by Melody Grace
So, just the fortune of the entire town resting on her then. No problem at all.
Mackenzie tugged on a sweater and jeans, caught her hair back into a braid, and headed for the door. Then she stopped. She was meeting Jake at the gallery first thing, and this was what she was wearing?
She back-tracked to her closet and flipped through the rails. An array of chunky knit sweaters, brightly-patterned dresses, and quirky jackets stared back at her.
Mackenzie groaned. Didn’t she have anything that said, ‘I’m effortlessly sexy, but never give it a second thought?”
Apparently not.
She looked deeper in the closet, feeling like she was seventeen again, agonizing over her outfit before Jake came to pick her up from school. Maybe this sweater would make him finally notice her, or that lip gloss have him realize what was staring him in the face. But of course, nothing did. To Jake, she’d always just been plain old Mac—buddy, pal, and utterly invisible—as a girl, at least.
Her phone rang, and she scooped it up, trying to find something that didn’t look like an explosion in a yarn factory.
“I dress like a spinster,” she said in greeting to her friend Eliza. She was a journalist up in Boston who was fast becoming a part of the Sweetbriar gang.
“What? I love your style!” Eliza exclaimed. “You always look so comfortable.”
“Comfortable!” Mackenzie echoed in despair. “That’s saying I look like your favorite couch.”
Eliza laughed. “I do love my couch. But where’s all this coming from?”
“Nowhere,” Mackenzie said. “I just didn’t realize how complacent I’ve gotten. I mean, I’m not going to walk around in full makeup and a skin-tight dress, but still, I’m single. If I want to find a boyfriend, I should be making some effort, right?”
“Is this about Jake?” Eliza asked knowingly.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Mackenzie grabbed a plain black turtleneck down. She never wore it, which is why the fabric still had some shape, at least. “I guess having him around is making me realize my love life has been DOA for years.”
“You date!” Eliza protested. “Which is more than I do these days, I’m working all the time.”
“I go on first dates,” Mackenzie corrected her. “And maybe if I didn’t dress like I’m upholstery, I would go on seconds dates, too.”
“Since when have you even wanted a second date with any of those guys?” Eliza countered. “And if a guy only wants you dolled up in three-inch heels, he’s not a guy worth having.”
“You’re right,” Mackenzie agreed. “Of course you’re right. I wear overalls because I get clay all over them, and boots because it’s muddy out, and hats because my ears get cold. I don’t know why I’m overthinking this.”
“Maybe because a certain football player is scrambling your brain. He’s really that hot?” Eliza asked, sounding sympathetic.
“So hot. Dangerously, wildly, unacceptably hot,” Mackenzie said. “So I’m probably better off dressing like Aunt June’s furniture. At least that might keep him from kissing me again.” She put the turtleneck down.
“Again?” Eliza’s voice went up an octave.
“Oh. Yeah. That. He didn’t mean it,” Mackenzie explained quickly. “He was just covering for me.”
Eliza laughed. “Kiss me once, shame on me. Kiss me twice, and . . . I don’t know how that goes, but it definitely wasn’t an accident.”
“You think so?” Mackenzie picked the sweater up again.
“I know so,” Eliza reassured her. “Anyway, I was just calling to ask if you would sit down and talk me through your festival planning. I mentioned to my editor you were hosting, and he suggested it would be a fun behind-the-scenes piece. You know, how you make the magic happen.”
“I don’t know how much magic there’ll be, but sure, any time,” Mackenzie agreed. “Any publicity is good publicity.”
“Great. I’ll put something on the calendar,” Eliza said. “And don’t worry,” she added, “you’re the sexiest couch I’ve ever seen.”
That decided it.
Mackenzie hung up and pulled on the black sweater. Sure, it was a hell of a lot tighter than anything she usually wore, but what was a little suffocation between friends?
