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CHAPTER TWO

PLAYING THE FIELD

EMMA

I have a Saturday morning routine.

Okay, I have a lot of routines, but my Saturday morning routine is my favorite. Saturday mornings are for soccer. First I practice, and then I watch. There’s no one at the community baseball field first thing in the morning, so I can usually use the grass to run my drills before the Owen’s Hardware baseball team takes over the field. I’d use the soccer field if it weren’t for the youth soccer leagues that have the fields on Saturdays.

Usually, after an hour of drills, I walk home, shower, and eat breakfast while watching whatever English football match happens to be on television. And then I spend the rest of the day doing laundry and cleaning my small house. Once my place is clean, I watch any American soccer game that happens to be on television or I stream it from an app, and read or work on whatever didn’t get done during the week. Sometimes, I’ll drive over to Boston for the weekend, and visit my parents. But a visit to my parents usually means I’m tagging along and helping Mom lead group tours at the museum, or tagging along with Dad while he leads a tour of the Freedom Trail.

My mom and dad are both retired teachers – high school English and history, respectively – and they were driving each other crazy at home. So, they joined the local historical society and that was that. Mom works at the museum at the Old State House, while Dad leads a walking tour of the Freedom Trail. When I visit, Dad usually brings me along with him.

I have a teaching degree that led to me being an elementary school librarian. I love helping the kindergarten through fifth grade students at the elementary school find their passion in books, and while some find their passion in non-fiction, many many more find it in fiction. I loved it all as a kid, and still do. Growing up with teachers as parents meant that there were always books in the house, and always trips to the library in the summer. My sister Molly and I would read every book we could get our hands on, and when we finished our books, we’d raid Dad’s history texts. Molly has a degree in journalism, and a passion for history like the rest of us, but has found herself in a sort of dead end in her career, questioning her next move. I’m trying to convince her to come for a visit and take some time off, but she insists that she’s fine, and I know better than to try and argue with my younger sister.

As September drifts into October, the mornings are getting cooler and staying cooler longer, so this morning finds me dressing in long sleeves with leggings under my shorts before I lace up my cleats, grabbing my soccer ball and cones on my way out the door, and walking to the field. There’s a definite chill in the air, as the sun only just starts to rise, I set up my cones in the grass before going through a series of stretches, taking care with my right knee as I do.

Popping in wireless headphones and turning on my training playlist, I start my drills. Cone dribbling was always my favorite, and is still the drill I enjoy the most; weaving in and out of the cones and keeping control of the ball takes mental focus and accuracy with my feet. I do a few passes with my right foot, and few with my left, and a few that force me to control the ball with both feet. A few of the drills I run are holdovers from my physical therapy and recovery, and they frustrate me to no end.

I don’t have the speed and control I had in college. I don’t have the stamina I had in college. I was so excited for my first run with the national team, and I didn’t think my professional career would end in injury. At least I had a teaching degree to fall back on. After four and a half years of professional soccer, I went down in the middle of an away game in Los Angeles, a long way from my home base in Chicago, and a long way from my actual home in Boston at the time.

It was devastating.

Multiple surgeries.

Multiple rounds of physical therapy.

And the end of my professional career.

It wasn’t all bad, though. My recovery brought me here to Saratoga, where I lived with Molly for a while before she moved on to her next new adventure, and I stayed behind. I finished my teaching certification and found myself filling an open librarian position. I have no regrets. Just phantom pain in my leg and a fear that if I’m not careful, I’ll tear my ACL again.

Today’s drills are going fine until a baseball lands in my path and I can’t stop myself quickly enough to avoid it. My momentum carries me forward, my feet tangling with themselves and the soccer ball and the rogue baseball, until I land nearly on my face in the grass. I roll onto my back, a sharp stab of pain running up my right knee. Not a great sign.

I’m also hallucinating?

That’s new.

At least he’s a cute hallucination.

He seems angry, though. Might even be yelling? I can’t tell, thanks to the music in my ears.

“Didn’t you see us?” Yep, definitely yelling. I shouldn’t have taken out the headphone. He points toward the fence at the other end of the field, where another man is standing with a baseball bat in his hands. I sit up and rub my knee carefully, trying to ease the pain.

“Didn’t you see me ?” I ask, somewhat indignantly. I am here every Saturday morning from six to seven. I am a decently tall woman, wearing an obnoxiously green, long sleeved goal keeper’s kit so that I can be visible out walking before sunrise. I’m also essentially running laps in the outfield. Kind of hard to miss.

“You didn’t get hit, did you?” His voice is an annoyed growl, and I’d like to point out that he’s not the one in the grass at the moment so he shouldn’t be annoyed.

“No. I didn’t. I was tripped up by your ball and…”

More than he asked for, Emma. Stop talking now.

