Page 22

Grant

T he wind blows smoke from the opposite edge of the field onto our sideline as Seattle runs out of their tunnel and onto the turf on Sunday afternoon. Thundering fans nearly drown out the music blaring through the stadium, and my ears are already ringing. I try to ignore it all, throwing a warm-up pass to Landry, one of the assistant QB coaches. My arm is stiff, and the ball hits about two feet from its target.

“You just need to loosen up,” he says, as he tosses the ball to Ja’maar, who’s standing beside me.

Ja’maar doesn’t bother telling me it was a bad throw. His raised eyebrow is more than enough to communicate that if I throw passes like that to him all afternoon, he’ll be ticked.

He slams the ball against my number and releases it so fast that I nearly drop it.

Perfect.

The game hasn’t even started, and I’m acting like this the first time I’ve held a pigskin. Like I didn’t start sleeping with one in my bed when I was six.

I want to blame my butterfingers on jet lag or the hotel room last night or anything else. The trouble is that the flight was easy. We got an extra hour of sleep this morning thanks to the time zone change. And I had a luxurious hotel room all to myself. I couldn’t even hear Card snoring in the room next door.

Didn’t mean I actually slept.

But that wasn’t because we’re playing division rivals today. Or because the bed was unfamiliar. Or because I’m worried about Kenna.

My body feels like ground chuck roast because my brain has one soundtrack on repeat.

“This was all such a waste.”

I can’t stop hearing those words, seeing Zoe’s face, feeling that stab in the pit of my stomach.

Every minute that I’ve enjoyed. Every dream that she inspired. Every bitter memory that she’s wiped clean and replaced with joy.

And she thinks it was a waste.

Meanwhile, I’d give anything to relive it all. Because Zoe wasn’t a waste. What she invested in my niece wasn’t a waste. The laughter she brought into my home wasn’t a waste. Her wild hair and ridiculous costumes in the morning. Her gentle grin and sassy smile. The way she makes my life feel full.

Zoe is maybe the best thing to ever happen to me.

Just like Hank said, she’s the other strand that makes me stronger.

And I was just a waste of her time.

Suddenly Card shoves my shoulder, and I stumble onto the field. I catch myself by the second step, squaring my shoulders as I line up with him and Ja’maar and march toward the officials. The Seahawks’ captains meet us there. Their defensive end is broad but fast. He glares at me like he’s looking forward to seeing me flat on my back and stripping the ball out of my hands.

Keep your head in the game, Red.

I repeat it over and over as the official flips the coin. The Seahawks win but defer. They’ll kick off, and I’ll start with the ball.

Back on our sideline, the guys are getting excited, bumping chests and smacking helmets.

I’ve got to get riled up.

I’ve got to forget about Zoe. For the next sixty minutes of game time, I owe it to my brothers—I owe it to myself—to play the best game I can.

And thinking about Zoe isn’t going to help me do that.

I push the image of her red-rimmed eyes and trembling lip the last time I saw her out of my mind. Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I take several deep breaths.

Focus. Focus. Call the plays. Make the reads. Win the game.

Shouldn’t be a problem.

Yeah, right.

The Seahawks kick off, and then I’m running toward the thirty-yard line, calling for the guys to line up. They already know the first play. We’ve practiced it a million times. But I can’t go on muscle memory alone.

Stay in the moment. Be present.

I manage to take my own advice for the first four minutes of the game. I connect with my receivers on short throws.

We’re third and seven. I need a good pass to get us at least in field goal range. To start the game with some points on the board.

Suddenly the sound system blares a song that was playing the night Kenna got her call-back and I took the whole family out to Casa Fiesta. And I’ve already called the snap count, and the ball is in my hands. Then there’s only Zoe’s face in my mind, and I can’t make the reads to find an open receiver. I can’t even focus on the field.

Pedal back. Pedal back.

I blink hard, trying to clear my eyes—to clear my mind—but I can’t. Like an idiot, I release the ball just as a defensive lineman crashes into me, sending me flat on my back. My ribs ache and my lungs scream for air as number 96 pushes himself up off my chest. “Get used to it down there,” he says with a chuckle.

But getting hit isn’t the worst thing happening right now.

The cheering fans are enough to tell me that my bad pass was picked off, and the Seahawks’ defense has taken advantage. I roll over, pushing myself up just in time to see our tight end push the unexpected receiver out-of-bounds.

I have no choice but to jog back to the sideline, where Coach greets me with a scowl. “Your head in the game?” He pops my helmet with a flat hand. “You had two open receivers.”

Nope. It was not. Not even a little bit.

But that has to change.

Right. Now.

I pull off my helmet, fall onto the metal bench, and pick up the tablet, which kindly replays all of my mistakes in high definition. But I don’t need to watch the interception to know what happened out there. I need to fix my mind.

Closing my eyes, I release a slow breath through tight lips.

Hank said that Zoe and I could be stronger together. He said that we would make each other better.

Even if.

Even if she doesn’t feel what I feel.

Which is probably—mostly—love.

Chicken on a biscuit. I am so in love with Zoe Peebles.

I burst out laughing at the realization. I’m sure that’ll make a good clip for the TV commentators. Teeners’ quarterback losing his mind on the sidelines after throwing an interception.

Yeah, that’ll make the highlight reel.

But how else is a guy supposed to respond when he recognizes that the woman of his dreams has casually invaded his home and his life and he doesn’t want it any other way?

She is undoubtedly the best part of my life.

Which leaves me only one question. How can I become the best part of hers?

I can figure that out after the game.

