Page 74 of Tangled with the Tight End

“And you think I’m going to throw and hit it?”

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Prepare to be wowed,” I say. And then I add, “And I don’t mean in a good way.”

I hold the football, it’s not exactly comfortable, then I pull my arm back the way I saw Marcus do in the game. And then I hurl it forward. The ball flies end over end in a wobbly, irregular pattern and falls to the ground about fifteen feet away from us.

“Wow,” Declan says.

“Told you. That’s a whole lotta wow right there.”

He laughs again and our gazes catch. I study the crinkles around his hazel eyes—they’re darker green today—and the way his dimples pop, framing his full mouth.

Declan’s words snap me out of my stare-fest. “First of all, we have to work on your grip. Do you mind getting the ball?”

“Of course not. Are you okay out here?”

“Yeah. I am. I’m not weight bearing on my bad ankle. It feels good to be off the couch.”

I jog to the ball, pick it up and bring it back to Declan.

“You want to hold the ball like this,” he says, splaying his big hand around the ball.

He tosses the ball gently to me and I catch it.

“Put your ring finger and pinky across the laces,” he says.

I do, but I must not get it right because he propels closer to me and reaches over, moving my fingers—gently and with precision. My heart beats in my throat and a tingling hums across my hand where he touches me. I haven’t been on a date in years—intentionally avoiding dating because no one interested me. Not that I’m dating Declan. At all. I just haven’t been this close to a man, his hand over mine, in a long, long time.

“Put your thumb here.” Declan’s hand engulfs mine, securing my thumb where he wants it. “Balance your grip.”

He looks down at me and I wonder if I’m still breathing.

Get a grip, Winona—and not just on this ball.

Just when I think we’re finished with him touching me, Declan says, “The ball should roll off the fingers, with the index finger being the absolute last point of contact.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Here,” he says, maneuvering himself slowly and carefully until he’s right behind me. He rests his underarms on the crutches, keeping his injured leg bent. His arm comes around in front of me, his hand covers mine on the ball. He bends our arms together. I sink back into him.

“Steady there,” he says, the low rumble of his laughter vibrating through my back.

“Sorry,” I say, gulping.

“Let’s try that again.” His hand firmly covers mine like a weighted blanket. He pulls our arms back and slowly moves through the motion, not releasing me or the ball. “Feel that?”

“Mm hmm,” I say.

I feel it, alright. And I shouldn’t.

“That’s the motion we want. Tell the ball where to go. Let go when it’s here.” He moves our arms in unison again, stopping at a high point.

“Got it?”

I’ve got something.

Probably something devastating.