Page 3 of Trapped and Tackled

I navigate Dad’s truck into his designated parking spot.

Turning off the ignition, I breathe out a shaky exhale and try to shore up some resolve. Some gumption.

I used to live for dinners with Dad. And the truth is, I miss him and hate the distance that’s grown between us since I moved away. It wasn’t the city that caused the space… It was Craig. No, it was the version I became from being with Craig.

Grabbing my purse, I slide from the truck and call Dad.

“Hey!” his deep voice answers.

“Hi, Dad. I’m here,” I say.

“Good, good. I’m just wrapping up a few things.”

Of course, he is. My dad is fully committed to this team, and he’s always “wrapping things up.” It could mean another ten minutes or another two hours. “No problem.”

“I’ll send a player out to bring you up.”

“Okay,” I agree, my nerves rattling at the thought of interacting one-on-one with a big, burly football player.

I’ve been gone for two years, and save for a handful of the older guys, the Coyotes boasts a newer roster. If he sends a player I don’t know, what will we talk about? What will I say?

And when did I forget how to make small talk?

“Head to the main entrance, and I’ll see you soon.”

“See you.” I click off and turn in the direction of the main entrance.

It’s hot outside, but I relish the sunshine on my skin. For years, New York City was my dream. Fast-paced bustle, high-profile events, and big rewards. Bright lights and shimmering possibilities.

But somewhere over the last two years, I realized I didn’t quite fit, and I didn’t care. I missed blue skies and sunshine, flowy dresses and flower crowns, tailgates and Friday night lights.

I missed my home and my family and the familiar.

My Wall Street boyfriend, the job at the fancy agency, and the apartment with a view of Central Park started to pale in comparison to my hometown.

I’m still struggling to admit that out loud. Somewhere in my mind, I hear Craig scoff at my being “basic.”

I reach the main entrance, and the glass door swings open as a guy steps outside.

I look up and freeze as I come face-to-face with Talon Miller. He’s the Coyotes star kicker. A fun-loving, smirking, wild player who seems to be the life of every party. He made some headlines after the Coyotes won the Super Bowl, and while Dad grumbled about it, he did so with a grin, letting me know he thinks Miller’s all right.

I’ve seen him several times but don’t know him—not how I know Cohen Campbell and Avery Callaway. Miller’s newer to the team, playing for two or three seasons, and I’ve been gone for most of them.

Still, I recognize every Coyotes player on sight and can probably rattle off their stats since my father’s job tends to appear in most of our conversations.

Even more so as I ran out of things to tell him on our weekly phone calls. But if I confided in Dad, he’d be on the next flight to New York.

While most, if not all, of the Coyotes players are good-looking, something about Talon Miller makes me catch my breath.

He’s tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist. He has reddish-brown hair, cropped close to the sides of his head and left longer on top. Several days of stubble coat his jawline. His full lips quirk into a grin. And his eyes—gray with flecks of green—dance playfully.

He’s nothing like Craig, and as my heart kicks behind my breastbone, a stirring of attraction that I haven’t felt in weeks—months?—flares to life.

I breathe out a sigh of relief that I can still feel something for a man. That I’m not broken.

“I’m finally meeting Leni Strauss,” he says by way of greeting, holding out a hand.

I smile gratefully and place my hand in his, ignoring how large his palm is. His fingers are warm as they wrap around mine. “It’s good to officially meet you, Talon.”

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