From the Start

by Melissa Tagg

  The barista behind the counter fiddled with the handle on one of the machines as Kate approached. The woman let out a frustrated groan. “Stupid thing.”

  “Everything all right back here?”

  The girl spun, the ties at the back of her apron hanging loose. “If by ‘all right’ you mean a disaster in the making, then yeah, absolutely.” She swiped at the strands of jet-black hair dangling over her face, leaving a trail of coffee grounds along her cheek. Pierced nose, skull-shaped earrings, college aged. “Any minute now the midmorning rush is gonna show up, and here I am with a broken espresso machine and—” She broke off as the machine rattled once more.

  “What exactly constitutes a rush in Maple Valley?”

  The barista—Megan, according to her nametag—shoved up the sleeves of her black-and-white-striped shirt, scowl deepening. “You’d be surprised. If we ever ran out of coffee, this town would go into a collective shock. Bunch of caffeine-deprived zombies roaming the streets.” She abandoned the machine. “What do you need?”

  Hm. Not big on service with a smile, it seemed. “Uh, well—”

  “I’m the only one working this afternoon, so spit it out.”

  Kate glanced behind Megan to where the espresso machine sputtered once more. “Look, I’ve worked in a coffee shop off and on over the years. I know the equipment. Can I take a look?”

  Doubt—or maybe confusion—brushed over Megan’s face, but she motioned to the waist-high swinging door that led behind the counter. “Be my guest.”

  Kate skirted around the counter corner and inspected the machine. Oh yeah, easy fix. She fiddled with it until it looked right, then stuck a cup under the spout and turned it on.

  But instead of gurgling to life the way it should have, the machine spat, hissed, and in a fit of malfunction, water gushed like a fountain. A shriek slipped out, joined by Megan’s voice behind her.

  “I thought you said you knew what you were doing.”

  “I thought I did.” Liquid slapped at her face, drops sliding down her neck and splotching over her shirt. “A little help?”

  “If I knew what to do I’d have done it ten minutes ago.”

  The distant chiming of the bells over the entrance joined the noisy moment. Kate plunged one hand into the mess of equipment, palm clamping over the spot spewing water. Lot of good that did. Now it just spurted through her fingers, spraying every direction.

  “Unplug it.” She closed her eyes against the jetting water. Good thing she hadn’t tried too hard on her hair today. It framed her face in matted strands. And please tell me the mascara I flicked on this morning was waterproof.

  Megan yanked a cord, and seconds later, the flow of water slowed . . . and fizzled to a stop.

  “Trouble, ladies?”

  Nooo. Of all people?

  She and the barista turned in sync as the espresso machine gave one more chug. And there stood Colton, black hoodie hanging loose over a black-and-white-checkered button-down, the perfect picture of ease and enjoyment.

  “No trouble at all.” Kate drawled the words, daring Colton with crossed arms and narrow eyes to tease any further.

  But it wasn’t enough to drain the amusement from his smirk. “So if I ask for an espresso, there’s no problem?”

  Cheeky man.

  “You can order anything but espresso.” Megan gave a toss of her hair and pinned him with a glare. “What’ll it be?”

  He glanced back and forth between them. “Actually I was just meeting Kate—”

  Megan shook her head. “You come into the shop, proceed to laugh at us—”

  “I didn’t actually laugh.”

  “And then you don’t even have the courtesy to buy anything?”

  Kate stifled a giggle as Colton’s focus darted to the menu. “Cappuccino. Medium.”

  “Fine. It’ll be ready in a minute.” Megan turned with a huff.

  Kate angled around the counter and followed Colton as he inched away. He leaned in when she reached him. “I don’t even like cappuccinos. She intimidates me.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re not alone.” Kate smoothed her hands over her jeans, sudden tremble of unwelcome nerves making an appearance.

  Which was silly. Because all they were going to do was sit down and talk about his book. Figure out a game plan, how they were going to turn an idea into reality within a month. Shouldn’t matter that he towered over her, seemed to gulp her up in his shadow in an illogically enjoyable way.

