Page 3 of Against the Clock

“Finally,” Daniel tells him, “she got hit pretty hard.” None of the softness is in his voice now.

“Are you hurt?” the medic asks him instead.

I blink.

“She’s the one who took the hit,” Daniel snarls at him. He turns back to me, his lips turned down in a frown. “Kelsey Cole, there is nothing I’d rather do than sit here and make sure you’re okay, but I have to go back to work.”

The medic looks between us, clearly confused about why the quarterback is still here. Frankly, that makes two of us.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous, I’ll take you out to dinner to make it up to you.”

“Uh?” I manage, confused about how dinner equates to getting the wind knocked out of you.

“Exactly,” Daniel says, grinning broadly. He reaches a hand out, and for a moment, I think he’s going to touch my face.

He drops his hand, though, and stands up, every inch the athlete. He winks at me, then takes off at a run.

I watch him go, transfixed by pants that, despite all the reasons I hate football, I can’t deny are a blessing to anyone interested in men. My gaze floats to the display overhead.

The Beavers scored a touchdown while I was down for the count.

Or while I was too busy staring up into the too-handsome face of Daniel Harrison.

“Oh my god, Kelsey, are you hurt?” Savannah, one of the cheerleaders that’s agreed to speak with me for my story, pushes through the small crowd surrounding me.

The medic, who’s finally decided to do his job now that Daniel Harrison told him to, is shining a flashlight into my eyes and I swat his hand away, annoyed.

“Just surprised,” I tell her.

“You okay?” the medic asks, clearly put off by my efforts to stop him.

“I’m fine,” I tell him and he finally backs off, stowing his tiny flashlight away.

“That looked like it hurt,” Savannah says, grabbing me under the armpit and pulling me up with surprising strength. It shouldn’t be surprising. The cheerleaders are pure muscle and glitter. I have a whole hell of a lot of respect for them… which is why I’m here.

To do a job.

Just like Daniel Harrison.

Not sit on my butt on the poky grass.

“You sure?” Savannah asks again, giving me an eagle-eyed once-over.

“I’m good,” I tell her, then frown when I see my damned iPad shattered on the ground next to me.

“I’m so glad,” she says, giving my shoulders a quick, gentle squeeze before darting back to the line of ten cheerleaders and immediately picks up the dance where she left off.

Grimacing, I roll my shoulders, trying to pop my neck. My favorite grey pencil skirt is covered in bits of turf, and I have a sneaking suspicion it now sports an ass-shaped green imprint. I brush my butt off as best I can, putting a safer distance between me and the men insistent on beating each other to a pulp for the crowd’s entertainment.

I hate it here.

I chance a look back at the rabid crowd behind me, and even though the Wilmington Beavers are the losingest pro football team in recent history, the stands are packed with gold-and-blue-clad fans, screaming their lungs out at each fresh impact on the field.

It brings back the worst memories.

There’s a newly sore spot behind my shoulder. Maybe I’m not so fine.

I’m definitely going to feel it tomorrow.

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