Sidelines (Wounded Hearts #1)

Sidelines

S.M. Smith

Copyright © 2016 Sarah M. Smith

Cover design by Paper and Sage Designs

Photographs taken by Alicia Harris

All rights reserved. This book may not be used or reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission from the author except where permitted by law. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your respect and cooperation are greatly appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION (R). Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved

ISBN-13:
978-1535583923 

ISBN-10:
1535583924

DEDICATION

To all my football geeks.

Whodat!!

Chapter One

I shuffle the grocery bags around trying to get my knuckles to meet the door loudly enough so Walt will hear me. Unfortunately, he must have heard the rather unladylike expletive that left my mouth just as a can of baking powder and three lemons tumbled out of my paper sack, because a few moments after my moment of weakness the door swings open and a very surly looking, wrinkled face greets me. He takes one look at the two over-flowing paper sacks in my arms and shakes his head. Stepping back, he holds the door open for me.

“It couldn’t have been
that
bad, kid.”

I can’t help the snort as I shuffle my way into his kitchen.

“It was atrocious.”

His bushy brows rise in an accusatory look as he settles himself into his worn recliner. He picks up a remote and turns the volume to the television down. “It couldn’t have been that bad,” he repeats.

“Have you seen it yet?”

“It’s supposed to be up next.” He nods toward the TV and settles into his chair.

I know the bag of flour and tub of Greek yogurt did absolutely nothing to sour my mood, but they get the brunt of my rage as I slam them and the rest of the contents of my bags onto the counter in the kitchen. I hear James, the evening anchor to my show
Football 24
, open the segment just as Walt slurps down the last of the water from his San Jose Spartans tumbler. Torn between wanting to throw something at the TV and actually watching my interview with the star wide-receiver of the San Antonio Rattlers, I kick my heels off next to the love seat and pick up Walt’s water cup to refill it. By the time I hand his cup back to him, my golden hair and shiny white teeth grace the screen.

“
I’m here with San Antonio’s very own Logan Lassiter. Mr. Lassiter, thank you for joining us this afternoon.”

The only part of Logan that moves from his staunch, rod-straight posture is the slight nod of his head. That should have been my first indication that this interview wasn’t going to go well.

“
So first, I feel like I should give my condolences. The Rattlers did a fantastic job of holding their own against the Wolverines last Sunday, but ultimately you guys met an untimely end for the season.”

Logan’s ocean blue eyes sharpen at just the mention of his team’s defeat and a muscle in his jaw ticks before another nod. Sign number two.

“
But you had an outstanding game. Sixteen for nineteen receptions, with a game average of nine point three yards per reception.”
His lips twitch as he fights a shy smile.
“The thirty-four yard touchdown in the third quarter of last week’s game was one for the books, though. That play brought the Rattlers up to tie the game at that point, fourteen to fourteen. You could just see the look of desperation on the faces of all the guys on your team before that play. What was going through your head before the ball was snapped?”

Logan squirms in his seat and takes a deep breath before answering my question.
“I think we all had the same thought, ‘Just get the ball in the endzone.’”

I swear if I hadn’t spoken to the man before and known that his skull wasn’t completely hollow I would have thought right then he could possibly be proof of the theory of evolution. Any moron with any amount of knowledge of the game would know the object of football is to get the ball into the endzone. I whirl on my heel and continue to listen to the horrendous interview over the sounds of Maggie’s old stand mixer.

Fortunately, he continued.
“We were all pretty confident that if we could tie the game up before the fourth quarter, we’d have a fighting chance.”

“And you guys really did fight for the win. Your sixteenth reception for the game put the Rattlers in the redzone, within field goal range just before the two-minute warning. Then Jimmy throws an interception for Jackson Rayborne’s sixty-seven-yard pick. He would have gotten the touchdown then if you hadn’t been hot on his heels and taken him down at the twenty yard line.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what to say about that interception other than no one saw him coming. I spoke to Jimmy after the game and he said that the first time he saw anyone near me was when Rayborne swooped in and stole the ball. He would have never thrown that ball if he had. So much can change in a fraction of a second on that field.”

This is where I would have face palmed myself on national television. I’ve been complimented so many times on my ability to keep interviews positive and upbeat and normally I’d brush them off. I love what I do, but if I’m being honest, I’d graciously accept an Oscar for this one.

“I can imagine. That was quite the tackle, though.”
I watch myself glance down at my note cards again, remembering the prayer I sent out to whoever would listen that he picks up on my conversation opener.

The muscle in his jaw ticks again, as he nods shyly.
“I think I speak for everyone on that team when in that moment the only thing that anyone could be thinking is, ‘I don’t want to leave anything on this field.’ So I didn’t.”

