Page 10

Drake

I could stare at this beauty all day , I think as I follow Lyla.

We pass a gym area, where a bunch of kids and their mentors are working out or doing different drills.

We bypass that room and head to an area that says ‘The Lounge’ over the door.

The whole place smells like gym mats and ambition, the kind of place that usually welcomes pro athletes with open arms.

But Lyla? She’s acting like I’m here to steal office supplies.

Yet another person to win over.

Just dandy.

“A heads up,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at me with those brilliant blue eyes hidden by her glasses. “Your mentee isn’t exactly thrilled about this mentorship thing."

I smirk. “That’s okay. I’m not exactly thrilled about being in Miami.”

She stiffens, the muscles in her neck tightening, like I just insulted her grandma. “Then why are you here?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” I flash her a grin. “And since I’m in Miami, I get to work with Play It Forward, so it all works out. I like kids.”

She doesn’t buy it. Not even a little. “Right. And this has nothing to do with your PR problem?”

Ouch.

I let that one slide. Not because she’s wrong, but because I don’t need to give her more ammo.

She pauses outside the door and sighs. “Just . . . try to make a good impression, okay?”

“Relax, Katy Cat,” I tease. “I’m great with kids. All these kids are gonna love a pro quarterback. Besides, I brought something he’ll love.” I gesture at my duffel bag, where I have some Dolphins swag signed by the team.

She gives me an unimpressed look and pushes the door open. She waves a hand at a kid sprawled in a chair, arms crossed, wearing a hoodie so big it looks like he stole it from an NFL locker room. “Drake, this is LJ—”

LJ’s dark eyes flick to me. Then his whole face sours.

“Oh, come on,” he groans, slumping deeper into the chair. “I get stuck with this guy?”

Lyla winces . “LJ—”

He doesn’t let her finish. He gestures at me like I’m a half-eaten sandwich someone left on the sidewalk. “Seriously, Miss Lyla? Drake Blythe ?” He spits my name like I left a bad taste in his mouth. “The guy who—what was it again? Oh yeah, got a DUI. He got arrested .”

Lyla closes her eyes like she’s praying for patience.

I blink, trying to decide if I should laugh this off—my M.O.—or take a more serious route. “Wow. Okay. That was fast.”

LJ shrugs, unfazed. “I mean, I get it. If I trashed my career, I’d probably sign up to mentor kids too. Community service looks real good in a redemption story.”

Whew. This kid does not miss.

Lyla pinches the bridge of her nose. “LJ, that’s—”

“Nah,” I cut in,grinning despite the fact that I just got verbally bodied by a fourteen-year-old. “That’s fair. But I’ll have you know, I want to be here.”

LJ looks skeptical. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Lyla clears her throat, obviously eager to redirect before this turns into a full-on roast session. “Drake actually brought you something, LJ.”

I reach into my bag and pull out a Dolphins jersey, signed by half the team. The thing is worth serious money—especially with J-Rich’s autograph on it. Although I’d be willing to bet a hefty sum J-Rich wouldn’t have signed this jersey if he knew I’d be using it. That’s what PR managers are for.

I set it on the table in front of LJ like I just dropped a golden ticket. “Here. Figured you might like it.”

LJ stares at it. Then at me. Then back at the jersey.

And then—he snorts.

Like I just offered him a coupon for 10% off at Chuck E. Cheese.

“Cool,” he says flatly. “I’ll sell it and buy new skates.”

Lyla groans like she’s physically in pain.

I blink. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He leans back in his chair, arms still crossed. “You’re supposed to be my mentor, right? Shouldn’t you know I don’t even like football?”

I glance at Lyla, but she holds her hands up like she’s innocent.

I exhale slowly. “Okay. What’s your sport then?”

LJ grins, all teeth, like he’s been waiting for this moment. “Hockey.”

“Hockey,” I repeat, smirking right back at him—if this kid can dish it, he’s gotta be able to take it. “You know you live in Miami, right?”

“Yeah. And?”

