Page 4 of Be Still My Racing Heart
Blake pushes the bar on the glass door that leads outside, where even more kids are expending enough energy to power every house in Texas. “Teague and I grew up in different homes and haven’t spent much time together since he went off to college. He was busy focusing on his racing career, and with almost 1,500 miles separating us, it wasn’t like either one of us could just pop over for dinner.”
“That doesn’t explain why I haven’t seen you at the Morrison Motors headquarters or the training facility since you moved here a month ago. Surely, we should have run into each other at least once before now.” I lean over and whisper, “Why have you been hiding?”
Something about my question puts Blake on edge because her posture suddenly becomes as rigid and wooden as her gait. “Who says I’ve been hiding, Ryder? Maybe I’ve just been avoidingyou!”
“Why would you want to do that? I’m a lot of fun, easy to get along with, and have been told I have a swoon-worthy smile.” I grin to highlight my point and showcase the dimples that cause women to melt into a puddle of goo.
“Smarmy is more like it,” she retorts with a dazzling smile of her own. Long, dark lashes frame her sparkling emerald-green eyes, and her short, blonde hair makes her look like Tinkerbell. Granted, a much larger version because Blake is almost six feet tall without wearing heels, but a pixie, nonetheless. My racing heart nearly stops when she adds a wink for effect. I’ve been around Blake for a nano-second, and I’m already smitten. This does not bode well for me and for staying out of trouble—something I’m prone to getting myself into.
“Did you say charming? Because yes, yes, I am. I’ll have these kids wrapped around my finger in no time flat.”
Stopping in her tracks and grabbing my arm with a strength I didn’t know she could possess; she narrows her gaze at me. “Ryder, that is not how this works. Play It Forward is about professional athletes empowering children through sports, leadership, and community. We’re here to foster teamwork, self-discipline, and sportsmanship. We’re here to inspire these children to reach for the stars, never give up, and to give back to their communities. We are not, I repeat,nothere to bend them toourwill.”
I glance at the hand on my arm, the warmth from her touch seeping through my skin and sending sparks of electricity through my body. The current is so strong that I’mshockedthat I’m not on the ground and flopping around like a person who has just been tased. She doesn’t appear the least bit phased.
“I was only joking. What am I supposed to do? I’m here at the behest of your father and Bennie, but I’ve never really been a ‘kid’ person. I grew up an only child, so I don’t know the first thing about being a Big Brother or a mentor.”
“But you are an athlete with the time to give back,” she says. “You’re home Sundays through Wednesdays to train, but Morrison Motors is giving you three hours every Wednesday to come here. Use that time to connect and teach these kids some skills that will be useful.”
“Like what? I drive a car at 180 miles per hour, and most of these kids aren’t even old enough to shave. When I was their age, I was stealing cars and evading cops,” I tell her. Anyone who’s readMotorMagknows this about me after a kid from my high school sold the story. Because I was a minor when I testified against my father and his buddies, my name was redacted, but that didn’t stop the people who knew me from spilling the beans.
A teenage boy, around 14 or 15 years old, passes by as the words slip from my mouth. His dark eyes match his dark skin, but the whites of his eyes are bright as his smile. “You used to boost cars? That’s so cool!”
Blake pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s not cool, Trevor. Stealing is wrong, and you should never, ever do that.”
Trevor frantically waves his hands in the air, swatting away Blake’s rebuke. “No! No! No! I mean it’s cool that he escaped that life and is here now!” When he turns to face me, he cocks his head and studies me, scanning me from head to toe. “You’re a pro athlete, right? Based on your attire, I’d say you’re a golfer all the way, Man.”
I extend my arms and do a spin. “Was it the polo shirt or golf shorts that gave me away?” I joke.
Trevor points to my shoes. “Nope. It’s the loafers and the fact that you aren’t wearing any socks.”
“He’s not a pro-golfer, Trevor. He’s a NASCAR driver. The sunglasses on top of his head and the cocky grin should have clued you in. Now skedaddle while I show Ryder around. You can go and Google him if you want.” She starts to lead me away and then turns back toward Trevor. “On second thought, don’t. Stay away from the internet.”
I lean over and whisper. “He’s a teenage boy who’s just been toldnotto do something. You realize that’s the first thing he’s going to do, right?”
Blake graces me with another one of her ten-mile smiles. “See, Ryder, you do understand kids! Trevor’s a good egg, but he’s had it rough. He comes from a broken home, and his mom works three jobs to take care of him and his three younger siblings. His dream is to be a basketball player for the Houston Rockets or Dallas Mavericks.”
“He’s a little short for pro basketball,” I remark. I don’t want to squash a kid’s dreams, but there’s also facing reality. There are a select few who have crushed the height stereotype that’s associated with the sport, and though it can happen, it’s rare.
“Earl Boykins was 5'5" and played for the Houston Rockets in 2012, and Isaiah Thomas is 5'9" and played for the Dallas Mavericks in 2021. Besides, Trevor isn’t done growing and could have a growth spurt,” she fires back.
“I’m impressed you know all that. Not many people do.”
She snorts. “I didn’t until Trevor rattled off the facts. Something tells me the height issue has come up before.”
We casually stroll along as she points out a tennis court, a small golf range, basketball courts, a baseball diamond, a running track, and a large open field edged with a few other outbuildings. The entire time I’m trying not to focus on the sway of her hips or the twinkle in her eyes. “Ryder, these kids have a ton of heart, but they still need positive reinforcement. They don’t need anyone telling them they’re too short, too tall, too skinny, too fat, not fast enough, or that something they can’t control will cause them to fall short of achieving their dreams.”
“The reality is that not everyone is going to become a professional athlete, Blake. Less than 2% of college athletes become pros. I’m not trying to be the bearer of bad news, but living with your head in the clouds instead of being grounded in reality can also be equally debilitating.”
She nods and hooks her thumbs in the back pocket of her pants as we continue to walk toward the buildings off in the distance. “That’s true, but they’ll adopt skills that will make them successful in whatever they do—teamwork, leadership and followership, learning to win or lose gracefully, determination, and so much more. We just use sports as a mechanism to teach them life skills. You have to admit, it’s a lot more fun than a lecture.”
“Like the one I’m getting now?” I tease.
The corner of Blake’s mouth curves upward in a half-smile that makes my pulse quicken. “I’d like to think of it as educating rather than lecturing since this is a two-way conversation and you don’t seem to be taking notes.”
I tap my temple. “It’s all up here. My brain is a sponge and I’m soaking it all in.”
Once we get to the buildings that skirt the edge of the property, Blake explains, “These are our workshops. Not every child here is into sports, but a few are here because of their siblings, and we still like to make it fun. We have a hobby shop, wood shop, and auto shop.”