  “Talked with my manager today, by the way. Gave him your agent’s contact info. Should have a contract for you in a few weeks.”

  Wow, her own experience in the publishing world might’ve been short-lived but it was enough to know things usually happened in months, not weeks. They’re fast-tracking it. Because of her. Because Colton had picked her to write the book that could make or break his career.

  And he was just standing there now, a thesaurus full of synonyms that added up to ridiculous amounts of handsome. And she, with her coffee-stained shirt and a gripping certainty that she couldn’t hope to live up to his expectations.

  Colton shrugged out of his hoodie then, just as Megan called out from the counter. “Cappuccino.”

  Colton brushed past Kate, reached for the drink, and handed Megan a ten. “Keep the change.” He turned back to Kate.

  “Trying to buy her off?”

  “What are the chances she spit in this?” With his other hand, he held his hoodie toward her.

  “Do I look cold?”

  “No, but, uh . . .” He nodded at her shirt, covered in water and coffee grounds.

  She looked from Colton to the hoodie and back to Colton. “I can’t do it.”

  “I know it’s too big. You’ll swim in it, but—”

  She shook her head. “I mean the book. I don’t know what I was thinking. You need someone who knows how to write a sports memoir. Who can tell the cinnamon shaker from the stir stick from the napkin bits.”

  “You lost me, Rosie.”

  “It’s Kate, and I’m not your writer, Colton.” Even if, for no reason that made any sense, she suddenly really wanted to be.

  “I think you are.” He held his hoodie out to her once more, waited until she finally accepted it. “And if it’s football that has you worried, don’t worry. I’ve got a plan for that.”

  The energy of the Mavericks players radiated from their cluster around the fifty-yard line, reaching over to where Colton watched from the fence outlining the field. They were running in place, knees high, and palms clacking against their thighs with each step.

  Arms slung over the metal fence, Colton felt the itch of his own pent-up aggression. Yeah, he might fit in a workout most days—a physical therapist-approved regime, of course—but it was nothing like the feel of suiting up and training with a team, the mingling smell of mowed grass and exertion fueling his focus.

  Next to him, Kate fiddled with the zipper of the hoodie he’d loaned her. It hung on her frame, draping over her like a blanket. “So watching a high-school football practice is going to teach me all I need to know?” The zipper stuck halfway up.

  “Not even close, but that’s not the point.”

  She yanked on the zipper. “Then what is?”

  “Getting you into the spirit of football. You don’t have to know the sport to write my book. Just appreciate it. I’ll take care of the jargon and technical stuff.” He leaned in to help her with the hoodie, giving the zipper just enough of a jerk to loosen it, then pulled it upward.

  In the background, the shrill of the coach’s whistle cut into the rhythm of the players’ kicks and grunts. “Give me fifty push-ups, followed by two laps. Then water up before we get to work.”

  Colton paused, two fingers still closed around the zipper underneath Kate’s chin. The wind played with her hair, and afternoon sun highlighted the uncertainty in her eyes.

  “Colton Greene. I thought that was you.”

  Colton blinked and dropped his hand, then turned to see the co
ach ambling his direction. The man stopped in front of him, athletic frame tempered by the silver hair poking from underneath his hat and reading glasses sitting low on his nose. He tucked his clipboard underneath one arm.

  “Coach Leo Barnes.” He jutted one hand over the fence for an awkwardly angled handshake.

  Colton nodded his head toward Kate. “And this is Kate Walker.”

  “Oh, I know Kate, all right. Had all four Walkers in high-school government class.”

  Of course. Because he was in small-town Iowa, where it really wasn’t exaggerating to say everybody knew everybody.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Barnes.”

  “I think you can get away with Leo now, kid. Or Coach.” He turned back to Colton. “I’m trying real hard to play it cool, but gotta admit to feeling star struck. I was at the playoff game where you threw that seventy-yard pass. Smoother than a Bing Crosby ballad. Made it look effortless.”

