Page 67 of False Start

A cloud passed over his face. “Nah. Not this season, anyway.”

“Sounds ominous.” He shook his head, clearing the frown. I changed the subject. “What was your major, anyway? No, wait, let me guess. Poli-sci.”

The shift in conversation did the trick, and Trent grinned. “Nope. Try again.”

“I bet it’s something weird, like turf grass management or hospitality.”

“You’re closer.” He laughed. “Agriculture.”

“Seriously?”

He shrugged. “What can I say? I was a 4-H kid.”

The conjured image of Trent as a kid, fitted with an oversized cowboy hat, jeans and boots, made my chest tight. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s a very manly major.”

“One that you’re not doing anything with.”

“But I could, one day,” he said with a level of sincerity that made me wonder if he had a plan for the future that didn’t involve football.

“Is that your long-term plan? Dominate the NFL and then retire to a farm?”

“Other players have done it.”

“Really?”

“Like Lance Blaze.” He breathed the name with a level of reverence that surprised me.

“I hate to admit this, but don’t know who that is.”

Trent nearly stopped the car. He rounded on me, jaw dropped. “You don’t know Lance Blaze?”

“I guess he was good?”

“Not good. Great. The best.”

“Then why haven’t I heard of him?” I didn’t follow football closely, but Derek and I put the games on in the background. We played in a fantasy league. I considered myself proficient in my knowledge of the sport even if I wasn’t a fan.

“Because he disappeared. On the morning of his first Super Bowl, he quit. Took off. Never to be heard from again.”

“That also sounds ominous.”

“Jesus, Kitten,” Trent raked a hand through his hair. “I have so much to teach you. Let’s finishInvisible Womenand then I’m going to introduce you to the podcast, Down in a Blaze of Glory.”

“Sounds lame.” I nestled back in my seat, a contented smile on my face.

He chuckled. “You sound lame.”

We stumbled through stops all morning without running into another team. Unfortunately for us, since Trent’s thumb obscured the bottom quarter of the picture he took that morning.

“Tom and Ashley!” Trent’s voice snapped me out of a near nap.

I blinked, clearing the haziness from my eyes. “You think they’ll give us a new route book?”

We had pulled off the road and into the entrance to a park. I fumbled for my phone, pulling up the picture of the obscured route book and zooming in to read that we were at Galaxy Park which homed a to-scale replica of the solar system on a walking path.

“Of course they will,” Trent said breezily. “This probably happens all the time.”

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