by Melissa Tagg
He’d barely roused from sleep enough to answer Ian’s call this morning, let alone provide a geographic update. But somehow, within thirty minutes of receiving the news that Ian had landed him a quickie interview with an ESPN affiliate before today’s game, he’d been on his way—a borrowed tie around his neck, an old suit jacket of Logan’s pinching his shoulders, Case’s warning to be careful of deer running across the road in his head.
And Kate in the passenger seat.
She waved at him now from behind a cameraman. Her denim jacket was unbuttoned to reveal a green-and-blue-plaid shirt and a yellow scarf around her neck. He still wasn’t sure how she’d ended up coming along. Only that she’d followed him around the house, one room to the next, as he hurried to get going.
“I didn’t know you wanted to be a sports analyst.”
“Not sure I do. But my manager thinks it’s a good idea. That’s what a lot of retired players end up doing.”
“Do you like talking in front of a camera?”
Not at all. “I like talking football.”
Eventually she’d wound up in the truck with him and they hadn’t stopped talking the entire forty-five-minute drive to Ames. They’d laughed about last night, that trip to the ER, how the tetanus shot had hurt worse than the nail had. It was as if this morning had become an extension of the evening before—the late night out on the porch, finally eating that picnic meal she’d packed, conversation flowing as naturally as the sunrise they’d almost stayed up to see.
It’d been a good night. One of the best he could remember in his recent past. Made all the better by the fact that she’d never turned back to the topic of his parents, the accident.
“You ready for this?” Link Porter, anchor for the cable sports affiliate, plopped into the canvas chair next to Colton.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Colton propped his feet on the bar running along the base of his chair. At least there was only one camera for the short pregame segment—that would be better than the flock of reporters he used to face off with during postgame media appearances. He’d never grown entirely comfortable with the stare of cameras. But this is what athletes did when their playing days came to a close, right?
It’s the closest he’d get to the life he used to know.
“Nippy one today.” Link rubbed his hands together. The former Tigers tight end, retired now for twenty-plus years, wore his signature lime-green tie and a practiced smile that displayed bleach-white teeth. His silver-blond hair was gelled to a near wax. “I don’t know why anyone would willingly choose to live in the Midwest, cold as it gets.”
Colton watched as Kate jutted her hands back into the pockets of her jacket, hopping in place against the chill of the afternoon. She’d insisted on watching the interview rather than finding her way to the fifty-yard-line seats they’d been given. Sunshine poured like liquid light over a crystal blue sky. “Oh, I don’t think it’s so bad here.”
“Wait ’til the first blizzard. You’ll wish you could eat your own words.”
Though Link’s affiliation with the Tigers had ended two decades before Colton had come on the scene, he’d met the man a few times over the years. He’d waffled between admiring him for managing to hold on to his celebrity and wondering if the spotlight felt as good on such a different stage.
“Can I ask you something, Link? This sports-show hosting thing—you like it?”
“I’ve been doing it for twenty-some years, haven’t I?”
“Was the transition hard, going from playing to watching and talking?”
A faint streak of condescension colored Link’s laughter. “You kidding? I was nearly forty when I retired. My body was ready for the break.”
That was the difference, then. Link had played until he was ready to quit. Colton’s end date had pounced too early.
A guy whose press badge said Maury rounded the camera and adjusted his headphones. “All right, gentlemen, we’re on in ten.”
Colton’s feet fumbled over the bar under his chair and hit the ground.
Link shifted to face him. “Look, son, if you’re nervous, don’t be. Gonna be over before you realize it’s started.”
Easy for him to say. For Link, this was just a routine pregame spot. No biggie.
For Colton, it was the first real break he’d had in months.
Except that wasn’t exactly right, was it. There was landing in Iowa and meeting Kate and knowing he’d found the perfect writer for his book. There was the fact that he’d spent the past five days helping Case Walker out at the depot—actually doing something worthwhile, contributing. There was the inkling of hope forming inside him since coming to this so-called flyover state. An inkling that hinted this past year, what he’d considered a slew of endings, might also contain a surprising beginning.
