Page 138 of Tangled with the Tight End

She shuts her book and starts gathering her things.

“Are you coming over for dinner?” I ask.

“Are you inviting me?” She looks up at me with a smile.

“I am most definitely inviting you.”

“You’re not too tired from treatment and your workout?”

“I’ve barely seen you all day.”

I know I sound borderline eager. I don’t care. Winona and I aren’t teenagers. I’ve been waiting to see how she felt and now that I know, I want to spend every minute we can together.

She stands, lifting her backpack. “You saw me at lunch.”

“I had to share you with the guys at lunch. I want you to myself.”

She shakes her head as if she can’t believe me.

“What’s for dinner?” she asks, stepping past me into the hall.

“Steak bowls with sweet potatoes.”

“We’re so spoiled!” she says.

“Yeah,” I agree. “I guess we are.”

We’re quiet on the way home. I lean back and close my eyes. It’s a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that tells me I put in the work. Days like today mean I’m that much closer to getting back on the field.

As we’re approaching the first gate in my neighborhood, I open my eyes.

Winona looks over at me. “I didn’t mean to pry at lunch.”

“About my past relationship?”

“You don’t have to tell me anything.” Her brows lift.

She’s curious. I can’t blame her.

“I really don’t want to ruin our time together with talk of my past relationships.”

“Relationships,” she says. “Yeah. It might be best not to dive into all that.”

I imagine what she might be thinking. Winona has quite the imagination.

“I dated a girl in high school. Went out with women in the early years of my career but didn’t get serious. Not until Ginger.”

“Ginger?” she laughs. “Why do all the women who chase you have names that could be in a spice rack or a jewelry store?”

I laugh. “Beats me.”

“She hurt you?” Her face is as full of concern as it was the times she stayed to make me comfortable during a pain spike.

“She did. I hate to characterize people, but she was a gold-digger, a fame-chaser.”

I pause, gauging Winona’s reaction. She’s quietly focused on the road, but her brows draw in. Her obvious concern for me settles somewhere deep, easing an ache I didn’t realize still existed. During the fallout with Ginger, Dad was focused on image management. Mom was furious on my behalf. Winona isn’t interested in my future with the Thunder or my public image. She just cares—about me.

I’d want to know if she had gone through something this cruel and disruptive, so I fill her in on the rest.