Page 22 of Sidelined By Love

“All right, let’s figure out what you’re starting with. Ready to show me what you got?”

Pressing onto her tip-toes, she does a little dance. “Let’s do it!”

I grab a football from the hall closet and nod toward the back door on the far side of the kitchen.

Snatching the ball out of my grip with both of her hands, she chirps, “I’m going to do things you don’t even know I’m doing.”

I snort as she leads the way into the backyard, tossing the ball up and catching it awkwardly. “Sure.”

As I close the door behind us, she whistles low and long, her gaze sweeping over the yard. “Geez, man.” She’s pretty much ignoring the fenced pool off to the left in favor of the fifty-yard practice field, white hashmarks mimicking a real turf. “You must have had a killer realtor.”

I can’t hold back a smile. “Just told her I needed a big enough yard to put this in.”

“You had this put in?”

I nod.

“What if you get traded?”

I know her words aren’t meant to be cruel, but they still land like a punch to my kidney. “You heard something I should know about?” My question comes out without any of the humor I’m trying for.

She whips around, hugging the ball to her chest, her mouth hanging open. “No.” She blinks her big eyes twice before rushing on. “I didn’t mean—I don’t know any—You’re winning, right? Why would they want to—? They wouldn’t.” She takes a little gasp of air and ends with a limp, “Right?”

Right.

Except there are only a few quarterbacks in the league who never worry about being traded. I can count them on one hand. And I’m not one of them.

Not that I’m worried. But just the suggestion brings a dark cloud with it. I turnback to the field. It’s luminescent in the afternoon sun, but at night, I can light it up with the flick of a single switch on the patio. It’s not quite Friday night lights, but the raised lamps can fully illuminate the stretch of green.

I set up this practice field for just such an occasion. Okay. I couldn’t have imagined an occasion where I was teaching America’s Sweetheart how to throw a ball. I usually use it to practice throwing routes.

But it’ll work for Zoe too.

“Stand here.” I point at the white line a few steps in front of her.

She complies, trotting forward, her sneakers sinking into the lush grass. I lift my gaze up her legs, but force myself to lookaway before I start dwelling on all the favors they’re doing for her.

“All right, Coach. I’m ready.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely.” She does a mock stance like she’s going to receive the snap from the center, wiggling her rear in an exaggerated pose. “Set. Hut. Hike. Hut.”

When she looks over her shoulder at me with those glowing hazel-green eyes—a mixture of my new favorite colors—I can’t fight off a smile and a shake of my head. “All right, QB. Let’s see what we’re working with. Give it a throw.”

“At the target?” She sounds both hopeful and confident, and I give her a nod.

“As far as you can.”

She shimmies her whole body, shaking her hair off her shoulders as she prances in place until she’s perpendicular to the target. Lifting the ball barely to her shoulder, she takes a big breath. Then she flings the football. It flips end over end, flopping to the ground six yards in front of her.

Whipping around to face me, she frowns, two little lines appearing between her eyebrows. “It didn’t work.”

I can’t hold back a laugh, which only makes the wrinkles spread to her nose. She stares me down, then turns back toward the ball. Then she looks back at me as though I’m the one who ruined her throw.

“Let’s try again,” I suggest as I jog to the ball. Scooping it up, I press my fingers to the laces. “Hold it like this.” With an outstretched arm, I show her how to cradle it in her palm.

“Is that all?” She grabs it with two hands, then carefully places her fingertips against the white stripe at the ball’s widest part.

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