  Effortless, or the result of some mighty good luck. Either way, it was the best game of his career, no question. “Good-looking crop of players you’ve got out there.” They sprawled across the grass, on hands and toes, pushing themselves up with bent elbows.

  Coach Leo nodded. “They’re not half bad. Whined their way through hot summer practices, but now that it’s cooling off and the season’s about to begin, they’re shaping up.”

  Colton could still remember the jolt of crisp morning practices at the University of Iowa—so different from fall in California. He’d forgotten how much this Midwest state had grown on him in those four college years—games on dark evenings when the chill turned his breath white, the sky so wide open and clear it was as if the stars watched him play.

  If junior high and high school had stretched like one long desert, college in Iowa had been the first step into an oasis that offered new life. One finally mostly free of haunting half memories. He had his old social worker to thank for it—she’d forced him to complete all those scholarship applications. The University of Iowa had made the best offer.

  “I should tell you I’m usually a stickler for closed practices,” Coach Leo said. “Got a couple parentals who think they’re coaches. Enough to drive a man nuts.” The coach pulled off his cap, swiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “This town and its football. Doesn’t go all Friday Night Lights or anything, but Maple Valley sure does love the game. Enough so that, if I let it, practice time would turn into a spectator event.”

  “Sorry, we can take a hint.” Colton pulled his arms off the fence.

  Coach Leo released a chuckle as he fit his hat back over silver hair. He had a weathered face—the kind wrinkled by smiles and probably endless hours of sun-soaked marathon practices. Considering his size and those linebacker shoulders, the man must’ve played football back in the day. And if Colton had to guess, he’d bet the slight ridge in Leo’s nose came from a long-ago nasty hit.

  “Don’t be an oaf, Greene. Not kicking you out. Just saying if you’re gonna stay, maybe try out the other side of the fence. I could use a guy like you.”

  “Say again?”

  “Not that I could pay you or anything. The school’s athletic budget is bare bones as it is. But surely you miss the game. Word on the street is you’re sticking around awhile. Why not come hang out at some practices? The guys would get a kick out of it.”

  “I’m not a coach, Coach.” And yet . . . what might it feel like to dip his foot back into the game? To feel a part of a team again? The camaraderie, the sense of belonging. The thrill of competition.

  He might not be able to play himself—a punching reality that still smarted if he thought too long on it—but look at Case Walker. The man had boasted the kind of career few men attained. Honorable. Bold. Admirable. Serving his country first in a war, then in an office.

  And yet he’d had to walk away from the life he’d built when his wife got sick. He’d found a way to make a new life for himself. Amazingly, he seemed content.

  What if Colton could do the same?

  “You’re thinking about it.” Behind Coach Leo, his players rose in trickles to begin their laps.

  “Maybe.”

  “Hey, isn’t that . . .” Kate’s voice rose and fell, her eyes on the field, recognition sparking through them. “It’s the kid from the depot. The one who broke in.”

  He followed Kate’s gaze, landing on a player hefting himself from the ground.

  “You’re talking about Webster Hawks?” Coach lifted bushy eyebrows. “Don’t tell me he got in trouble.”

  “Not exactly. He didn’t steal anything.” Because he hadn’t had time. No, the moment the kid had seen Kate and Colton he’d frozen at the cash register, an alertness about him, enough that Colton had practically witnessed his mental wheels turning as he assessed the situation—the doorway, Colton, Kate. And then he’d darted with a wildcat-like quickness and perfect footwork. “What position does he play?”

  The coach’s forehead wrinkled underneath the bill of his cap. “He’s new—transferred this year when he was placed with a foster family. Said he played secondary at his old school.”

  Foster family. Colton’s gaze found Webster once more, now tracing the edge of the field in lanky, even strides. Put a ball in the crook of his arm, and he’d be a ready-made carrier. He could just feel it. “I think he’s your receiver.”

  “You don’t even know if he can catch.”

  “You can teach a player to catch. But reading the field and making your move, there’s an instinct there. I think Webster might have it.” Colton tipped his sunglasses over his eyes. “’Course, it’s just my gut speaking. I’m no coach.”