I chuckle, reaching for the chair across from LJ. I turn it around and sit down on it backward, resting my forearms on the back of the chair. “And it’s ninety degrees year-round. Ice melts here, kid.”

LJ shrugs. “Yeah, well, brain cells melt in football. Guess we all have our struggles.”

Dang, this kid is quick. And ice cold.

And the worst part? He’s not wrong. He’s saying the quiet part out loud. And I’ve got nothing to fire back with but a sad jersey and a smile.

I raise a brow at Lyla, who’s biting her lip, obviously trying not to laugh. I shake my head and let myself laugh. I drop my duffel bag on the ground—and the football I brought to toss around with my mentee pops out.

Guess we won’t be using that today.

I was trying to stay for an hour with LJ, but at fifty-six minutes, I can’t make it a second more.

I tried everything I could think of with LJ.

I found an article online about mentoring teens and it gave me some getting-to-know-you questions that were an absolute hit with LJ.

(Read: sarcasm.) I tried to get him to play a game with me—any kind of game, a card game, board game, or a round of HORSE in the Play It Forward gym.

When all my grand ideas shriveled up, I resorted to playing solitaire while LJ scrolled his phone.

“Alright, man, I’ll catch you next time,” I say as I gather my duffel bag and head out of the room. LJ doesn’t even so much as grunt in response to my goodbye.

I head down the hall, wanting to find that Cathy lady to see if there’s something—anything—else I can do to get my community service hours.

Filing paperwork, organizing school supplies, cleaning the bathrooms .

. . heck, I’d be a great sign spinner if Play It Forward wants to advertise out on Biscayne Blvd.

I find Lyla sitting at the front desk, frowning over her screen. Her long hair is in a tight ponytail—the only way I’ve seen her wear it—and her thick, black glasses take up most of her face. I wonder what she’d look like without them. It’s a little mystery I’m dying to unravel.

When she sees me, she glances at her watch. “Time must fly when you’re having fun,” she says, pointing a finger at her watch. It’s clearly not been an hour yet.

“Yeah, well.” I lean on the counter and wipe my hands over my face. For once, I don’t have a comeback. “Where’s that Cathy lady?”

Lyla snorts. “That ‘Cathy lady’ is at lunch.”

“It’s three o’clock.”

“A long lunch.” She folds her arms over her chest, and I can’t tell if she’s feeling defensive of Cathy or annoyed with her, but I’m sensing annoyance. Or maybe that’s just with me.

“Look, why’d they pair me with him anyway? I mean, surely there’s tons of kids around here that would love to have a pro football player as a mentor. Why’d they pair me with the one kid who hates football players?”

There’s a noise to my right, and I glance over to find LJ in the hallway, eyes on me. My stomach drops like I’ve just thrown a ball right into a defender’s hands. “Hey, man,” I say, hoping he didn’t hear what I said. But my voice sounds strained, even to me.

LJ sucks his teeth, clearly dismissing me, as he hitches up his backpack and walks out of Play It Forward.

I groan, dropping my head to the counter.

Is there a trapdoor I can fall through? I look up at Lyla, who’s shaking her head, her eyes rimmed with sympathy—though I quickly realize her pity is for LJ, not me.

When my eyes meet hers, she snaps into professional mode, typing something into her computer.

“Would you like me to track down a list of mentees who would worship the ground you walk on?” The sarcasm is so heavy, I’m not sure how such a tiny woman can carry the load.

“Certainly we could make this as easy as possible for you, Mr. Blythe. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?

Heaven forbid you break a sweat out here. ”

She raises her eyebrows, but there’s something in her eyes—like maybe she thought I’d be different. I’d rather take a blindside hit from a 300-pound linebacker than this look she’s giving me.

Well done, Blythe. You torch the playbook and then whine when the game plan falls apart. I drum my fingers on the countertop before letting out a sigh. “Touché. I gotta catch a kid,” I say, jutting a thumb behind me.

I jog out into the parking lot, hoping to reach LJ and apologize to him.

But he’s nowhere to be found.