper Stadium, complete. My day finally gets underway at seven, one hour later than my normal morning schedule. Great. Now the entire day will be off kilter. Mounting the mower, I set out to make up some time.
I’m a rare oddity in my field of work—some pun intended. Women are not easily found in my position. I’m responsible for this massive ninety-seven thousand square foot stadium that can hold seventy-seven thousand fans on any given game day. I take pride in the work I’ve done here for the past six years, but the controls have only been placed in my hands for two.
Cramming in my earbuds and cranking up Skillet to full eardrum-bursting volume, I direct the machine to get on with it. I literally pulled my time in flowerbeds for the first part of my career with my male chauvinistic pig for a boss thinking that was all my girlie-self could handle. It was one sweet day at his retirement party when I was named his replacement. So I’ve earned the right to forbid a soul on this field until I get the privilege of mowing it. Hermes better be glad I’m a fan.
*****
The day scoots by with field prep and tending to the tall order of new flowers that are set to arrive in the morning. I’m still a sucker for the bed designs, but I have a head horticulturist who handles the hefty job nowaday
s. All I have to do is sign my signature of approval and try to keep out of Benji’s way, which is easier said than done.
My thoughts linger on Benji. That man is a character in himself. A big teddy bear is how I would describe him, and a man that gets things done. I’ll never forget the first week I worked with him. We have what we call the flower truck. It’s just an old beat-up pickup that we putter around in with all of our planting supplies. Texas heat is harsh and that truck has no air conditioner. Benji had enough of it one day, so while I headed in for our lunch break, he chose to work on the truck. I came back out an hour later and found Benji sitting in the truck minus doors.
I asked him, “Benji, didn’t this truck have doors before lunch?”
“Yep. Now it has air conditioning.”
And that was that. The doors are long gone, but the truck still putts around with great ventilation. I can’t help but smile just thinking about it.
Today is special, so I treat my crew by having Renata’s Cantina delivered. Being neighbors with Mexico may have drawbacks, but I like to focus on the perks. You can’t get authentic tamales or enchiladas just anywhere.
As I’m cramming my fourth tamale in my mouth, my head irrigation tech, Buck, pushes into my shoulder. “Dang, Sam. You eat like a hog.” Laughter rings out.
Looking around the long table at the variety of crew members all donning the required uniform of white T-shirt with the Bobcats Grounds Crew logo and black cargo pants, I send them all a glare. It’s the uniform of my choice. Before I took over, we all had to wear stiff uniform pants with a button-up work shirt that was more fitting for a garage mechanic. It’s too hot in these southern parts to not be comfortable.
“I work my butt off around this place. Literally.” I pause to swallow the substantial bite of spicy goodness. “I need lots of fuel.” Taking in the O of Buck’s rounded gut, I grimace dramatically.
“What?” he mutters around a sloppy mouthful of enchilada.
“I’m obviously not working you hard enough, old man.” I give his solid girth a playful pop, causing a bark of laughter from the crowd.
Love's Sporting Chance: Volume 1: 6 Romantic sporting novellas Page 9
