Page 6 of Just a Football Star

I take another bite of omelet, savoring the tang of sundried tomatoes and brie. The resort is too luxurious to offer free breakfast, so I have to be careful with how I spend my money while I’m here. But this omelet? Definitely a good use of funds.

One important note: I haven’t gotten any chocolate-covered cinnamon bears, and I plan to alleviate this tragedy as soon as possible.

I couldn’t go to the supermarket in town yesterday like I’d planned. After my run and the interesting encounter with the hot Chatty Charlie, whose real name is Alec Tate, I went to the front desk. It only took hearing the blessed words: “Your room is ready,” and I holed up in my suite, dying over the green and gold décor, soft, pillowy bedding and enormous TV.

When was the last time I laid around, watching sports news for hours on end? I can’t remember. But I guarantee it was sometime before being hired on by the Wolves last year. And definitely before I met Alec Tate, who I recognized after his unbelievable fall.

I guess it makes sense that he’s here, as this is a Tate International resort. He must be visiting his older brother. And while I recognized him, it’s not like we ever officially met back in San Antonio. I was hired the same week he was injured, and since I worked with the defensive team and Alec was a running back, we only saw each other in passing.

It feels odd to be talking about my job in the past tense, and this morning, I feel sluggish. I’m not used to this kind of life. I’m used to slaying the day, over and over again, training some of the top football players in the league. Not slinking away from my problems, my tail between my legs, licking my wounds.

It doesn’t sit right with me. I need a project—a plan.

Except, I’m so dang tired. I wash the omelet down with some sour cranberry juice—it’s good for the kidneys—and prepare to leave. That’s when I see Alec Tate walking towards me. The room is mostly empty and I’m glad for that right now. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes me imagine music—some sort of crooning, wah wah wah waaaah—as he’s walking.

Except then I realize it’s not a swagger—he’s definitely limping.

“It’s—you.” I stop myself from calling him by the nickname I invented for him, which wouldn’t have been as bad as calling him Tripping Tyler or Face-plant Frank. And I’m not going to call him by his real name because then I might have to explain where I know him from and then we’d have to talk about the Wolves.

I’m not ready to talk about anything involving the Wolves.

And he might not be, either. I remember when he suffered the worst knee injury a player can have. The team might be a sore subject for him, too.

His lips turn up in a slight smile as he reaches my table. His gaze darts to the serving area and the kitchen before he motions to the chair opposite mine. “Can I sit?”

I hesitate because really, for someone so uncharacteristically free of all plans, I’d just formed one in my head about finding chocolate-covered cinnamon bears and it’s irritating to be deterred.

He takes a step back and his wrists flex, like he’s raising his palms in surrender. “It’s okay if you don’t want—”

“No, no. It’s fine.” I gesture to my empty plate. “I just finished, so I can’t stay long.”

He eases himself into the chair. He’s ginger about it but trying to hide it. I’ve worked with hundreds of athletes over the years. Some of them would rather give their right arm to science than to show they’re in pain.

“How are you feeling today after that fall?” I ask.

The skin around his bright blue eyes tightens at the corners. “Fine. Everything’s all good. How are you?” He leans forward on his elbows and that’s when I see the treadmill belt burns on his forearms. They’re a fresh, tender, pink mess, and I can’t stop my sharp intake of breath.

He rotates one arm around. “What? My arms? They only look bad because of the ointment. It’s fine. They don’t even hurt anymore.” He slaps the injury with his open palm, as if to prove the point.

“Did you let the resort know?” I ask before taking another sip of juice from my glass.

“About what?”

NowI’mtrying to hide stuff fromhim. The tart of the juice is killing me, but I pretend I’m fine. “About the injury. I’m sure for legal purposes, they’ll need to file it away.”

He gives a grunt of a laugh before his scowl is back firmly in place. “I don’t need to do that.”

He probably really does, but I’m not this grown man’s babysitter, so I change the subject. “What are you going to order? I’d ten out of ten recommend the Mediterranean omelet.”

He watches my face. “Oh, yeah? It was that good, huh?”

I nod, but before we can say anything more, a server with a nametag that reads “Teresa” comes and sets down a plate of waffles stacked high with raspberries and whipped cream. He thanks her and then pours his syrup all over, emptying most of the little bottle.

“You remind me of a Christmas movie,” I offer, containing my urge to roll my eyes.

“Huh?” He takes a big bite, leaving a bit of whipped cream in the corner of his mouth.

“You know. The one with the elf who thinks maple syrup is its own food group?”

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