Page 29 of Tempted By the Safety

“Line up.”

“Your head’s not on this field.”

“My head’s fine.”

“You left your head back there with the water bottles.” He’s walking backward toward the line now, pointing at me. “I think you’ve got exactly one thing on your mind, and it isn’t my release package. Which I will say is hurtful, because it’s been a lot of work.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure.” He nods for a while. “Sure, sure, sure. Your new assistant’s real dedicated to the job, though, isn’t he?” He says it grinning, delighted with himself. “Nine a.m. optional session. Guy’s out here with a crate of fancy water and a chair. That’s commitment. Rowan won’t come to my games.”

“Rowanplaysin your games!”

“He’s never once brought me a crate of anything.” Dalton bends and resets his cleat. “Anyway. My point stands.”

“Run the drill.”

He does.

I win it this time, and clean, because I refuse to lose it twice in one morning.

“There he is,” Dalton says, flat on his back where he landed. “There’s my guy.”

I pull him up by the wrist and he takes it, and on his way past he says something low to Knox that I don’t catch. Knox laughs once and turns his head and looks at the sideline.

“Hey,” Coach’s voice comes across the field. He hasn’t uncrossed his arms. “Are we running a drill or a group chat?”

“Drill,” Dalton says.

“Then run it!”

We run it for another forty minutes. I don’t blow another read. I also don’t let myself look at that sideline once, which is a level of discipline I’d like on the record.

Coach calls it at ten after ten with two fingers in the air and no whistle, tells Dalton he’s lining up too wide, tells me nothing at all, and heads for the tunnel. Harlow puts the balls in the bag himself, the way he does after every session. Knox is betting Dalton fifty bucks he can’t hit the goalpost from way back.

I come off the field with my shirt stuck to my back and salt drying on my temples, and Milo’s already out of the chair, the water bottle open and coming toward me before I’ve said a word.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, boss.”

I drink half of it in one go. The rest goes over the back of my neck, and then I get a fistful of my shirt and pull it up to wipe my face.

When I let the shirt drop, Milo’s eyes come off my abs, but not fast enough. There’s color coming up his throat.

“So,” he says, and clears his throat. “You’ve got two things this afternoon at the Cornerstone office. One thirty is Andy and the co-packer guy on video, which is going to be about the clumping again. I’ve already sent you the humidity numbers so nothing in there surprises you.”

“Noted.”

“Three is the brand consultant, in person, and before you make that face, I moved it twice already and I’m not moving it a third time. If I do, he’s going to start emailing me instead of you and I’ve read his emails, Spencer. One of them had a mood board attached.” He scrolls on his phone. “You had a call at four thirtythat I turned into an email, so you’re done after the consultant. And there’s chicken thawing…”

He keeps talking, but I stop hearing it because I’m distracted by the freckles across his nose that I haven’t noticed before. There’s a spot on his lower lip that’s darker where he chews it when he’s reading a calendar. I have known that fact for approximately eleven days and I have no use for it.

“Boss?”

“Mm?”

“You’re staring.”