He lets out a long sigh. The sigh of a man who is done with the woman in the grass. His brows pinch together as he watches me slowly stand up, favoring my right leg a little more than usual.

“Are you sure you weren’t hit? You cut off in the middle of a sentence and I’m starting to worry about possible concussion.”

“No, I…” Started to share more than he’d asked for and that’s where I always start to lose people. “No. I’m fine. I wasn’t hit. I tripped.”

“As long as you’re okay.” He walks away, and I’m momentarily distracted from my pain by the sight of him as he saunters away from me, all broad shoulders, dark hair, and long, toned legs.

It’s a shame he’s not nicer.

My tweaked knee makes for a long walk back to my house. And unfortunately, I have to walk past my grumpy, non- hallucination to get to the main road, and I hear the two men arguing in hushed tones as I try not to limp toward the road.

“It’s the right thing to do,” the other man, I’m guessing a younger brother, by the looks of him, emphatically grinds out, and my non-hallucination turns to me with weary eyes and a resigned sigh.

“Can I give you a ride home?” He asks as if in some kind of pain.

“Not if you’re gonna be like that,” I mutter, and pray he doesn’t hear me. But, as I’ve been told before, I’m not exactly quiet.

“Okay. Great.”

“Jax!” The other man exclaims, a dumbfounded look on his face. “She’s clearly in pain. You of all people…”

“James,” Jax – the name suits him – rubs his brow and turns away from me. His shoulders heaving with a breath. The other man, James, flicks his gaze back and forth between us, waiting. “You’re right.”

Jax turns back to me, his features softer somehow. He runs a hand down his face and the gentle rasp of stubble against skin sends a shiver down my limbs. His intense eyes find mine and while he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t scowl either. Feels like progress to me.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been very rude. Please, let us give you a ride home.”

“No, really, I can make it.”

“Wow, you’re stubborn,” he huffs out a humorless laugh.

“Not stubborn,” all humor is gone from my voice. “Safety conscious. I’d rather walk through town on a tweaked knee than get in a car with strangers. And two strange men, to boot.”

“Are you new in town?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“I’m really screwing this up, aren’t I? Can I start over?”

“I really should be getting home…”

“I’m James,” the other man rolls his eyes and offers me a handshake. “James Hutchinson, I own the hardware store in town. This bumbling idiot is my brother Jax. Thirty nine. Single. Dad of two daughters. Doctor.”

Jax turns bright red. We’re talking cheeks, neck, even the tips of his ears. It’s cute.

“I’m the one that hit the ball that nearly took you out, and I can tell that you’re favoring your right leg – I’m assuming it’s an old injury because while you were doing your drills I could tell you were favoring it…”

“Oh, so at least one of you saw me.” Good going Emma. Snark always makes for a good first impression.

“I did. Sorry about that. Please, let us drive you home.”

I should say no, but I can’t put weight on my leg without pain. So. I’ll risk being kidnapped. This time.

“Okay. Thank you. And yes, for the record, I am new-ish here. I moved here at the end of last school year,” I offer as we walk toward the parking lot. And then I remember I haven’t given them my name, but that’s all they’re getting. “I’m Emma.”

“Nice to meet you, Emma,” James offers, while his brother remains silent. Fine by me.

The ride to my house is silent but for me giving directions and that’s okay because it allows me to observe the man in the passenger seat – his dark hair has a slight wave to it, a bit of gray at his temples and in the stubble along his jaw. His eyelashes are distractingly long, and there’s a weariness in his eyes as he leans his head back against the headrest of his seat.

I thank them both for the ride and head toward my house, dreading the stairs from the bottom of my deck to the front door each step of the way. With my hand on the railing, I start to slowly climb to the top of my deck, but a car door behind me gets my attention.

“Let me help you?” Jax steps out of the car and gives me a pleading look. I want to say no, that I can do it myself, but I really wouldn’t mind the help.

“Okay,” I nod and he rushes to my side, wrapping a strong arm around my back and taking most of my weight as he helps me up the steps.

I expect him to let me go when we reach the top of the stairs, but he stays with me until I reach my door. I fumble for my keys and after unlocking my door, he stops me with a gentle hand, turning me toward him.

“I’m sorry…about earlier. I didn’t mean to be so rude. It’s been a long week. I won’t bore you with the details of it all, but suffice to say, we’ve endured a whole range of emotions in my house this week and unfortunately I took it out on you instead of on the baseballs like I was supposed to.”

“It’s okay, Jax. I…thank you. For walking me to my door. And for apologizing. I’m rambling,” I look at my shoes instead of at him, looking for a way out of this conversation. “Sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He gives me an out by turning and heading down the stairs. I walk into my house, where I elevate and ice my knee and spend the rest of the day thinking about Jax and his beautiful eyes and the way that I wouldn’t mind being bored by the details of his day.