“Ten. Nine. Eight.” Maury began the countdown.
“Oh, I almost forgot to ask. Do I look at you or the camera as I talk?”
“Seven. Six. Five.”
Link spoke through an unmoving grin. “Both.”
“Three. Two.”
“But how—”
Maury dropped his arm.
“Good afternoon, folks, Link Porter here, getting pumped for what’s looking to be a hot game on a cold day in Iowa. I’ve got Colton Greene with me, former quarterback for the LA Tigers and also an alum of one of the schools readying to battle it out on the field today. Good to have you with us, Colt.”
“Good to be here, Link.” There, he’d made it through his first line.
“Now, I’m not going to bother asking you who you’re rooting for today, considering you played all four years of your college career as a Hawkeye. Started for three years, All-American as a junior and senior. Should be fairly obvious where your heart is today.”
Colton rubbed his palms on his dark jeans. Shoot, could the camera see that? “Fairly obvious, yes, but we’re in Cyclone territory, so I’m probably better off not flaunting my loyalties.”
Link’s chuckle could’ve come straight from a laugh track. “Well said. Let’s talk on-field strategy. If you’re Coach Hardy, what are you saying to the Hawks right now?’
Colton looked to the camera. This is where instinct should take over. Where he should forget the monitor and tiny lapel mic stuck to his collar.
But instead, nerves he’d refused to give in to earlier chose this moment to march over his practiced bit. Coach Hardy . . . talk about ISU’s defense . . . point out Iowa’s penchant for running the ball. They’d gone over this before the taping.
“If I’m Coach Hardy, I’m . . . I’m probably talking defense, telling my quarterback . . . um, my quarterback . . .”
“Starting QB is Bobby Emmanuel,” Link cut in. “Senior whose sixty-four-yard pass cinched the deal against Kansas State last Saturday. Did you see that game, Colton?”
“Uh, no. I didn’t.”
Link’s smile never wavered, but impatience flashed in his eyes. “Back to defense. We’ve only seen this ISU team a few times so far this season, but they defend well against spread offense. Do you think we can say the same for the Hawks?”
Sunlight glared against the camera’s glass lens. Colton blinked. Felt his stomach churn. “I do, Link.”
He was blowing this, the few words that attempted to rise up his throat meeting with the taste of sour anxiety before they could make it out.
“Focus on the faces.” Ian’s voice, from the dozens of press conferences he’d sat through.
But his manager’s advice didn’t work as well here. Not when the face he was supposed to be looking at belonged to a seasoned professional who probably regretted agreeing to Colton’s involvement in this segment. But then, as Link said something about the team’s standings this early in the season, Colton caught sight of Kate in his peripheral vision.
Only for a second, but long enough to take in the encouragement in her expression.
“—which is why I’m convinced, despite their similar records going into this game, we might see
ISU easily rise to the top today.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Link.”
Link could barely veil his disapproval. “No?”
“The Hawkeyes have had two wins coming into today, yes, but neither were the blowout we all expected. I think today they have something to prove, and they could surprise us in a big way.”
Two whole sentences and not a single stutter. Relief slid in—but not enough to erase the pummeling embarrassment of his blunders.
Seconds later Maury signaled, the red light on the camera dimmed, and Link leaned back in his chair as he accepted a thermos of coffee from a passing crew member. “Well, that’s that.”
Maury’s expression held even less approval than Link’s.
Colton pulled the wired mic from his shirt and handed it to the woman standing in front of him. Same one who’d awkwardly strung the wire up his shirt in the first place. The cameraman was already pulling down his equipment.
“So, uh, we’re good?”
Link downed a swig of coffee. “We’re good. Enjoy the game.”
That really was that. “Well, thanks. Maybe I’ll see ya again sometime.”