I sigh the sigh I wanted to earlier this afternoon when he finally opened up. And then I go and screw it all up again.
“No, you did not. Unfortunately neither did Andy Pierre with his game winning field goal.”

I really do high five my face this time. Through my fingers, I peer through the doorway to watch anger flare in his eyes and his whole body grow an inch in offense. I remember looking down at my note cards again, grasping for some transition to his new record. Even I think I sound like a complete idiot when I stumble on my next words.

“But let’s not dwell on the loss and let’s talk about this record you’ve broken that everyone seems to want to talk to you about. Sixteen receptions, a total of just under 149 total yards received for just this game alone, makes your career average a whopping 21.3 yards per catch. That is the most of any player in the NPFL in the history of the league. Congratulations on such a huge honor.”

My mind replays his humble smile lifting his reddening cheeks as he mumbles his thanks and he finally starts to relax. I dump the sugar into the bowl remembering how the look was adorable on him. Too bad that pretty face couldn’t be backed up with a more amicable personality.

“You obviously have to know this means you’re already set to be inducted into the hall of fame, but what does hitting this record mean to you?”

I roll my eyes, knowing what’s coming next.

“Well, nothing much really.”

Yep, that’s it. That’s all he said. Flour and baking powder fly up in a cloud around me as I all but throw them into the bowl.

“Well, it has to mean something to you. I mean, I know most players don’t step on a field every week for five months with the intention of breaking records, but I’m sure you have some specific goals whenever your cleats hit the turf.”

“Well, yeah. You’re right. I don’t really focus on the numbers when I put that uniform on, but I do expect to perform to the best of my abilities. I’ve been blessed with the talent to play the game, well even, and all I can do is put forth every effort to make sure I don’t waste that talent.”

Vague much, Mr. Lassiter? I try not to make a mess of the batter while I scoop it into my silicone muffin cups, but my frustration with a particularly aloof wide-receiver makes me want to fling the goop all over Walt’s clean kitchen in a fit of frustration.

“I know I speak for everyone when I say we appreciate that effort. So now that your season is officially over, what are your plans for your down time?”

I finish putting the muffins in the oven and turn just in time to watch him squirm in his seat before answering my question.

“I, um, well there will be lots of training and conditioning to help prepare us for next season, so I’ll be in and out of the weight room and practice fields most of the time.”

I rub my temples, unable to tear my eyes away from the train wreck of an interview playing before me.

“So can we expect to see the Rattlers back in the play-offs next season then?”

“That’s the hope, Miss Mooreland.”

Even I can see my forced smile on the screen. The teeth that Walt and Maggie paid a fortune to straighten flash across the screen as I wrap up my interview. Standing in defeat now, I blow out a steady breath as I turn to face my biggest fan and critic.

“It wasn’t that bad, Allie Cat,” Walt consoles me as he turns the volume back down.

“Did we just watch the same interview?! That was a disaster.”

Walt’s chest rumbles while he chuckles at my own critique. He does this anytime I’m too hard on myself, but even he has to admit that that interview was an absolute catastrophe.

“So he definitely could be schooled on the art of making conversation—”

“Ya think?”

Walt’s chastising look from across the room reminds me that he hates being interrupted. “You did the best you could with what you were given, Allie. Don’t beat yourself up over something you had no control over.”

This is why I love the old man. He and his late wife have always thought the best of me, regardless of the state they found me in, and have fought for me to have the best they could provide. Even after Maggie passed, Walt has continued to be my number one fan and is adamant in making sure I know it.

“You’re just saying that because I’m baking you glazed lemon muffins again.”

His nose picks up and nostrils flare as he smells the air, a playfully impassive look in his eyes. “It definitely helps, but that’s not the only reason I’m telling you this. You’re a great reporter, kid. Don’t let Logan Lassiter get you down. I’m sure under that rough exterior is a man who wasn’t trying to purposefully sabotage your job.”

“Humph.” With arms folded and still unable to shake one bad interview, I turn back to the kitchen and start cleaning up the powdery mess I created.

The wobbly old man makes his way into the kitchen and lays a hand between my shoulder blades as I wipe down his counters.

“I’m proud of ya, kid.” His tender voice draws a lump into my throat and effectively melts all my tension. Twisting to see him over my shoulder, his deep brown eyes twinkle through a sheen of unshed tears. “And I know my Mags would be too.”

At the mention of the sweetest woman I’ve ever known, the last of my defenses come crashing down and my arms fly around him. I try to remember not to squeeze his frail shoulders too tight as I hug him, and try to keep my own tears from falling. When I step back and smile at him, an ornery smirk plays on his face.

“So whatcha cooking for dinner?”

A cackle escapes my chest, along with the rest of the stress that was piling on my chest.

“You know I don’t cook. I bake.”

A boyish grin spreads as he rubs his palms together in an almost nefarious way. “Mr. Cho’s take out it is.”