“You had a rough start to the game today.” The reporter in the back of the press conference after the game doesn’t hold back despite the fact that we eked out a win. Mostly thanks to our incredible defense. I’ll give them more credit on the plane ride back to the Springs.

After a lousy opening drive, I managed a mediocre game at best. I should expect to be grilled about it.

The reporter is staring at me from his seat, waiting. He’s new. At least I don’t recognize him. And he looks like he’s about three weeks out of journalism school.

He hasn’t exactly asked a question, but I throw him a bone. “Yep. It sure was.”

The room fills with tense chuckles, and I give them all a half grin as I ruffle my damp hair. I barely had time to shower after the game and throw on my street clothes before being ushered into the press room and shoved onto the stage in front of the microphone.

Maybe we should train the media team as pass rushers. They’re not bad at pushing people around.

“You want to talk about that interception on the first drive?” Same guy. Same ridiculous line of question.

“Not really.”

This time the whole room bursts into real laughter. All except the guy whose question I’m not answering.

Peter—on the opposite side of the room—clears his throat as the noise dies down. “Did your performance today have anything to do with the rumors that you and Zoe Peebles broke up?”

I wheeze out a breath, that question a little too close to the truth than I’d like to admit. “Did you all become gossip reporters while I was at practice this week?”

Peter isn’t discouraged. “It’s hard to miss that she isn’t here.”

I shrug. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Which is a total lie. Of course I noticed that Zoe isn’t here. She was never going to be. But I always know when she’s not around. I feel her absence because I know the joy of her presence.

Not that this school of piranhas is going to get that scoop.

Or anyone else for that matter.

I rake my fingers through my hair. “Listen, guys, I’m not going to talk about Zoe—Miss Peebles. Except to say that it’s hard to break up when we were never dating. We’ve only ever been friends.”

Except for that little hiccup of being totally in love with her.

But I’ll figure that out.

Peter doesn’t seem happy with my response. Maybe because his entertainment editor is after him to get a headline.

Too bad. This isn’t the place or the time. And they’re not going to get me to talk about her on the record.

I point to Jennifer Hwang, one of my favorite reporters, from the Gazette . She flips her long black hair over her shoulder and glances at her phone for a moment. “There are reports that Miss Peebles is being considered for a role in a movie about the Cortez High School football team.”

“Come on. If you all don’t have a game-related question for me—”

“Hear me out,” Jennifer interrupts. “If she gets the role, will you help the production out— as a friend ?“ The dozen or so other reporters in the room all titter at the emphasis.

Bunch of school girls.

I’m three steps away from the microphone, the Teeners’ media coordinator waving me off the stage, when Jennifer’s words fully land. I do a quick backstep and lean on the stand that’s holding the mic. “Help them how?”

As previously mentioned, this is neither the time nor the place nor the audience with which to discuss anything related to Zoe Peebles. But Jennifer prompted a seed of an idea, and I need a little help fleshing it out.

Jennifer blinks slowly, her red lips pursed. “I-I’m not . . . Like a consultant of some sort.”

Like a consultant.

The idea tumbles around my mind as the room disappears.

I could be a consultant. The producers have probably already lined up a dozen technical advisors to get the game shots right. But I could be . . . a draw. A way to bring in more publicity. More credibility. A connection to the NFL.

I have friends who would show up to premieres and connections to front offices that could help spread the word.

It’s my name on the line. My face in the media. My reputation.

I wait for the gut twist that always follows a thought like that. But it doesn’t come. Instead, a chuckle bubbles in my chest.

This is different. It’s not Tawna dragging me into the limelight. It’s me offering everything I have to the woman I love.

And I would give anything for Zoe’s happiness.

“A consultant, huh?” I wink at Jennifer. “I like how you think.”

Now I’m praying that a producer won’t turn down an offer like this. Not even for what I’m asking in return.

Thirty minutes after we land at home, I’m on the phone in my truck with my agent. Todd’s a good guy and a great contract negotiator, but I can tell he doesn’t know what to make of my request.

“You want to get into acting?” he asks for the second time. “I can ask around about a cameo role, but you’re going to have to get some training or something before they give you a major role. Not every player is like Terry Crews. Terry Bradshaw either, for that matter.”

“I know. And I’m not—”

“Acting is totally different than football. And I’d hate for you to embarrass yourself or your team. Besides, when would you have time? The Teeners have a tough schedule, and I know you’re going all the way to the big game this year. Then you’ll be in off-season training.”

I try to cut him off, but Todd is on a roll. Maybe this is how he gets the best contracts for his players. He doesn’t shut up until he gets what he wants.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Ridiculous. This is the best idea I’ve had in a really long time.

Of course, my idea and what Todd thinks is my idea are very different things.

“You can’t afford to get distracted.”

“Todd.”

He’s still going.

“Todd!” He pauses, and I jump in. “I have no interest in being in front of the camera.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope.” I chuckle. “Not even a little bit. I just want to talk with the producers of the Cortez movie.”

“You want to tell me why?”

Drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, I blink and see Zoe. She is my why.

Not that Todd needs to know that. “Not really.”

“But, man, you can’t just go off meeting with people like them without a plan. You need me in this meeting.”

“And I will loop you in if they’re on board. But first, I need to run an idea past them.”

Todd heaves a great sigh, and I can almost see him running his hand over his bald head. “Think about what you’re doing.”

I have. “Can you get me in touch with them? Give them my number. Have someone from the studio call me.”

“Sure. Yeah. No problem.” But his voice is a lot less assured. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“No promises.” I laugh at his groan and hang up as I navigate the dark roads home. Just as I pull into my driveway, the screen on my phone lights up. A call from a Santa Monica number.

Good job, Todd.