Page 62 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Are you excited?” she asks, twirling her keys on her finger.

“Excited?” I look into her eyes. They’re practically sparkling in the sunlight. “I don’t know if I’d call this exciting.”

“Declan,” she rounds the car, opening my door for me. “You’re getting a cast. That puts you this much closer to being back on the field.” She pauses. “It is called a field, right?”

“It’s a field.”

“Also, a cast means you’ll be using these bad boys more.” She taps my crutches.

“Woo hoo.” I say the words without any enthusiasm.

She rolls her eyes. “Well, I’ll just be excited enough for the both of us.”

I maneuver myself right up next to the car, handing Winona my crutches one at a time while I hold on to the roof of the car, then I carefully lift my leg and lower myself into the car. She puts my crutches in the back seat and gets into the driver’s seat.

“Buckle up, buttercup!” she says, turning on the car.

I Ain't Worried by One Republic comes on the radio. She turns the volume up and starts singing along.

“Come on, Declan. Sing the chorus.”

“I’m good,” I tell her. I don’t sing in front of people.

“Suit yourself,” she says, belting out the song like she wrote it herself. She’s not a great singer. But she makes up for the lack of being on key with massive enthusiasm.

By the second chorus, I’m singing softly along with her and the radio.

She pops her hand up to her ear. “What’s that? I can’t hear youuuuu.” She laughs and keeps singing.

I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, so I belt the song out with her and that’s how we drive from my house to the practice facility about twenty minutes outside town as one song flows into the next. I lose myself in the music, in her carefree presence, in the feeling that this is all I need.

That last thought catches me off guard. I’ve never felt that way off the field. I’m always itching to get back. And I am. Counting the days. Practically counting the hours.

We pull into the parking lot and Winona hops out, grabbing my crutches and handing them to me one by one. She follows behind me, her eyes wide. She’s transformed from wild and free-spirited to cautious observer.

I maneuver up the steps. Winona wasn’t wrong about the crutches being better than the scooter. She catches up to me, holding the glass door open while I swing my way in.

“This way,” I say, turning right and walking down the wide hallway, our shoes squeaking on the tile.

Winona’s gaze drifts up to the high ceilings to the display cabinets with trophies and retired jerseys to the floor where the Thunder logo is embedded into the tile.

We pass a few people I know—trainers and office staff. Each one greets me, saying things like, “Good to see you back.”

I don’t stop to introduce Winona. We’ve got an appointment. I just nod my head, say hi and keep propelling myself forward.

I pause in front of the main door to the treatment room. It swings open and our left tackle, Brady Keller, walks out.

“O’Connell!” he shouts, smiling broadly.

His attention shifts to Winona and his gaze travels over her, down her wavy blonde hair, over her casual T-shirt and jeans, to the Converse on her feet, and back up to her bright eyes. His gaze is simultaneously appreciative and respectful. Definitely flirtatious, but that’s just Keller.

“Well, hello there,” he says with all the charm of a big brother teasing his younger sibling by flirting with the girl his baby brother likes.

“Keller,” I say by way of greeting and warning. Winona might not be my girlfriend, but she’s not his anything.

“Hi,” Winona says, sticking her hand out to shake Keller’s. “I’m Winona. I’m Declan’s home health aide.”

“And here I was feeling sorry for him,” Keller winks. “He’s at home with you for company. I’m officially not spending one more ounce of sympathy on our boy.”