Page 78 of Sidelined By Love

That’s a stupid thought. But it has a point.

Maybe he doesn’t feel the same. After all, I’ve managed to do all the things that his ex did, too. Distracting him off the field. Getting his name in headlines he doesn’t want. Making my dad mad at him.

I guess our—whatever we are—hasn’t started great. But that means it only has one direction to go. Not unlike my throwing skills.

Movement half-a-block down catches my eye, sending my stomach into a barrel roll. Until I realize it’s only the shadow of a barren tree branch waving in the wind.

Please don’t let him have given up on me. I just need one more chance. I can make this right.

I take a couple steps down the sidewalk, watching the corner for any sign of him. “Come on, Grant. Where are you?”

“Right here.”

I nearly fly out of my skin and leap ten feet into the air at the sound of his voice next to my ear. Swinging around to face him, I go to shove his shoulder, only then spotting the tan face and giant ears of the freeloading companion tucked in the crook of his arm.

Despite the cool morning air, Rico looks cozy and comfortable in Grant’s arms.

And now I’m jealous of a dog.

“Morning, Rico.”

I’m so stupid. I’ve been waiting to see Grant for days, but the first thing I do is ignore him.

“Zo.” Grant’s voice is deep, a little bit rusty, like he hasn’t used it yet this morning. Which is attractive as all get-out. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here this morning.”

My gaze flies up to meet his. “You’re one to be talking. You stood me up on Saturday.”

His face contorts just a bit, his mouth opening like he’s going to argue with me. But suddenly his gaze narrows as it sweeps over me from head to purple-Muppet-covered toe. “Didn’t know we were getting all red-carpet fancy this morning.” His panted breathing is growing slower, but each release still sets off a cloud of fog in the cold. “I’d have worn my running cummerbund.”

I do exactly what he expects me to. I laugh at his stupid joke.

“You look . . .” He reaches for my cheek but drops his hand before his fingers can touch me. “You look good.”

Good golly, I want to feel his touch again. Please tell me it’s not too late. That I’m not too late.

Silence hangs over us, heavier than the inky morning sky. I’m waiting for him to say something. He’s not going to be the first to speak. Instead, we’re staring at each other, all awkwardness and uncertainty. And I’m just drinking him in. All those assets that Nan appreciated. And the ones no one can see.

Because he’s here. He’s really here.

Suddenly I blurt out the only thing I can think to break the silence. “I watched your post-game press conference.”

He raises an eyebrow but gives a mere grunt of amusement in reply.

“Those reporters sure were eager to blame me for your terrible game.”

His chin jerks and eyes look over my head for a second. “Was it a terrible game though?” He’s clearly fighting a smile. “We did win.”

“Not really thanks to you.” I take a step closer to him, keeping my chin up as I give him my best smirk.

Something flashes in his eyes. I can’t quite define it, but it’s like the opposite of anger. It’s like the last four days without this—without us—has been torture for him, too.

“I mean, I suppose you could have gone and thrown the whole game away after that opening drive. And you didn’t. So, that’s something.”

He closes half the distance between us. We’re well within each other’s personal space, but I still have to actively hold myself back from flinging myself against him.

“Oh? Is that your expert analysis of the game?”

I bite into my bottom lip and lift one shoulder. “I mean, I am wearing a Fourteeners sweatshirt, so I’m something of an authority on the subject.”

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