Page 113 of Tangled with the Tight End

“You look like you’re about to climb out of your own skin,” she observes.

“Yeah. I’m itching to be on the field,” I admit.

She studies me, nodding with a seriousness that’s filled with compassion. Then in a tone that’s girded with certainty, she says, “You will be. Keep doing what you’re doing and you’ll be back there before you know it.”

I hope she’s right. Even though my recovery has been smooth, there’s no promise as to when or even if I’ll be back.

I turn to her, smile and say, “Thanks.”

Then, for some reason, I wink. It feels like the most awkward wink in the history of winks. Winona’s forehead scrunches up and she studies me. Then she lifts her glass and takes a sip of her drink, watching me over the rim.

Did I break something besides my ankle?

“Are you okay, Declan?” Winona asks me, setting her glass down but not taking her eyes off mine.

“Yeah. Just …” I swipe at my eye. “Dust or something.”

Dust? Seriously?

The fact that my teammates aren’t here to witness my utter bumbling fills me with a rush of relief. They’d make fun of me for months—no. Years.

Just tell her how you feel. A voice in my head that sounds a lot like Lincoln Walker nudges me.

I’ve never had to work to show a woman what I felt for her before. And, since my last disaster of a relationship, I haven’t even considered getting to the point where I’d need to tell a woman how I felt. Even to my own mind, that sounds pompous, but it’s a fact. I’m a star athlete from a wealthy family. My skills and status carried me through high school. Then I was drafted right out of college. I’ve always been on the receiving end of female attention—whether I solicited it or not.

On the screen, Treyvon Harris makes a nearly impossible catch, jumping into the air and grasping the ball with one hand, then tucking it into his side before being tackled practically mid-jump for a first down.

Winona leaps out of her chair, pumping her fist in the air. “That’s what I’m talking about! First down! Go Thunder!” She adds an excited squeal.

I was mid-whoop when she started out-cheering me.

I glance over at her, cheeks flushed, hair bouncing, eyes alight with happiness. I want to be the man on the field eliciting that reaction from her. But I love that it’s my team she’s rooting for—and that I was the one to help her understand the game.

She catches me watching her and a soft pink blush rises up her neck and face.

“It was a good play, right?”

“The best,” I say, still staring at her.

She drops her head slightly, averting her eyes. And then she returns her attention to the game, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. I force myself to turn back to the TV, but I can’t shake the thought that she might be feeling something for me. I run her reaction through my mind, only half-focused on the screen when Linc gets sacked by the Chief’s defense.

If I had been on the field, nothing could have ripped my attention from Linc.

The rest of the game, the heavy quiet in the room is only interrupted by commercials, during which Winona peppers me with clarifying questions. We break the silence with raucous cheering when the Thunder makes a play. We end up winning by a field goal.

“Whew, pressure on the kicker was intense,” Winona says, falling back into her chair. “He looked stressed, too.”

“Yeah. It’s stressful when it comes down to one play that will win or lose the game in the final two minutes.”

“But he did it.” She yawns, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

“He did.”

She’s smiling past the yawn and I take her in. Rumpled hair, drowsy eyes, a softness to her that comes at the end of a day. “Tired?” I ask.

“Yes. Sorry.” She sighs, settling into her chair.

“Long day herding goats?” I tease.