* * *
Mackenzie walked the few short blocks to the gallery and found Jake waiting outside, looking handsome as ever in a thick navy peacoat with a coffee cup in each hand. “Still take it with ten sugars?” he joked as she unlocked the front door.
“Eleven, but I’ll make do. Thanks.” Mackenzie took the coffee and led him inside, feeling self-conscious as she watched him look around. “It’s just a small space, I know,” she found herself apologizing. “Most of this stuff is for the tourists. They love the kitschy designs. Anything with a ship on it they snap right up.”
“I think it’s great.” Jake sounded sincere. “I mean it, I’m really impressed.”
“Oh.” Mackenzie blinked. “Thanks. My studio’s back here,” she said, showing him the way. “We can get started with the schedule.”
Jake quirked an eyebrow at her. “All business, huh? You have changed.”
Mackenzie flushed. “I figured you must be busy . . .”
Jake gave a hollow-sounding laugh. “Me? Sure. My phone’s just ringing off the hook these days. Injured players are in high demand.”
There was a beat, and she saw that shadow flit across his face again, that echo of something dark and almost hopeless.
“I’m sorry,” Mackenzie said gently. “I keep forgetting. I mean, you seem to be getting around fine. I would never guess you were injured from looking at you.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Jake let out a sigh. “And you’re right, my recovery has been great so far. I shouldn’t complain, not when it was a question if I’d even be walking again. But . . . walking isn’t playing.”
“Do you know when you’ll be back on the field?” she asked.
“Soon, I hope. I have an appointment with my physio later today, but she always just tells me to be patient.”
He was clearly frustrated, and Mackenzie knew how hard this must be for him. “Well, if anyone’s pig-headed and stubborn enough to make it happen, it’s you.”
“Gee, thanks,” Jake said, but he smiled again. “Now, are you going to show me where the magic happens?”
Mackenzie paused, her mind racing somewhere not entirely PG-rated.
“Your studio,” Jake added.
“Oh, right.” Mackenzie showed him in back, to the chaotic, cluttered space. Jake chuckled.
“That’s more like it,” he said, looking around. “I was wondering where you kept the mess.”
“You mean, the raw, creative genius,” she corrected him. She shoved a stack of books off a chair and kicked it towards him.
“That too.” Jake took a seat and looked with interest towards the corner. “What’s over there?” he asked, nodding to the sheet she had draped over one of her works-in-progress.
“Nothing,” Mackenzie said quickly. “Just something I’m playing around with.”
The truth was, it was one of her personal projects, the sculptures she never let anyone see. These weren’t the tourist-friendly pottery she churned out for the gallery, but intricate, personal, abstract works that Mackenzie toiled away on after hours—and then promptly locked in her storage room and never let see the light of day. She certainly wasn’t going to show them to Jake, so she quickly heaved Debra’s festival binder onto the desk with a thud.
Jake looked at it with trepidation.
“It’s not too late, you know,” Mackenzie said lightly. “Go, now, save yourself.”
“And leave you to shoulder it on your own?” Jake shook his head. “I told you: we’re in this together.”
God, she was going to have to build up her resistance to that smile. Mackenzie averted her eyes before she started drooling, and started stripping off her coat, gloves, and scarf. “Well, we’ve got a full inventory of the decorations, that’s
the first thing,” she said, going to hang her winter gear up. As usual, there was no space to put it, so she shoved her coat aside on a stack of books. “Now we just need to make a list of what each business in town is doing, plus there’s the toy drive, and the main tree—” She turned back and found Jake staring at her. “What?” Mackenzie asked, self-conscious. “Do I have paint all over my ass again?”
Jake coughed. “No. You’re . . . fine. OK, I mean,” he corrected himself. “No paint.”
“Good.” Mackenzie sat down, relieved. “Also, maybe it’s crazy to be planning extra stuff before we even get started, but I was thinking it could be fun to do a Winter Art-Walk. You know, have different local artists display their works around town and put together a map for tourists.”
“Sounds great.” Jake took a sip of his coffee.
