Page 8 of Sidelined By Love

Grant scrubs a hand down his face and scratches at the stubble on his sharp jawline. The man always seems to have a perfect five o’clock shadow. Even at five in the morning. It’s annoying. “I really am sorry about that,” he says. “Are you all right?”

I take quick inventory, brushing a few yellow leaves off my sweatshirt. “I’ll survive. Not sure I’ll be able to get back to sleep after so much excitement though.”

“Backto sleep?”

I realize then that Grant’s eyes hold none of the droop of morning. He’s wearing only a long-sleeve T-shirt and basketball shorts. His sneakers are worn. Not the name-brand ones he wears around the facility heading in on game days. Just comfortable, well-worn running shoes.

Unlike me, he’s clearly not in his pajamas to walk his dog.

He looks right at home, even with the streetlight glistening off the sweat beading on his forehead.

“Do you live around here?” I spit out, then immediately want to bite off my own tongue. I’ve got no business asking such things. Moreover, I don’t want to know if he’s one of Nan’s neighbors.

“No.”

He offers nothing more.

Good. I didn’t want to know anything else.

And I’ll keep telling myself that.

“Well, we should get going,” Grant says, tugging on Fluffy’s leash. “Sorry again.”

I nod in response and call for Nan’s dog. “Come on, Bronco.”

Grant pauses mid-stride, one eyebrow raising. “Bronco? Your dog’s name is Bronco? As in the Denver Broncos?” The Fourteeners’ rivals.

I give him a cheeky grin. “I didn’t name him.”

Four

Zoe

The next morning I’m mostly awake, at least one eye watching for Bronco’s pre-dawn attack. Before he can really get the slobber going, the screen on my phone lights up from its place on my nightstand.

I squint at it out of one eye and then yank the blanket over my head. Bronco growls low in his throat but then lets out a little howl like I’ve woken him up.

Turnabout’s fair play, buddy.

I want to fall back asleep. I really want to. But maybe I shouldn’t have taken that two-hour nap yesterday. Because my brain is wide awake. And demanding to know who texted me at—I poke my head out of my cocoon only long enough to glance at the giant red numbers on the alarm clock—5:03. In. The. Morning. What even is this time?

Okay, it’s not like I haven’t had early call times before, but come on. This is ridiculous. No one I know would be texting at such an hour.

Unless.

My stomach twists hard.

Joe.

No. He wouldn’t text me. Why start now? He hasn’t reached out since unleashing the giant fireball that destroyed my career.

Unless . . . it’s not from him, but about him.

I don’t want to know. I don’t care. If it has to do with him, it has absolutely nothing to do with me. Not a single thing. Not even half a thing. And I couldn’t give less of a hoot.

Even if he wanted me back, I wouldn’t give him the time of day.

And I don’t care. And—

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