Sidelines (Wounded Hearts #1)

by S. M. Smith

  Torn between being concerned and flattered, I shift in my seat to get a good look at him. He’s not joking around or taunting me. He seems genuine, but definitely scared. What is he hiding?

  The reality of this assignment comes to light. No one knows anything about Logan Lassiter other than he’s one of the best wide receivers in the league, has spent his whole career in San Antonio and doesn’t like to talk about his brother, Drew, who just so happens to play defense for the San Jose Spartans. The thousands of comments on my blog and all over social media about our interview I sifted through in the late hours of the night come rushing back to me.

  What is Logan’s deal? He’s a great athlete, and I’m not much of an @AllieFB24 fan, but seeing him talk to her like that, I’m not sure I can continue to like him.

  @AllieFB24 has the patience of a saint! I’d have walked out and told him to get over himself after five minutes with Logan. #notthatbigofadeal

  Who is @LassiterSAR86 really? And who does he think he is talking to our beloved @AllieFB24 like that?!

  Clearly no one understands him and that strikes me as odd. The need to find out who Logan Lassiter is starts to grow as his steady stare holds mine. This assignment is starting to feel like a challenge. And I don’t like to back down from challenges.

  “Alright. I’ll do it,” I say, mostly to Logan. I sense relief from the other two men in the room, but Logan’s cool expression falters as he fights a daring smile.

  “Allie,” Mac’s monitorial tone pulls my gaze from Logan’s. Cautious warning flares in his eyes, reminding me that with Mr. Inman here, I really need to be on my best behavior. “I know this is going to consume a good portion of your summer, so I’ve rearranged some of your assignments. I have blocked off the last week of June and the first two weeks of July for you to travel to Texas.”

  Mac presses his lips together and tries his hardest to clear his face of any expression that isn’t pleased and appreciative. His gaze implores I do the same, but my mind is over-analyzing what this means for the other projects I was actually excited to do. My heart takes a little swan dive when I realize I’m not going to stick around California with Walt this summer, like I had hoped.

  “Please allow us to extend whatever accommodations we can for your time with us.” Mr. Inman holds out a business card. “This number is a direct line to my office. Please let me know of whatever accesses to the training facilities or coaching staff you will need. We want to ensure that we’re doing everything possible to make your job easier. I know I speak for a lot of people when I say we’re excited to get to know more about the man under the jersey. I look forward to seeing you in San Antonio.”

  He stands again and buttons the lone button on his pressed suit, nodding to Logan who does the same. Logan holds a hand out to me in what I pray is an act of truce. The only way we’re going to suffer three long weeks together is if we can find grounds to get along on. I take his hand and stand as well, feeling a shiver as his hand holds mine a little longer than normal. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, but his poker face doesn’t waver.

  “I’ll see you soon.” Still holding my hand, his gruff tone grates on a nerve that is both excited and irritated with his words.

  I’d be lying if I said that Logan isn’t appealing to the eye. With a lean, fit frame that allows him to run tens of yards in seconds, a long face with a strong jaw and those amazing eyes that remind me of Caribbean waters, even his shaggy dark hair gives him a red-carpet allure. But I can say with the utmost certainty, his standoffish personality and complete lack of conversational skills is a huge turn off for me. So I blame his rugged good looks—and the lack of any kind of romantic relationships on my part—for the tightness in my stomach.

  “I’ll see you soon, Mr. Lassiter.” He finally lets go of my hand and makes his grand exit, leaving me and Mac alone. Mac doesn’t waste a second, sighing in relief just as soon as the door clicks shut.

  “I’m so sorry, Al. I literally just received the request when Inman called me and requested a meeting with us. I wanted to give you the opportunity to turn it down, but he didn’t give me the chance to even speak to you first.” Mac runs a hand over his exhausted face. “You can still say no if you’d like. I haven’t actually rearranged anything yet.”

  “I really don’t know what anyone expects of this article. You saw how hard I worked to get anything out of that man. I don’t think four years would be long enough to write a decent spread on him.”