“You’re sure? Not too much?”
Jake laughed. “Last year, I spent the holidays with takeout and ESPN, so pretty much anything we’re planning here counts as ‘too much.’ But it’ll be good,” he added, reassuring. “There’s no such thing as too much holiday spirit in Sweetbriar.”
“That much is true.” Mackenzie relaxed. “OK, let’s get started on this schedule!”
* * *
By the time they were done divvying up the Sweetbriar schedule, Jake knew more about the politics of holiday ornaments than he ever thought possible. With anyone else, it would have been a chore, but Mackenzie made everything fun—dropping scandalous gossip in with every new item, so he was fully up to date on everything he’d missed in town. It was strangely comforting to hear all the news again: no high-stakes drama or million-dollar contracts on the line, just the ongoing feud between the Cartwright sisters over the family orchard, and the time Grayson at the bookstore caused a local scandal by selling some middle-schoolers a box of steamy erotic romance novels.
“Well, on the plus side, everyone in town is going to hate me for making them do all this work,” Mackenzie said brightly, sitting back. “Which means fewer invitations, and more time alone with my work.”
Jake chuckled. “Liar. You could charm them into anything. I bet you’ll have people lining up to volunteer.”
“Sure.” Mackenzie sounded dubious.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Jake said. Mackenzie caught his eye, and he suddenly had a hard time remembering why he’d stayed away from Sweetbriar for so long.
Get a grip.
Jake forced himself to take another swig of coffee, long since cold. At least he was looking above her neck this time. When she’d taken off her coat to reveal that skin-tight sweater . . . Jake felt like he’d just run laps at the stadium. Pulse racing, shortness of breath—an NFL workout had nothing on five minutes alone with Mackenzie Lane.
A rumbling noise broke through his thoughts. He looked up to find Mac blushing furiously. “I guess that’s our cue to break for lunch,” she said, rubbing her stomach.
He laughed. “Loud and clear.”
Mackenzie got up. “Want to run by the bakery and grab something? Summer is trying out savory stuff for fall. She does these cheese and herb pies that are just . . .”
She pressed her hand to her chest in a swoon.
Jake felt torn. “Wish I could, but I have my physio appointment up in Boston, and I should hit the road.”
“Right. Of course,” Mackenzie agreed quickly. She looked away. “We can pick this up another time.”
“Can’t wait,” Jake replied, and Mackenzie snorted with laughter.
“Sure,” she said, grinning, and Jake didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d meant every word.
8
He grabbed a sandwich in town and then hit the road, driving the slow-winding route down the Cape, through villages and trees. It was a familiar road, nothing but him and the radio, until he crossed the Sagamore Bridge to the mainland, and suddenly, the sandy highway became five, six lanes wide, and the flow of traffic thickened all the way up the coast, until the Boston skyline came into view on the horizon. It wasn’t far, just a couple of hours if you timed it right, but the city felt like a world away from the sleepy Sweetbriar streets, thick with traffic and bustle and pedestrians. Jake navigated his way downtown, then parked on a side street a couple of blocks back from the big medical center.
He’d spent enough time in hospitals to last him a lifetime, but the smell still hit him, every time: a mix of disinfectant, and air freshener, and something that reminded him of despair.
“Can I help you?” the woman on the main desk called over as Jake was scanning the listing on the wall.
“I’m looking for Dr. Lashai’s office.”
“Third floor, to the left.”
“Thanks.”
Jake got into the elevator, trying not to look at the guy beside him in a wheelchair. That had been him, only six months ago—hating every moment and feeling trapped in his body. This time, at least, he wasn’t on the surgical floor, or the in-patient wards; he followed the nurse’s instructions until he found himself in a quiet, bright wing full of private offices, far away from the chaos downstairs.
“Jake, hi, come on in.” His new physio was younger than he was expecting, a smiling woman in her thirties, with long, dark hair.
“Dr. Lashai?”
