Page 16

Grant

I stop to chat with the equipment guys on the field after practice, so I’m the last guy to make it into the locker room. I’m already pulling off my pads and practice jersey as I step inside. Suddenly everything goes quiet.

Everything.

I’ve literally never heard the room silent until this moment. There’s always someone joking, someone razzing another guy, one of the guys from the social media team interviewing a player, or at least the sounds of groaning after an exhausting practice.

When I walk through the metal double doors, I step into a vacuum.

Getting my pads off, I can confirm what I already suspected. Everyone is staring at me. Every guy in the room. They know something I don’t. And it makes my chest tight and my lungs strain for a simple breath.

I stare pointedly at my center Scott. He doesn’t even pretend to hold my gaze, dipping his chin and turning toward his locker. Ja’maar, usually the life of the locker room, is slumped in his purple chair, elbows resting on his knees as he rubs a palm over his bald head.

“All right. Someone start talking.” I use my QB voice, the one that gets heard even over fifty thousand fans. “Now.”

From the corner of the room, Card looks up from where he’s literally twiddling his thumbs, his big shoulder leaning against the wooden frame of his cubby. “You could have just told us you were seeing her instead of trying to warn us off her.”

“Who?”

“Who?” Scott mimics me.

Only one face flashes across my mind. The prettiest one I’ve ever seen. With vivid green eyes surrounded by a ring of brown and a smile that stops me in my tracks every time. The one who comes with a laugh that makes my heart beat a little faster.

The one who kept racing through my mind this morning during practice. The one who I had to shut out of my mind after missing a pass and getting hit by Card.

The one who is complete wishful thinking on my part.

She’s also the only woman I’ve warned the guys off of in the last month.

That realization is enough to give me heartburn.

“I’m serious. I don’t know what you guys are talking about.”

A few of the guys nudge each other, passing knowing looks. But most of the room still refuses to look at me.

“Grant?”

Only one man in the locker room calls me by my first name, and I spin toward the sound of team chaplain Hank Hardee’s voice. He’s standing in the hallway that leads toward the coaches’ offices.

“You want to talk about it?” Hank nods toward his office, but my feet have grown roots.

I’m not moving until someone tells me what on God’s green earth is going on here. Slamming my hands to my hips, I drop my pads and they clatter to the floor. “I want someone to tell me why you all are gossiping like a bunch of old ladies. And why I seem to be the hottest topic. And why you have the gall to be talking about Zoe Peebles.”

Card’s eyes flash, and I know I’ve hit on the truth. Something like molten lava burns low in my gut.

“Someone speak. Right now.” There’s a threat in my voice that has absolutely nothing to do with my name in their mouths and everything to do with the Hollywood starlet, who’s suffered way more than her fair share of gossip.

After a long silent beat, Card steps forward. Holding out his phone, he says only, “You haven’t heard?”

I fight back the urge to snatch the screen out of his hand and give him a slow nod instead as I pull the phone even with my face. The headline is hard to miss. It’s clearly on one of those tabloid websites and shouts: MEET ZOE PEEBLES’S REBOUND GUY.

How. Dare. They?

I don’t need to scroll down to know who they’ve assigned to the title. But apparently I’m a glutton for punishment because I flick my finger up, and there it is. Picture-perfect evidence that I carried Zoe up the Incline. And down it. Laughing and joking along the way.

That lava in my gut is about to erupt, and the only thing that is keeping the beast-within on his leash is the fact that whoever took these pictures kept Kenna out of them. Or the editor cropped her out.

But right now I’m not willing to assume anyone on staff at this publication has that level of humanity.

“When did this come out?” I growl, louder than anticipated.

“This morning,” Scott says. When I meet his gaze, he quickly adds, “But we didn’t see it until just now. Right after practice.”

Right answer.

I suck on my front teeth, already plotting revenge on the lowlifes trying to tear Zoe down. It was one thing when she was a passing acquaintance. It’s completely another when she’s—

Oh, chicken on a biscuit.

Mine. She’s mine. And I don’t need some stupid headline to tell me that.

I’ve known it since that day she showed up at my house unannounced—all confidence and joy. I knew it when she immediately connected with Kenna and when I tucked her in on my couch and when she threw her first football—only one of us needs to be good at that.

And I knew it when I woke up this morning praying about her meeting with that director instead of for my own day.

“Grant, why don’t we talk?”

Heaving a deep breath, I return Card’s phone and turn toward Hank. He’s a fairly short guy, several inches shy of six feet. But I’d follow him into any battle.

His encouragement got me through my injury—and my break-up with Tawna. He’s the kind of guy who slips notecards with handwritten Bible verses into my locker when he knows I need a boost. He’s also the kind of leader who calls guys out on their stuff.

And the twist in my stomach is more than a bit afraid this conversation is going to be more the latter.

The hallway of offices is bright and wide with ceilings twice as tall as they need to be. The pale gray walls between glass doors are filled with framed photos of the Teeners throughout the decades, even a few playoff appearances.

The chaplain’s office is at the far end of the hall, tucked away in a back corner. It seems darker inside, solemn, somber.