  Mac gives me a lazy smile. “What if I sweetened the deal for you?”

  My ears perk up like a puppy who smells bacon. “Hmm. I might be able to pull off a miracle. What do you have in mind?”

  “Stacey’s out. She wants to stay home with the baby.”

  The heavens open up and angels start to sing the Hallelujah chorus. Stacey Letterman was the first woman to be hired for air time on Football 24 and she was given the crème de la crème of opportunities—the morning anchor. When the world awakens each day and turns their TVs on to hear about the latest in football news, Stacey’s flawless skin and dark hair is the first thing they see. She’s pretty and has a wonderful personality, but she doesn’t know the game like I do. Not even close. So to say that I’ve coveted her position since I graduated college would be the understatement of the year.

  “She just found out she’s pregnant. She’s not even due until late October. She’ll change her mind before she goes. Don’t tease me like that.”

  He holds up a piece of paper and waves it in the air. “Received this this morning actually. Says her last day will be August first. Some bull about not wanting to make Colin sweat out serious switches in the middle of a season.”

  I fall back into my seat, elation and trepidation warring for reign over my emotions. “Mac.”

  “It’s yours. This will be your last field assignment.”

  A pang hits me square in the chest. “But games—”

  He sighs and sits back in his large leather chair. “That’s the only catch. You’ll be limited to Sunday morning games so that we can get you back here for the Monday Morning Breakdown. And they’ll mostly be local games. So you tell me, is it worth the trade off?”

  Would it be worth it? I love my lifestyle, constantly traveling and getting to see various cultures across the country. I get to blog about and interview instrumental people who contribute to the evolution of my favorite thing in the whole world. I get exclusive access to stadium openings and draft war rooms, not to mention sideline passes to pretty much any game I want. And although I have my tiny studio apartment here in San Jose, I’m not necessarily tied down to any particular location.

  But my time with Walt is quickly becoming limited. The man was old when I first met him; now he’s just ancient. And besides the game, he’s all I have left in the world.

  “Yes. It would be worth it.”

  “Then it’s yours. But this article, it has to go better than that interview.” His eyes narrow on mine like I could have done anything else to perfect that interview.

  “I’ll do my best, you know that.”

  “I do.” He gives me a satisfied smile before handing me a small stack of papers. “I need you to read through this and sign it. Let me know if you have any questions.”

  I take the stack of papers and recognize it as a contract that outlines the terms of the article as well as the exciting new position I will be offered once said article has been completed and feel my insides start to do some serious gymnastics. This is really happening. I don’t even know what to say to Mac, who just beams proudly at me, as I exit his office. I practically float through the studio as I make my way back toward the green room to grab my stuff. It isn’t until I hear the smarmy voice of Mr. Inman that I’m pulled from daydreams of my fantasy job and stopped short of the doorway.

  “This is important, Logan. We know your dedication to the Rattlers has been exemplary, but if you want to continue wearing that purple jersey, you’ll cooperate much more so than you did yesterd
ay. Am I making myself clear?”

  So he doesn’t particularly want to do this article, either. Clearly his incentive to do this article is a lot less satisfying than mine.

  “Yep.” Logan’s nonchalant voice reminds me of how cool he typically stays under the pressure of a three-hundred-pound linebacker gunning for him.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’ve made yourself clear. Sir.”

  “Good. That young woman made you look like a freaking nitwit and I don’t have nitwits playing on my team. Do you understand?”

  It takes everything within me to not stomp my way into the room and set Mr. Inman straight on who made whom to look like what. Pain shoots up the heels of my feet as I grind my stiletto into the carpet to keep myself from moving though.

  “I said you’ve made yourself clear. I’ll cooperate to the best of my ability.” I hear movement but don’t fully register it in time to move away from the door before Logan comes barreling out, knocking into my shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes. His eyes wide in mortification. “I…I—” He doesn’t continue his thought as he shakes his head and turns down the hall.

  Watching him walk away, I send up silent prayers to whoever will listen that our next encounter will go much smoother than these last two have gone.