“Please, call me Padma.” She waved him in, opposite a wall covered in certificates. He took in the framed achievements and relaxed a little. His coach back home said she was the best in the Northeast, and Jake wasn’t about to pull any punches, not with his career on the line.
“So I’ve reviewed all your files and progress,” Padma began. “And I’ve talked with your physicians back home, and the team doctor, too. Do you mind if we run through some basic movements, so I can get a look?”
“Sure thing.”
Jake followed her sequence of movements, stretching and pivoting as she made notes and felt around his knee. The pressure from the exercises made him ache, but Jake grit his teeth and did his best to hide his discomfort. Finally, she gestured to the couch by the window, and Jake took a seat.
“What’s the verdict, doc?” Jake asked, suddenly nervous.
“You’re right on track.” Padma smiled. “Exceeding it, even. ACL injuries can be tricky, recovery isn’t a set path. But from your last scans, and the way you’re moving now, I’d say the reconstructive surgery is looking good.”
Relief flooded through him.
“So when can I start training with the team again?” Jake asked eagerly.
Padma’s smile dimmed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she said gently. “You’ve still got a long way to go.”
He bit back his frustration. It was the same story he’d been hearing for months now. “But how am I supposed to get back in shape if I can’t train?”
“The most important thing right now is not putting any stress on the tendons while they’re still healing.” Padma sounded firm. “The rigor of a pro football routine is the worst possible thing you could do.”
Jake took a deep breath, controlling his temper. “So how long will it take?” he asked. “Another three months? Six? Longer?”
Padma looked apologetic. “I’m afraid there’s just no way of knowing. The body heals in its own time. I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” she added with a warning look. “I know your progress has been encouraging, but there’s still no way of saying how your mobility and endurance will develop.”
Jake felt a shard of panic, ice-cold. “But I will get there, right?” he asked, not realizing how much was riding on that question until he let himself ask. “I can make it back onto the field?”
Padma paused. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I’m sorry, I know you want answers, but you have to understand your recovery has already been miraculous. To be walking, pain-free, with the kind of mobility you have right now—it’s incredible. And any other patient would be thrilled.”
“But I’m not any other patient,” Jake said grimly.
She smiled. “No. Professional athletes don’t
judge themselves by normal standards. I understand you want to resume your career, but Jake, maybe it’s time to start thinking about alternatives.”
“Alternatives to what?” He stared back at her.
“A professional football career always has a lifespan.” Padma seemed to be picking her words carefully. “You’ve been playing now for ten years. You always knew there were limits to what your body could take.”
Jake shook his head. “Guys on the team go for longer than this. Peyton Manning won a Super Bowl when he was thirty-nine.”
“At what cost?” Padma asked. “Look, I’m not saying this to challenge you. We’re going to keep working, rehabbing that knee, and who knows? Maybe you’ll find your way back onto the field. But you’ve put your body through hell for the past decade, you’ve pushed yourself to the limit. Sooner or later, it has to stop. Why not now? The next time you take a hit—and believe me, there will be a next time—you might not be so lucky.”
Jake heard his blood pounding in his ears. He knew her words made sense—he’d heard them many times over the years, from his parents, coaches, even former teammates—but after everything he’d been through that year, every painful moment of dogged determination, he didn’t want to hear it.
He couldn’t.
“That all, doc?” he asked, getting to his feet.
Padma looked like she wanted to argue, but she just pressed her lips together instead. “For now. I’ll send over a new set of exercises, you can rotate them daily. And rest. I mean it,” she warned him. “No running, no standing on it for long periods—”
“No line dancing?” Jake joked.
“Not this month.” Padma smiled. “But hang in there. You’ve come so far already.”
Jake knew he had. He could tell they all thought he was ungrateful. After all, his surgery had worked perfectly. Still, it had been a grueling road to recovery, long hours at the rehab center pushing through the pain, until he’d come so close to giving it up and saying “no more.”