Neither Link nor Maury hid their doubt. And all the hope he’d placed in this three-minute segment released, like water from a bullet-hole-strewn bucket. He shook Link’s hand, then found Kate waiting where she’d been the whole time.
There was too much perk in her smile, too much bounce in her “Great job.”
“I can’t remember which of the Ten Commandments says not to lie, but I’m pretty sure you just broke it.”
Kate looped her arm through his, leading him away from the site of his humiliation. “Nuh-uh. You really did good. Especially there at the end.”
Only there at the end. Ian had said he’d stream the interview, was probably back in LA sitting stone-faced in front of his flat-screen.
“Come on, let’s go find our seats and watch the game, and you can tell me why I should care about this game.”
“It’s the biggest rivalry in your state. That’s why you should care.”
“I actually meant the game of football in general.”
“Why are you trying to hurt me?”
Laughter danced in her eyes.
“You’re going to watch the whole game, Rosie, and by the end, you’ll love it. Or at least appreciate it. I’m going to make sure of that.” And maybe, in the process, he could forget about the embarrassment of the past three minutes—and the fact that he may have just blown his future.
Again.
Kate had one goal in bringing Colton to the Twister Tavern: cheer the man up.
And so far, it was working. “Yeah, baby, twenty-nine baskets. Whoo!” She spun from the arcade basketball game tucked into the corner of the restaurant where she’d spent half her Saturday nights when she was in college.
“I can admit that’s impressive.” Colton eyed the basket at the end of the net-lined game. “But I should probably tell you I’ve set records on this game, oh, like a hundred times. We actually had one of these back in our dorm at Iowa—”
“Shh.” She clamped one hand over his mouth. “You’re still in ISU territory, and after our loss today, you can’t just start flinging around your questionable loyalties.”
He grinned behind her hand. “Fine. But watch . . . and learn.” He turned, stuck a couple quarters in the machine, and proceeded to blow away her twenty-nine baskets with forty-five of his own. He whirled back to face her with a cocky smile. “Whatcha say now, Walker?”
That if it meant more of those grins, she’d happily lose again.
That very possibly the last screw holding her common sense together had just twisted free and now clinked through her all loud and disconcerting and impossible to ignore. Get a grip, Walker.
“I say it’s unfair. I haven’t had dinner yet.”
“Fine. We go eat, then rematch.”
She followed him back to the table, where a waitress was just now delivering their food. A plate heaping with French fries and a burger for Kate. Basket of ribs for Colt. She plopped into her seat and immediately dropped a napkin in her lap. “Come to momma.”
Colton grinned at her over his pop glass. “You never struck me as the burger and fries type.”
“You’ve only known me eight days. There’s a lot you don’t know.” She dragged a fry through her ketchup and took a bite.
Amazing how little this place had changed since college—new menus, maybe, updated ISU pendants and team photos occupying wall space, but same old wood-backed booths and checkered tablecloths. Waiters and waitresses still wore the red-and-yellow aprons she remembered and the e in the Cyclone City neon sign over the bar flickered like always.
She reached her fingers around her burger. “Holy cow, this thing’s huge.”
“Ha, holy cow. Funny.”
“What? Oh . . . yeah.” Another glance at her burger. A moment’s hesitation.
“Not funny?”
“I love my meat, but I prefer not to think about where it came from.”
But at least Colton laughed as he lifted a glazed rib. He had a nice laugh. A rich, tenor sort of sound. And it wasn’t something she’d heard much during the football game. Oh, he’d tried—put on a good face. Took time to explain to her the ins and outs of what happened on the field. Argued halfheartedly with her about their opposing alma maters. Cheered when his team pulled off a game-winning touchdown in the last minutes of the fourth quarter.
He’d even let her interview him during halftime, more game memories and notes for the book she’d better start writing one of these days.