  Chapter Three

  Ten or more balding heads turn and eye me as the little bell over the coffee shop door announces my arrival. Several bushy eyebrows climb wrinkly foreheads as a few of them watch me suspiciously. I’m almost afraid I’ve walked into some geriatric Boys-Only club until a tiny little girl with bright yellow hair pulled back into a slick ponytail that bounces as she walks comes out of a door from the back with a half-full coffee carafe in hand.

  “Alright fellas, that storm is a comin’ and I know that all your little ladies will be needing some strapping young men to keep ‘em safe.” The cute blondie gives a few of the gentlemen some pointed looks and as if on cue, wallets appear and dollar bills are thrown on tables. I step up to the counter, smiling appreciatively at the girl’s very obvious southern accent. “I’ll be right with ya, Miss Allie.”

  I don’t know why her use of my name catches me off guard, but when the whispers start, my cheeks redden and I suddenly find all the dusty cowboy boots wildly fascinating.

  “I’m so sorry for being so casual, Miss Mooreland. But if I hadn’t been those old coots would have rumors flying within the hour.” The bouncing blond swiftly rounds the corner to the kitchen, a tower of coffee mugs in each hand and her carafe dangling by her little finger. I don’t hear a crashing of cups, so I assume she found someplace safe to set all the ceramic down when she comes back to the counter wiping her hands on a white dishtowel hanging from one of her apron pockets.

  “It’s okay. I wasn’t sure if anyone would recognize me.”

  “Wouldn’t recognize ya? Oh, golly. I’m sure everyone in the country knows who you are! You’re the best sportscaster out there. Ain’t nobody knows more about the goin’s on of football better than you. I mean, I wouldn’t even know what a blog is if it weren’t for yours.”

  I knew I’d like her. “You’re too kind, but thank you.”

  “I’m serious. That piece you wrote on the top ten rookies last summer helped me beat half the high school team in fantasy last year. And don’t get me wrong, Mr. Logan is a real gentleman, but—” she blows a breath through her pouty lips and shakes her head, “—I cannot believe the way he just totally blew off your questions. I’ve never seen him like that.”

  Somehow, that was comforting to know. “So you know Mr. Lassiter?”

  “Not really. I mean he comes in for coffee once in a while. And he goes to church with my memaw, so.” She shrugs, as if that explains it all. “I take it you’re here for that article in The Report then?”

  “You know about the report?” I ask, completely shocked.

  “Oh, yeah. Lucy’s been braggin’ about it ever since she found out. It’s kind of a big deal, being in The Report.” She shakes her head as she mocks this Lucy.

  She isn’t kidding. The Red Zone Report only highlights four players a year and most of the time the editors want to cover the greats that are either long retired or at the peak of their game. In my opinion, Logan hasn’t peaked and is a long way away from walking off that field for good. It says a lot that they want him on their cover so early in his career.

  “Yes it is.” I smile. “And yes, I am. I just got into town and have an appointment to meet him at his ranch. Do you know where it is?”

  She shakes her head and her lips turn down into the slightest frown as she glances out the front windows. “I do, but I don’t think you have enough time to get there. That storm is gonna hit real soon and it’s probably best if you just sit tight.”

  I wish I could afford to heed her warning, but I’ve been so anxious to get this started so I can get back home and have the whole experience behind me. To say I’ve been dreading this time in Texas—specifically with interviewing Logan—would be a huge understatement.

  “I really need to get going. But I could really use a coffee to go.”

  Blondie gives me a doubtful look but nods anyway. “Sure. Give me just a sec.”

  She turns and pulls a foam cup off a stack on a counter behind her and picks up a full carafe from a warming tray. “Just black?” she asks, peeking over her shoulder at me.

  “Do you have cream and sugar out here?” I’d kill for a caramel mocha at this point, but judging by the foreboding look on her face, I don’t have time for her to fire up the espresso machine. Her blond curls whip around as she faces the counter in front of her again, picking up bottles and pouring various condiments into my cup. As she turns to face me, she places a lid over the mug and hands me a sleeve for the cup.

