Page 43 of When to Call a Blitz

Wincing, I shake my head. “I’m sorry Coop, I have something going on tomorrow.”

“Then cancel it?” he says with a sly smile.

“I can’t cancel this one.” I promised her I’d go. I don’t break promises, no matter how much I may want to.

“Fine. But I’m getting you soon, got it? Plus, we were going to try to find you a date, remember?”

Panic surges through me as it always does at this suggestion. The guys are worried for me, I know they are. But I’ve had to make up girls in the past to get them off of my back.

I’m not interested in dating. I don’t feel like wasting both of our time when I’m clearly not ready for any kind of relationship. I don’t really know if I’ll ever be. I think when I’m further in life, retired from football, and thinking about what else can make my life better, maybe I’d consider it. But right now I have plenty to fill my cup.

I don’t allow myself to think of the other reason I don’t feel like finding a date is a good idea.

“Maybe,” I say simply as I throw my bag over my shoulder. Grabbing the rest of my things, I make my way out to the car, and when I’m safely inside with the door shut, I allow myself to breathe for the first time in hours.

When I’m finally home, the first thing that I notice is that all the windows look open.

Odd,I think, but there’s probably a reason.

The other thing is that there’s a weird tinge of, well, I’m not actually sure, that I smell the second I walk into the house. Maybe it was just something from the garage that for whatever reason I haven’t picked up on until now, maybe it’s something that should be a way bigger issue than it is.

But as the weight of exhaustion takes over my body, I head to my bedroom without a word for a nap.

The first thing I smell when I wake up Sunday morning is chocolate.

My muscles are sore, I’m groggy and just a little grumpy as I swing my legs out of bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Tugging on a pair of sweatpants and a simple t-shirt, I make my way barefoot into the kitchen.

“What is this?” I ask, coming to a halt.

Heidi pauses, chocolate-covered knife in hand as the girls both look up from their plates, their eyes wide and surprised.

“Cake,” she shrugs.

“It’s Sunday morning,” I look around at the cocoa-covered kitchen, handprints smeared across the counter.

“It’s Sunday morning cake time. A tradition.” She puts the knife down, crossing her arms over her chest.

“A tradition?”

“My family would always make cake every Sunday and have a piece for breakfast. It made Sundays a little more tolerable growing up.”

Juniper burps from the chair to the right of her, Elara slapping her on the back with a mouthful of dessert. “I think we need to make this a tradition too, Dad,” she says sweetly, grabbing her glass of milk.

I open my mouth to respond but whatever I meant to say is caught in my throat as Heidi beams at my daughter, a smile spreading across her whole face.

Instead, I turn on my heel and retreat into the garage. This is a problem for another day, and I don’t have it in me toacknowledge how that smile threw gasoline on the fire raging in my heart. Not today.

We’re down seven and the Washington players have been talking shit all game. The veteran quarterback is known for his quick thinking, but he’s not known for his mobility, which is to our advantage.

The Cobras are known for a lot of things. A great quarterback that’s able to barrel through almost any situation. A couple of receivers that get better every year. Cooper is even starting to be mentioned in conversation about great tight ends in the league this year.

But one of the biggest reasons is for our defense.

A great defense makes the quarterback’s job easier. We stop the offense, and Leo doesn’t have to work so hard to score as many points.

But even great teams have tough games, and this is one of them.

I stare at the quarterback as the ball is snapped before rushing the quarterback, Colby dropping back to cover. He steps back, football in hand as he loses sight of his target, and the second he sees me, it’s too late.

---