Page 1 of False Start

ONE

TRENT

I walked onto the field,toeing a thin piece of concrete separating the dugout from the diamond. My new teammates were spread across the field, a few wearing matching t-shirts with their team name, The Foul Boules, plastered on the back.

I breathed in, first-day-of-school nerves gripping my stomach despite the fact I hadn’t stepped into a classroom in five years.

But kickball wasn’t my sport. My sport was astroturf and pigskin, not dirt and rubber.

“Are you Trent?” A tall guy with a broccoli haircut turned away from the action on the field, doffing his sunglasses. His welcoming smile immediately put me at ease.

I nodded, straightening my spine and plastering on a charming smile. “Yeah.”

“Nice to meet you, man.” He threw out a hand. “Derek. I’m the captain.”

I nodded, taking his hand. “Nice to meet you. Glad you had a spot for me.”

I’d been a top NFL draft pick, but somehow getting on the roster of the Norwalk kickball recreation league required a slew of favors. The bulk of the teams formed throughwork or friendship: local sawmill workers, Connected Financial employees, the Upper Deckers drinking club. I’d pitched my case to the latter but lost out to a member’s girlfriend.

I ended up on a list of free agents, and the Foul Boules were the only takers.

“You lucked out. Our chocolatier broke his ankle.”

“Chocolatier?”

He tapped the logo on his pocket that read “Rise and Shine Bakery.”

“So, coworkers?” I asked, hitching my head toward the gaggle of people chasing after a ball screaming into the outfield.

“Friends, but also coworkers.”

“I guess that explains the name. The Foul Boules, I didn’t get it at first.”

Derek grinned. “That was Kit’s idea. Let me introduce you to your new team.”

I set my bag on a metal bench in the dugout and walked onto the field, pasting a winning smile on my face and wiping my sweaty palms onto my shorts.

Derek pressed two fingers into his mouth, releasing an ear-piercing whistle. “Get over here, guys!”

The team, all curious smiles and covered in dirt, walked to the dugout.

“Hey, y’all,” I drawled, leaning into my Texan accent. “I’m Trent.”

“I’m Gavin.” A bald guy around my age walked up and shook my hand. “Trent Vogt, right? From the Breakers?”

My lips hitched, and I nodded at the impressed oohs emanating from my new teammates. Four years in the NFL and enough press to paper the entire stadium, I’d grown used to being recognized, but normally in post-game interviews and in clubs, late at night and buzzed. Not mid-day, stone-cold sober on a baseball field.

I scanned the crowd, gauging the individual reactions, finding mostly smiles and a couple of whispered comments, no doubt reporting the latest gossip inBreaking the Breakers.A mousy woman in the back seemed to be the only person unimpressed with that information drop. Her honey brown eyes darted over to Derek with a frown. He gave her a sharp shake of his head.

“We thought the name was a joke. Or a weird coincidence,” Derek said.

“Nope.” My nerves faded. “The one and only.”

“What are you doing playing for a rec league?” An older woman with gray-streaked hair asked.

It was a good question. One I’d asked myself as I pawed through my workout gear, changing for the third time, because what kind of asshole shows up in their own branded sportswear line? Me. But really, the better question was what was a record-breaking running back doing playing in the local kickball league?

“I thought I’d keep myself busy this off season.” I chuckled, a self-deprecating laugh meant for the people who followed the gossip columns.

---