But she’d sensed the persistent internal grimace he couldn’t shake ever since that interview. He was beating himself up over it, she knew. He’d put so much stock in that one impromptu opportunity.
Not all that different than her and the James Foundation.
Maybe that’s why she’d found herself suggesting they grab an early dinner in Ames before heading back to Maple Valley. A good barbeque joint could work miracles, right? Except maybe she shouldn’t have picked a place with television monitors hanging in the corners, all tuned into cable sports.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. She waited until he’d half finished his ribs before treading into conversation. “Colton, what did you do when you weren’t playing football? Before the injuries, I mean.”
He looked up from his plate. “Um . . . sleep?”
“Surely you had some outside interests. Hobbies. Causes. Friends.” Girlfriends. It was the closest she could get to the question she wanted to ask. She’d read about Lilah Moore online—rising star in the world of California politics. And according to the articles she’d read, not only the director of Colton’s foundation but also his longtime girlfriend.
Until she’d dumped him the day of the game that ended his career. Apparently she was now engaged to someone else.
Colton reached for his glass but instead of taking a drink fiddled with his straw. “Football’s been my life since high school. It didn’t leave a lot of room for anything else.”
“It’s just . . . I can’t write an eighty-five-thousand-word book solely based on game highlights, Colton. You don’t want to talk about your childhood. You don’t want to talk about your personal life.”
She could feel him stiffening, even from across the table. Perhaps this was the wrong time to bring up the subject. But they weren’t exactly swimming in time to get this project done. His manager wanted a draft by early October. The foundation wanted her in New York for a couple weeks of orientation in November.
The deadlines were beginning to eat at her.
A waitress glided past, carrying a plate sizzling with something straight from a frying pan. “I’m really glad you’re the one writing this book, Kate. I want it to turn out well. I need it to turn out well. But there are some things . . .” Ice cubes clattered against the edge of his glass as he twisted his straw. “There are some things I’m not going to talk about. Not even to you. Cou
ldn’t even if I wanted to.”
Couldn’t? What did he mean by that? And why did she feel like a wall had just gone up, mere seconds wiping away the past week of a gradually forming friendship that’d surprised her with its ease—the past twenty-four hours spent almost entirely in each other’s company?
What’s the story you don’t want to tell, Colton?
The more time she spent with this man, the less she felt she knew him.
But the more she wanted to.
“For a while, I did a lot of speaking.”
She blinked. “Huh?”
“You asked what I did outside football. I took some speaking gigs. I volunteered at a homeless nonprofit. And I spoke at schools, some church youth groups—that kind of thing.”
She lowered her hamburger, recognizing his remark for the attempt it was. “But how . . . ?”
“You’re wondering how I could have spoken to groups, considering how badly the interview went.” At the far end of the restaurant, someone tapped the jukebox, and a whiny country ballad glided over the room. “I’m completely comfortable up on a stage in front of three hundred kids. But put a camera in my face and I freeze up. Don’t know why.”
And he was hoping for a future as a sportscaster? “What did you talk to students about?”
Colton dropped his wadded-up napkin in his now empty basket. “Making good choices. Staying in school. In the words of my oh-so-tactful manager, we took advantage of my reformed-bad-boy image.” He rolled his eyes as he mimicked his manager’s voice but then shrugged. “It was good, though, the speaking. Feeling like I was doing something important. If I had to have such a lousy childhood and make dumb choices later on, nice to have something good come from it.”
“When in your lousy childhood did you discover you had serious football skills?” She thought he might balk at that question, like he did every other time she’d asked about his past.
Instead, he fixed his gaze somewhere over her shoulder, thoughtful remembrance gliding in his blue irises. “The first foster home I stayed in lasted four months. One day my case manager showed up. She said the family had decided it wasn’t working. I’d have to go back to a transitional home.” He leaned his chin on his fists. “It’s weird, I can still feel the vinyl of her Pontiac Grand Am. I took a lot of rides to and from temporary homes in that thing.”