Funny. I’ve never thought of it like that until right this minute. I’ve been here plenty of times when Hank and I laughed until my belly ached and my hurts felt more bearable.

Today, I can’t imagine walking out of this room with that same experience.

“Have a seat.” He nods toward the plush black love seat tucked against the far wall.

Plucking at the collar of my sweaty undershirt, I shake my head.

“You think you’re the first player to sit there after practice?”

No. Yes. Maybe? I only shrug.

He snorts, plopping into the leather chair across from the sofa. “If the facilities guys didn’t steam clean it weekly, I’m afraid I’d have to wear a gas mask just to stay in my office.”

That makes me chuckle, and I lower myself to the edge of a cushion. Forearms on my thigh pads, I take a deep breath. Hank is waiting for me to say something. I’m sure of it. But I’m not in a rush to fill the silence. Instead, I study the walls of his office. Bookshelves lined with academic-looking tomes. And framed pictures of his wife, children, and their kids.

Hank is old enough to be my grandfather, his hair white and skin weathered. And though he’s a full head shorter than I am, there’s a strength in his shoulders that seems able to carry even the heaviest load. And he has carried a lot of them for the guys on the team.

When my sister called me to tell me her unit was being deployed and she needed someone to care for Kenna, I went straight to Hank’s office to ask his advice.

“Pray for direction. Then put on your big-boy pants. It’s time to take care of your family.”

I crack a smile as I remember the way he made it sound so easy. And the way he so casually insulted me at the same time.

That’s Hank in a nutshell.

“I don’t see you lose your cool very often. What happened in there?”

Scrubbing my hand through my sweaty hair and down the back of my bent neck, I sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Does it have something to do with Mr. Peebles’s daughter?”

“Of course not.” Then I peek up through one eye. “Maybe.”

With a smug smile, Hank crosses his fingers behind his head and leans back in his seat.

“She doesn’t deserve to have those magazines writing about her. The guys in the locker room either.”

“What about you? You’re in those pictures too, you know.”

I know. And I don’t give a chicken on a biscuit. Let the media say what they want about me. I prove my worth to this organization every week on the field. And a few headlines will only make the guys razz me a bit. Nothing I can’t handle.

But Zoe’s entire career is on the line.

Jumping to my feet, I pace the length of the couch a few times, rubbing my palm over my face.

“Are you seeing her?” Hank’s voice is low and filled with genuine concern.

I freeze then look directly at him. “No. Not really. She’s a . . . a . . . a friend. We’ve been hanging out.” I swallow thickly. “That’s it really.”

It’s not possible for me to sound any lamer.

He’d have to have no pulse to believe anything I’ve said. It doesn’t stop me from trying again.

“She’s helping my niece with a school play audition. She doesn’t come over to see me.”

A sharp pain through my chest stops me short. Maybe because it’s a lie. Or maybe because I’m afraid it’s the truth.

Because I want her to come to my house to see me. Because I look forward to seeing her. Every single time.

“She’s been to your house?”

I shrug. “It’s not really a big deal. I have people over all the time.” Some of the guys are even coming over tomorrow to play cards.

Not that Zoe is like one of the guys.

Hank scratches his fingernails against his chin, the invisible whiskers there rasping lightly. “You haven’t seen very many women since Tawna, have you?”

None. The number is zero. An easy stat to remember.

But I don’t know where he’s going with this, so I mumble, “Not many.”

“Why’s that?”

“I need to focus on my game. On the team.” The words sound incredibly absurd even as they’re coming out of my mouth. But I’ve been telling myself for years that I’m not interested in a relationship with anyone.

The trouble is, she’s not anyone else. She’s Zoe Peebles. Kind. Funny. Smart. Talented.

And so stinking beautiful that my heart jumps out of rhythm the minute I see her—even in her morning costumes and capes.

I can’t fight the smile that insists on forming as I think about our morning routine. About her wild hair. Even about that ridiculously named dog.

And the truth is, I do want to see her. I want to spend every minute I can with her. At some point she’s going to go back to LA. But the meantime could be sweet.

Only I’m . . .

“Or you’re afraid.” Hank beats me to the truth, which adds a sting to the realization.

I rub at the spot in the middle of my chest. The one that ached when I didn’t kiss Zoe. The one that burns every time I see her. The one that knows the truth is a little too close for comfort.

“Maybe I am.” I sink back to couch. “But the last time I dated someone during the season, I ended up with a broken arm.”

Hank’s eyebrows bounce as understanding falls into place. “Oh. So, it’s that kind of fear—that losing-the-game-you-love fear.”

“It’s the being-too-distracted-to-play-like-my-team-deserves fear.”

“Maybe that’s the wrong way to think about Zoe—or anyone woman, really.”

I’m only thinking about Zoe, thank you very much. But I don’t need another of Mr. Peebles’s employees to know that.

Hank continues, “The Good Book says that love casts out fear. It also says that a cord of three strands is stronger than two. When you’re with the right person, you’re a stronger, better version. Of both of you.”

Could he be right? Could Zoe actually make me better?

I think she’s already making me a better uncle—or at least providing ways for me to connect with Kenna. But could she really make me a better player on the field too?