  “You could be.”

  He felt Kate’s eyes on him, her interest mingling with his own.

  “Look, I’ve got an idea.” Coach turned, waved down Webster, now rounding the goalposts. “Hawks, come here.”

  The kid jogged over, breathing hard, and as he approached the curiosity in his expression shifted to something closer to unease. Did he recognize Colton and Kate from Saturday night? “Yeah, Coach?”

  “This is Colton Greene. Hear you had a bit of a run-in the other night.”

  Webster’s attention flickered from Colton back to Leo.

  “He thinks you’re a wide receiver. What do you say to that?”

  The kid shuffled his fingers through shaggy hair. “Dunno. Except first game’s in a few days. Isn’t it a little late to make a change like that?”

  Colton couldn’t help cutting in. “Not if it’s a smart change.”

  “Normally I’d balk at another guy telling me how to arrange my roster, but Greene here is a special case. And he sees something in you.” Leo leaned against the fence. “I have a feeling he might be willing to work with you. Test out his gut and see if I should have you on offense after all. That right, Greene?”

  So that was the coach’s idea. Launch the proposition right in front of Webster so Colton couldn’t say no.

  But who said he wanted to? Webster might be standing there with arms folded and chin jutting, trying for all the world to don a nonchalance that said he didn’t care, but Colton had worn the same forced indifference after years of foster-home hopping. He could feel the undercurrent of Webster’s wariness as clear as the wind now rattling through the bleachers behind him.

  That’s what insecurity did to a kid—the kind that came from wondering how long this bedroom in this house with this family would last.

  And he found himself nodding. “Sure, I could—”

  “Coach, you want me to play receiver, I’ll do it,” Webster jutted in, a hardness in his eyes. “But I don’t want to be anybody’s special project.” His jaw tightened. “I got another lap to do.”

  He turned on one foot and shoved off, the force of his movement like an Olympic swimmer pushing through a wall of beating water. Even angry, Webster displayed the athletic bent for a larger role on the team. He passed his teammates now finishing their laps and flocking to the water cooler propped on a table on the sidelin
e.

  Leo let out a sigh. “I have a feeling he’ll get home tonight, realize he just said no to one-on-one coaching from an NFL quarterback, and kick himself.”

  Ex-quarterback. Colton shrugged. “Can’t blame him. I might feel weird, too, if I was singled out.”

  “Why don’t you stick around anyway, Colt?” Kate asked the question softly. “Take up Coach Leo on his offer. Help with the team some. We can meet back up later and—”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Questions—probably the kind he didn’t want to answer—hovered in her eyes. “But why—”

  “Thanks, Coach, but I’ve got a book to write and repairs at the depot and . . .”

  Working with Webster was one thing, but he couldn’t hang out on the sidelines playing pretend coach to kids running the field with their whole future ahead of them.

  It’d be too close to watching the person he used to be.

  And too much of a reminder that he’d never be that person again.

  6

  He won’t talk about himself, Rae. How am I supposed to write a book about a guy who won’t talk about himself?”

  Kate dropped three quarters into a cheerleader’s hands and picked up a cup of hot chocolate. How was that teenager staying warm without a jacket in the day’s low temps? The first of autumn’s leaves scampered across the town square now, stirred by a nipping wind that seemed to forget today only marked the end of September’s first full week. No Indian summer this year.

  “But you’ve spent the past three nights sitting on the porch with the guy. I thought you were interviewing him.” Raegan paid for her cocoa and stepped away from the table set up in the square.

  “I was. But all I’ve got are notes about his favorite games and memories of teammates. At this rate the book’s going to turn out little more than a glorified Sports Illustrated article.” A swirl of clouds knotted overhead, crouching low in a sky more gray than blue.

  Raegan sipped her drink, then wrinkled her nose. “Blech. They didn’t get this mixed well. Powdery hot chocolate. Mom would not approve. Remember how she made it?”