  “Here. I added some caramel syrup too.” She hands me the cup and gives me a grin the size of her home state.

  “Thanks. How did you—”

  “Your Instagram bio says that you love your caramel mochas about as much as you love standing on the sidelines.” She shrugs as if it isn’t a big deal, but it kind of is.

  “Thank you. I haven’t even caught your name yet, I’m sorry.”

  She beams again. “Kelsey.”

  “Well, thank you, Kelsey.” I take a sip and marvel at the fact that she got it almost perfect with what resources she had. Grinning, I go to reach for my wallet but she waves me off.

  “It’s on the house. Just do us all a favor and if Mr. Logan gets all grumpy like he did before, feel free to throw him a dose of his own medicine.”

  I am just about to lose a mouthful of coffee when she finishes her statement. Oh how I would love to do just that.

  “I can’t make any promises about that, but I can promise you I’ll be back for more of this.”

  She grins again, her eyes shining as brightly as the braced teeth she flashes. “I’ll be here. It was nice meetin’ you, Miss Mooreland.”

  Grinning over my shoulder I thank her again. “And please, call me Allie.”

  ***

  I’d probably enjoy the smooth ride of the brand new Ford Mustang Mr. Inman had reserved for me if one, it hadn’t come from him with a personal note telling me how excited he is to be working with me, and two, if it wasn’t so ridiculously windy. I nearly spill my coveted coffee all over my pants when the car starts to veer into the left lane of the tiny county road and I pray over and over that the turn to Double L Ranch would appear any second now. My phone beeps the last of its battery power just as my maps app tells me to turn onto the long drive. I try to keep the wheel steady as I set the coffee into the console and try to juggle my phone, but when a small branch full of green leaves flies across the driveway and makes me slam on my brakes, I abandon the phone to the passenger seat and firmly place both hands on the wheel.

  My eyes widen as I finally take in my surroundings. Even with the threatening gray clouds as a backdrop, the ranch is breathtakingly beautiful. The modern, yet rustic looking
house is expansive, with antique white siding, grand wooden pillars holding the porch roof in place, and smooth, gray river rock framing a few of the windows and the corners of the house. Tufts of monkey grass and lovely, purple-leafed shrubs that sit in the middle of a loop in the driveway blow around frantically in the wild wind, but even with all their movement, the landscaping is pristine. I start to park the car in front of the wide, walnut front door, but a small group of figures running toward a stable set about fifty yards off from the house makes me follow the path around to the back of the house. Half a dozen farm trucks line the fence like spectators at a rodeo. I pull up next to one of the massive trucks, the stark white of my rental catching the attention of a couple of guys securing the shutters on the barn.

  The moment I step out of the car, I inhale a mouthful of my blond hair and end up in a coughing fit trying to keep myself from suffocating. Because of the ferocious the wind, it’s hard to catch my breath, so I’m still hacking up a lung when Logan jogs toward my car.

  “Allie!” I turn and pull my hair back with one hand and hold my sunglasses to my face with the other, barely catching sight of him. “Head on inside. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

  He points toward the end of the wraparound porch, where a set of short steps lead to a side door. I turn to head that way, remembering at the last minute to grab my phone, bag, and coffee. A gust of wind catches the door to the house just as I open it and I barely step out of the way before it can smack into my face. When I step inside, I have to wrestle the door closed so it isn’t until I heave a sigh of relief and turn that I find I’ve stepped into my dream kitchen.

  Black cabinets with white quartz counter tops line the wall along the front of the house. A white apron sink sits with a fancy looking faucet just below a picture window that overlooks the front drive. The range looks professional grade, a wide, gas, stainless steel five-burner sits along the far wall, with a—gasp—a double oven! A matching four-door refrigerator fits right along the cabinets next to where the room opens up to what I assume is a vast living room. The modern style butcher’s table that serves as an island in the middle of the room has to be close to eight feet long. Finally, toward the back of the house, two enormous windows show off the view of the beautiful stables I wasn’t able to get a good look at before, and hosts a quaint four-person breakfast nook.