Page 75 of Tangled with the Tight End

I’m in trouble.

I like Declan.

I like the man. I like the feel of his hand on mine. I like how he wants me to learn about his sport. I like how he sees me.

The realization almost makes me sink into him again. My legs feel like they could fail me.

I focus. Throwing the ball. That’s what we’re doing.

“I’m ready,” I tell Declan.

“Good. Let’s see what you’ve got,” he says again and he propels himself away from me.

The space he leaves behind feels emptier than usual.

Not good.

I’ll deal with this mess later. For now, I’m just going to throw this ball. That’s what he wants. And what Declan O’Connell wants, Declan O’Connell gets. That’s what the orthopedic doctor said, and I’m pretty sure he’s not wrong—on any front.

Women like Chantal throw themselves at Declan’s feet. Women with shoes that match their lipstick. Women who keep overnight bags in their cars so they can offer massages in a tone that implies a lot more than me tickling his baby toe.

He’s an NFL player.

The reality smacks me like a glass of cold water in the face.

I grip the ball.

“Not so tight. You’re not trying to kill it. You’re trying to throw it.”

“Sorry. I was just … focusing.”

“Hold it loosely enough to let it fly.”

I do as he says and ask, “Ready?”

“Yeah, Winona. Wow me.”

I focus and pull my arm back the way he showed me. Then I release the ball and focus on my index finger being the last finger on the ball. This time the ball flies instead of wobbling. It lands about ten feet away from the net, but the throw looked good and it went way farther.

I turn around to face Declan and before my brain has time to engage, I throw my arms around him in an excited hug. He grips his crutches, staying upright despite my spontaneous assault.

“Sorry!” I say. “But did you see that?”

“I saw it! Get this woman an agent!”

I laugh. “Yeah. No. But it was so much better.”

Declan doesn’t step back like I expect him to.

He’s right there, his voice low, soft, deep. “You’re a natural, Winona.” He winks and a slow smile spreads across his face. “You just needed the right coach.”

The way he says my name ... And that wink. Can he sense the way my pulse thrums in my neck?

He stares down at me with a look in his eyes that I can’t make out.

Then he confesses, “I wish I could throw right now—and catch.” The note of longing in his voice breaks my heart for him.

“You will,” I promise.