Page 18 of Third and Ten

“Does it hurt in a certain spot or when I turn it one way or the other?”

“Mostly on the inside, when I try to put any weight on it,” he admits.

She nods and releases his foot, dusting her hands off on her thighs. “I guess we ought to get it x-rayed, just to be safe.” I’m a little bit in awe of her calm demeanor. This is my job, and I’m not even that collected.

“Hey, boss, just a heads up, but you look like you could use some water,” I hear Blake calling distantly over the radio. I adjust my headset and avert my eyes once I catch on to his warning.

“Will you, uh, take him to the hospital now?”

“Might as well,” Tenley answers, standing from her position on the ground. It takes all I have not to glance up at her. “Just let me bring my car closer. Can someone help him over to the home gate?”

“We’ll get him to you,” I assure her.

“I’ll meet you there,” she says to Ethan before turning and walking off. I turn my focus to him, trying to avoid watching her go.

“Come on, then. Let’s get these pads off.” I direct the others to help him remove the layers of gear. “Are you sure you’re all right?” I lean in to ask.

“I’m good, Coach, I swear. I probably just need some ice,” he replies with a strained smile.

“Okay. Come on, I’ll walk you to the car.” I help him stand, and one of the trainers brings over a pair of crutches we keep on hand for these situations. He seems to get the hang of using them after a few steps, but I continue walking alongside him anyway. Most of his teammates turn and offer some encouragement, and Tenley is already waiting in her car by the time we make it to the gate.

Ethan lowers himself into the passenger seat, taking the crutches before I hand him a bag of ice. “Text me as soon as you find out what’s going on,” I command.

“I will. Thanks, Coach.”

We trade fist bumps, though there’s still a tightness in my chest that probably won’t resolve until I know he’s okay. “Put that on now.” I point to the ice pack. “Maybe some ibuprofen?” I suggest, finally looking over at Tenley.

She smiles warmly. “I’ll take good care of him, Coach. I promise,” she says with a tinge of humor in her voice.

“Right. Okay. Good luck.” I back out and close the door as Ethan waves shortly, and they drive away. I blow out a ragged breath as I jog toward the sidelines.

“Welcome back,” Blake says without turning to look at me. “Care to join us, boss?”

I roll my eyes and check the scoreboard. Apparently, Blake called for a gutsy yet successful two-point conversion attempt. “I don’t know. Looks like you’ve done a damned good job in my absence,” I remark, genuinely impressed.

He smirks at me, leaning back on his heels and crossing his arms. “We’ve been managing without you, Coach Thirsty.”

I huff, and he snickers to himself. “How is he?” he asks, covering up the microphone on the headset.

I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “Hopefully it’s just a sprain. I asked them to let me know what they find out at the ER.”

He reaches over to pat my arm lightly. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” he reassures me, just before our quarterback launches a ball my way.

“For E,” Tate says, grinning, and I mirror his expression, unexpectedly brimming with pride.

Just before the last few seconds of the clock tick away, Ethan texts to say that it’s only a mild sprain after all. I exhale as relief floods through me.

Then I selfishly reflect on the fact that Ethan will probably miss practice for a while, which means that I won’t get to see Tenley. I scold myself and try to take my brother’s advice by setting her out of mind before I congratulate my team on their win, wishing that it were easier to quit thinking about Tenley Robin.

CHAPTER 7

TENLEY

Bourgeois, Fontenot, and Guillory, Attorneys at Law

I narrow my eyes as I read the sign in front of the law office where my mom sent me. I should have remembered that there aren’t many lawyers in Camellia, and Ethan’s assistant football coach is one of them. I’m sure my mom has hired one of the other, more experienced attorneys, though I imagine that Mr. Donald Guillory has been around long enough to have written the laws himself.

I walk into the repurposed Craftsman-style home, one of the oldest buildings in town. “Good afternoon. You must be Ms. Robin,” the well-dressed receptionist greets me. She looks familiar. I think she might have been a few years behind me in school.

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