Page 2 of Sidelined By Love

But it’s my job to make sure they have the win.

And I need my teammates to have their heads in the game, not wondering if the petite brunette with the wide smile is noticing their play. That’s a sure-fire way to miss your mark and wind up with a broken ulna. Been there and have the surgery scars to prove it.

Suddenly a younger girl catches my attention in the stands. She walks down the steps to the railing and gives me a waist-high wave. Over her sweatshirt, she’s wearing one of my purple jerseys—certainly under duress—and even though I double checked that it was a small, it still reaches her knees.

I wave as I jog over to the stands. “Hey, Kenna.” I reach up to grab her hand and give it a little squeeze, but she crosses her arms.

I manage a smile and reach between the rails to tap the top of her Converse shoe. “You made it.”

She shrugs and presses her toe into the concrete. “Jerry and Denise said I had to come.” She points to my housekeeper and her husband, who are standing a few steps behind her. They’renot full-time or anything, but when my older sister Eden was deployed a few weeks ago and Kenna needed a place to live for six months, Denise insisted we take Kenna in. Of course I wouldn’t have let her be homeless or anything. But I didn’t have a clue what a thirteen-year-old girl needs. Still don’t.

Except that she doesnotneed a nanny. Kenna made that abundantly clear on her first day under my roof. You’d have thought I suggested we burn the whole house down.

“Teenagers are a lot like toddlers,” Denise had said. “Feed and hug them. And make sure they get some sleep.”

Denise and Jerry have parented seven of their own into adulthood, so I figure they know a thing or two. And even if Kenna doesn’t need a nanny, at least she has someone around who might have answers to her questions.

I nod my head toward Jerry and mouth a thank-you to Denise. They smile and wave, patiently waiting for Kenna to join them before heading to their seats on the fifty-yard line. I offer them tickets every season but always get the same response. “We couldn’t impose.”

l need them to bring Kenna to my home games, so they can’t make that excuse this season. Honestly, it’s nice to have someone in the stands, who actually knows me. If my parents were still around, I know they’d love to watch me play. But they’ve been gone since I was in college. I’m thankful to have Denise and Jerry here.

Kenna, too. Even though I have a feeling this game isn’t going to impress her. It’s an obligation, a part of being under my roof. And she couldn’t care less.

I bet the seats would impress some of her male classmates though. A few signed footballs and dirty towels and I’d be in with them.

Girls are a different story. I have no idea how to connect with her, but I’ve got to do something. Six months is a long time to eatdinner—and breakfast—and weekend lunches—in silence. I put a no-screens-at-the-table policy in place as soon as she arrived. Stupidly I thought it would mean she’d tell me what she’s up to.

Instead, it means me watching her stare at her plate and poke at her food. Denise doesn’t cook anything less than incredible, so I’m pretty sure Kenna’s sullenness has more to do with her mom’s absence—and maybe the stress of changing schools halfway through the semester—than the food.

But something’s got to give. Maybe today will be the start.

“Will you cheer for us today?”

Kenna shrugs beneath the massive jersey.

“Tell you what, my first touchdown today is for you.”

She squints, clearly unimpressed. “What if you don’t score?”

Ouch. I’ve passed for at least one touchdown in each of my last seventeen games.

I’m not superstitious, but maybe I just jinxed that streak.

When I don’t say anything, she shrugs and turns toward Denise.

“I’ll see you after the game,” I say. “I love you!” My call is nearly drowned out by fans flocking toward me, shoving balls and jerseys over the railing and yelling for my signature. I nod toward the field and tell them I’ll see them after the game.

Kenna doesn’t even give me a look over her shoulder.

When I jog up to Ja’maar, he’s still stretching. One eyebrow raised, he says, “Looks like your cheering section is getting younger.”

“She’s my niece.”

Both Card and Ja’maar look like a feather could push them over. “You’ve got a niece?” Card says.

“And a sister, too. But we’re not talking about girls anymore today.”

Card frowns, waving his gloved hand in the general direction of the suites. “But that’s Zoe Peebles up there.”

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