Page 77 of Sideline Play

“Elle Woods, really?” Reeves asks, hands on the board and chin on his hands as his head bobs from side to side.

“Yeah. I was like seven or somethin’ when it came out. My ma had a Blockbuster coupon for a free new release rental, and she got that. It was love at first sight for me seeing Reese Witherspoon in that pink dress and heels. I guess you cansay I’ve always had a thing for highly intelligent, kind hearted blondes.”

Surly over the answer counting, Roman interjects, “Okay, okay, we get it,” motioning for things to speed along. “Tate’s perfect for Squeaks. He’s basically spent his whole life preparing for her, and she’s been in love with him for like seven years.” Then smiling like the Devil himself, he prompts, “Scarlet, your answer.”

Sticking my tongue out at him, I mutter, “Remington Tate,” waving off my family’s boisterous laughter as everyone, Remi included, check off their earned points.

With his lips in my hair, he whispers “I like that I don’t have to share your attention with anyone, even a celebrity. Every single piece of you is all for me.”

“Are you getting possessive over me, Remi?” I tease.

“Oh baby girl, I’m long past the gettin’ stage and full on there,” he practically growls, kissing me.

Just as our lips touch, the area we’re gathered around grows even brighter for a moment before evening back out to the warm glow of the fire. Separating and looking around our circle, I see Reeves grinning like a fool at his phone.

“Y’all were too cute to pass up,” he coos before my phone dings with an incoming message.

Picking it up from the table, I open his text to examine the photo he took. With the fire dancing up in front of us, we’re in bright relief in comparison to the shadowy backdrop of mountains and the star filled sky. Though our faces aren’t entirely visible, the blonde of my hair and the stack of modified championship rings on my right hand as I touch Remington’s cheek are as unmistakable as the bright white number 8 on my back.

Though the photos taken of us while at the Cornucopia Festival made the answer to the nature of our relationship prettyclear, I show Remi and ask, “Can I post it?” since we’ve never actually talked about just how much we’re going to let the world in once we return to Nashville full time.

“Only if you tag me in it.”

“And share,” Reeves says proudly, a notification banner forInstagramcoming down across the top of my screen.

“Reeves!”

“What? He agreed and I wanted credit for my awesome photography skills,” he replies, pocketing his phone.

Opening up the app, I read, “‘@s.jones41st and @remington.tate8 out here making the world believe that fairy tales and happily ever afters do exist.’

“Reeves-e’s, you’re gonna make me cry. Why are you such an asshat when you can be so sweet?” Accepting the collaboration invitation and sharing the full picture to my Stories, I tag Remington so his handle is scrawled across the bottom of his number and promptly shut off my notifications as the heart in the upper corner begins to rapidly ping with likes and comments. Then, as if I’m not trying to determine where in our Brentwood home this photo would best be displayed, I say, “Ro, you’re up, but we all know the answer is Emilia Clarke, Reeves, Emma Watson, and Dad, Carrie Underwood. What’s everyone’s tally?”

“30,” my dad, Roman, and Reeves all answer with Remington proudly showing his board and saying, “20,” having gotten mine and my dad’s answers correct.

Reaching for the bowl, I flip my board around so they can confirm my points as I say, “40,” while trying to psychically search out the best slip of pink paper. Finally picking one after passing over four or five others, I read, “‘What would each player say would be their career path if not doing their current job?’

“Damn it,” I huff, dropping the paper into the fire. “I’m so getting y’all back for this.”

While I’m writing my answers and best guesses for everyone else, Remington moves the hand from my leg up to wrap around my hip and anchor me to him as he adjusts to spread his legs out further. Brushing loose strands back from my face that the fall breeze keeps blowing forward, his fingers drift to the nape of my neck where he starts to rub at the tension filled spots, coaxing my shoulders down.

“Did you always want to be an athletic trainer?” he quietly asks as the line for my answer remains blank.

Resigned to the free points I’m about to give everyone, I snap the marker to the top of the board and answer, “More like, I always wanted to work for the team and have a job where I could breathe in the smell of the grass and dirt, the leather and wood varnish, the smells of all my childhood memories.

“As a girl, the most obvious answer would have been a job in the front office, but I wanted to be a part of the game, get to continue to travel with the players, feel the contagious energy of the crowd. A desk job wasn’t gonna give me that, at least not with any sort of regular consistency.

“Very briefly I thought about pursuing coaching, pitching specifically for obvious reasons,” I chuckle, gesturing to my dad and Roman. “But you know that’s exceedingly difficult to get into these days without professional time on the mound or behind the plate, and while I love the game, it’s the mechanics and strategy as well as player maintenance that I’m obsessed with.

“I spent all of the 2015 season shadowing everyone from coaches to photographers who worked for the team down on the field and in the dugout. It was Jennings who helped me realize exactly where my place would be though. He was still a mid-level trainer at the time, but after the first few days following him around, I knew he was right, and ever since then, he’s been mentoring me.”

“Molding you,” Roman corrects. “He hasn’t been quiet about the fact he wants to retire and move to teaching since Mrs. Layla got pregnant.”

“And now that Hunter’s here and he’s getting showered with baby snuggles and inhaling that precious newborn smell, he’s acting on it,” Dad says, looking a little wistful. “Even with the sleepless nights and exploding diapers, those were some of the best days, and they went far too fast. Rushing off the mound during evening games so I could snatch you back from Marcia and do your dream feeding… the little coos you would make while you guzzled your bottle… naps with you on my chest and having your bassinet attached to the bed for co-sleeping.

“That stage, all the stages, go too fast. He’s not gonna want to miss any more of it than he absolutely has to. And with you at his side, he’ll get to be there for quite a lot. But mark my words, he’s not waiting ten years to transition over to teaching. I give it five, tops. And that’s only because that’s how many years of licensed experience you’ll need before he can hand his job over to you.”

“You’re only saying that because I’m your daughter,” I deflect, tucking my hair behind my ear as I look down at where a small bit of ash is floating down to the dormant grass, it’s blazing orange hue rapidly fading as it’s assaulted by the cool air.

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