Page 9

Lyla

I t’s Monday morning at Play It Forward and we’re discussing our big field day event that’s part of the Play It Forward Annual Tour.

We’ll bring together all of our current mentors and mentees as well as inviting local sports legends and celebrities to participate.

It’s early days for planning, so we’re divvying up responsibilities—and I can’t help but notice that my boss, Cathy, hasn’t given herself any duties.

“We need someone to write a press release,” Josie, our marketing and social media coordinator, says.

I cock my head, tapping my pencil against my notebook, as I wonder why Josie isn’t going to write a press release.

“Lyla, you’re really good with words, this seems like something you’d be great at.

” She beams at me while I glance down at my to-do list that’s already a kajillion things long.

Far longer than anyone else’s, Josie included.

I don’t want to write a press release. Yes, I may be good with words—curse you, English degree—but it doesn’t take a literary genius to write a press release.

You just have to have time— time that I do not currently possess.

“Uh, sure,” I say slowly, hoping someone will rescue me from this odious mission. I look around the table fruitlessly.

No one comes to my rescue and we move on to the next task.

By the time the meeting is over, I’m staggering under the weight of my responsibilities.

As I drag myself to my desk, Cathy squeezes my shoulder.

“What would we do without you, Ly-ly-Lyla?” She says in a sing-song voice.

I hold my breath because this is usually how she asks me to do something extra.

“That football player, Drake, is coming in today. He asked specifically if you could work with him so I left his paperwork on your desk.”

She walks off in her too-high heels before I can say anything else, but I grind my teeth so hard that I give myself a headache.

I have no idea if Drake actually asked to work with me—Cathy hasn’t always been 100% honest with me, like the time that she told us she has a doctor’s appointment and Josie saw her coming out of a spa.

So who knows if Drake actually requested me or if this is some kind of cosmic prank.

At my desk, I toss my notebook down and plop onto my chair, cradling my head in my hands as I try to sort through where I should start with my to-do list.

That afternoon, I’m trying to track down Dan Marino’s contact info—which is, of course, a completely ridiculous task.

When Cathy told me to find his information so we could reach out to him about attending Play It Forward Day, I almost scoffed.

As if Dan Marino keeps his personal email address or phone number on Google for everyone to find.

Not to mention that the head of our organization should be reaching out to Dan Marino—not a lowly administrative assistant.

I’m about to chuck my keyboard across the room when none other than Drake Blythe walks in with a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder like he belongs in a Nike ad.

And to add gas to the flame, he’s forty minutes early.

He swaggers in like he owns the place—and my mind inadvertently flashes back to the first night I met him, the way he’d pulled me close with those big hands of his and held me gently against him as we danced.

I shudder as the memory becomes so real I can practically feel his hands on my waist. I stand up, needing to move my body so my brain can stop being so annoying .

“Hey there, gorgeous,” Drake says with a grin so smug it should be federally regulated.

“I have a name, you know,” I say with a huff—because I may not ever have a backbone, but something about Drake Blythe makes me grow one real fast.

“I do know,” he says, leaning against the front desk. “Lyla.”

It shouldn’t make my stomach flutter—he doesn’t even remember me from our encounter last year—but it does. The lilting way his Southern accent seems to add extra syllables to my name should sound atrocious, but it doesn’t.

“You’re early,” I tell him in an accusatory tone. Which is dumb, I know—I’d give my left pinkie for all my athletes to show up early.

“I did my best,” he says. “After y’all told me about the thirty minute thing, I wasn’t sure if you’d given me a thirty minute early time or a regular time and I didn’t want to risk it.”

I feel my brows raise of their own accord—I don’t want to be impressed with his thoughtfulness, but here we are. I’m trying to think of something to say, and coming up short, when he continues chatting.

“You know who you remind me of?” he asks and I find myself tilting toward him as I stand awkwardly behind my desk.

My heart is hammering as I think he’s about to say something like, This amazing girl I met last year and got her number but then someone stole my phone and deleted all of my contacts off the cloud but I’ve been pining over her every single day since then.

Instead, he says, “Jess from New Girl.”

Well. That’s fine. I’m fine. “Ah,” I say. Disappointment pools in my chest and I try to drain it quicker than the good Gatorade at a kids’ soccer tournament. “I’ve gotten that before.”

He’s studying me, his eyes roaming over my face. I’m sure I’m flushing red with all the heat I’m feeling in my cheeks. I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the discomfort at being so closely examined. “You know who else you look like?”

I swallow. The girl of my dreams that I met a year ago and then I got amnesia but I still see her face in my dreams. “Who?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Katy Perry.” Then, as if in slow motion, he reaches forward, his fingertips grazing my glasses before I realize he’s going to take my glasses off.

“Hey!” I jump back, putting both hands on my glasses to hold them in place. Drake doesn’t seem chastened at all though, sporting his stupid grin.

“You’re prettier, of course, Katy Cat.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Sure thing, bud.” Bud ? Who says that to a grown adult man? Apparently, I do. Cool, cool, cool. Somebody take my mouth away.

“Let’s—we—come on,” I say, stumbling over my words. I don’t know what to do with Drake Blythe right now, but I know I need to stop standing around here letting him dissect my looks.