Page 21 of The Perfect Pass
It didn’t seem to stop him, though. As the drills wound down, he worked with other players one-on-one, showing the backup quarterback how to snap the ball faster and a lineman to sink lower into his stance and drive through the block. Every now and then, the limp returned. When it did, he’d take smaller, more deliberate steps and his discomfort would immediately become less obvious.
Calla gnawed on her bottom lip, trying to come up with a proper adjective for what she was seeing.
“Inspiring…passionate.”
Her pen flew across the page in a flurry of stream of consciousness–style notes. She didn’t need to overthink this. Once she was back at her computer, she could form a narrative out of her opinions. For now, all she needed was a record of her thoughts and impressions of what she was seeing. She added a few more quick notes, then her hand grew still when she reached the bottom of the page. After a brief moment of hesitation, she added one last word.
“Sacrifice.”
A slow smile came to her lips, and then she did a double-take at her final note. The stadium seemed to tilt and blur around her as a wave of fresh grief washed over her, completely out of nowhere.Sacrificewas a word she’d always associated with Ethan. It wasn’t a romantic or idealized notion at all. It was tragic…and it didn’t belong anywhere near a list of Jackson Knight’s attributes.
She inhaled a shuddering breath and glanced down at the bright green turf in an attempt to steady herself and get her bearings. Practice had ended, and she hadn’t even realized it. Players were filtering off the field, headingtoward the locker room. The equipment managers chased down stray balls while a few of the coaches shared a laugh on the sidelines. Jackson cut a solitary figure as he stood with his hands slung loosely on his hips near the fifty-yard line, gaze sweeping over the playing area.
Just as Calla wondered what he was thinking, his head swiveled in her direction. Their eyes met and held as her heart fluttered wildly, a butterfly caught in a net. A gentle smile tipped Jackson’s lips.
He’s only a story,she told herself as her grip tightened around her pen.Just like football is only a game.
Then her throat closed up tight as she looked down, slashed a bold line through the wordsacrificeand slammed her notebook shut.
Chapter Seven
Calla considered it a blessing when Thursday rolled around and Bailey called to invite her to a flower party at Field Goal Flowers. She wasn’t exactly sure whether it was a floral-arranging class or a happy hour—possibly both—but her answer was an unequivocal yes. The past few days she’d been so immersed in Bishop football that she would’ve eagerly accepted an invitation to a root canal, so long as it didn’t involve sports balls of any kind. She hadn’t even let Bailey finish the question before she blurted that she’d love to come and she’d meet her at the flower shop at six o’clock on the dot.
The entire week had been a bit of a whirlwind. If she wasn’t at her keyboard banging out article after article in anticipation of the big opening game, she’d been at practice, watching the team in action. On the second day, she’d sat a bit closer to the field so she could get a better look at things and catch more of the conversation that took place between the coaches and the players. By Thursday afternoon, she’d managed to park herself on the front row in the same spot where she always sat beside her dad on game nights. Jackson had done a double-take when he’d first spotted her there, and she’d have been lying if she’d said a little tingle hadn’tcoursed through her when his mouth hitched up in a grin. But she’d tamped down that feeling as quickly as she could, refocusing on the laptop balanced on her knees as she reminded herself she didn’t care what he thought.
Why did that ever-important fact keep slipping her mind?
It doesn’t matter. You’re here now, and there isn’t a patch of Astroturf or a frustratingly handsome football star in sight.She glanced at the striped awning above Field Goal Flowers and took a deep inhale. Marigold Knox, the flower shop’s owner, always kept a stand of fresh-cut bouquets on the sidewalk out front. Whenever she popped by, Calla liked to pause on the threshold and let the sweet scents of paper-wrapped peonies and velvety roses carry her off to an imaginary garden somewhere…or a flower stall on a cobblestone walkway…anywhere but here, in her football-obsessed hometown.
Tonight was girls’ night, though. Surely she’d get a reprieve.
She reached for the doorknob, noting the sign pinned to the front window that said Closed for a Private Eventas she entered the shop. Then she stopped cold and looked around as she realized what Bailey had roped her into.
“Calla! Welcome!” Marigold waved at her from a table in the center of the room. At least Callathoughtit was her florist friend. It was kind of hard to tell, given the profusion of green and white ribbons that littered every surface. Spools of the stuff even hung from a clothes wire that someone—Marigold, probably—had strung overhead.
The urge to turn around and walk back out the door was overwhelming. Unfortunately, Bailey was at Calla’s side before she could move a muscle.
“Hey!” Baileythrew her arms around Calla and gave her a tight hug. “I’m so glad you agreed to come this year.”
Calla stiffened. Dang it. How had she let this happen? “Bailey, this isn’t Marigold’s annual homecoming mum party, is it?”
Nearby, a tiny cowbell tinkled, and Calla was transported straight back to high school, when you couldn’t walk the halls without hearing the swish of ribbons or the clang of minicowbells in the days leading up to the big homecoming game.
“Of course it is,” Bailey said, forehead crinkling. “What kind of party did you expect?”
Anything but this.Literallyanything.
Calla sighed. “I need a girls’ night in the worst possible way. I guess I jumped the gun at your invite.”
“I’ll admit I was a little surprised you said yes.” Bailey plucked a glass from a nearby tray and handed it to her. At least there was wine. Thank heaven for small favors. “Did you really not know what was going down tonight?”
Calla shook her head and took a sip of her chardonnay, somehow managing not to pour the entire glass down her throat in a single swallow.
“Homecoming is a full month away,” she said, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “What are we doing here?”
Bailey slung an arm over her shoulder and steered her toward one of the work tables that had been set up in the center of the room. It looked like a green glitter bomb had exploded all over its surface. “Do you honestly not have any idea how many mums this place sells during homecoming week? Marigold needs all the help she can get. That’s why this party is an annual thing.”
Calla gave a reluctant nod.
