From the Start (12 page)

Ava waved her hand over the table. “Pay attention, girl. I’m saving you from having to read
Football for Dummies.
Don’t you want to surprise and impress Colton with your football knowledge?”

Colton.
He’d be her saving grace, right? He could massage all the football scenes in the book. Her worry stilled. “Did you watch many of Colton’s games?”

Ava reached for the strawberry smoothie she’d conveniently
not included in the improvised field lineup. “Are you kidding me? He was one of my favorite players.”

“What was he like?”

“Loose cannon, really. He’s pretty big for a quarterback, so he was great at breaking through a line. And even though his pass percentage wasn’t out of this world, once in a while he’d pull off this incredible throw at the last minute. I think that’s why he was so fun to watch—you never knew what he was going to do.”

“Couldn’t that also be seen as a weakness, though? I mean, from a coach’s perspective?” Or any perspective. An image of Gil slid in then—the day
he’d
done what she never expected, told her everything she’d thought about their relationship was wrong.

“
We never should’ve been more than teacher and student, Katie.”

“But you
said—”

“I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have.”

The blaring of Ava’s phone interrupted the memory. “Sorry, gotta answer this. Outside, apparently.” She pointed to the sign hanging on one wall. A picture of a phone with a slash through it.

As Ava disappeared out the front door, Kate plucked her mocha from the table and rose. Might as well get a refill while she waited, do something to silence Gil’s voice, still annoyingly crystal clear in her memory.

The barista behind the counter fiddled with the handle on one of the machines as Kate approached. The woman let out a frustrated groan. “Stupid thing.”

“Everything all right back here?”

The girl spun, the ties at the back of her apron hanging loose. “If by ‘all right’ you mean a disaster in the making, then yeah, absolutely.” She swiped at the strands of jet-black hair
dangling over her face, leaving a trail of coffee grounds along her cheek. Pierced nose, skull-shaped earrings, college aged. “Any minute now the midmorning rush is gonna show up, and here I am with a broken espresso machine and—” She broke off as the machine rattled once more.

“What exactly constitutes a rush in Maple Valley?”

The barista—Megan, according to her nametag—shoved up the sleeves of her black-and-white-striped shirt, scowl deepening. “You’d be surprised. If we ever ran out of coffee, this town would go into a collective shock. Bunch of caffeine-deprived zombies roaming the streets.” She abandoned the machine. “What do you need?”

Hm.
Not big on service with a smile, it seemed. “Uh, well—”

“I’m the only one working this afternoon, so spit it out.”

Kate glanced behind Megan to where the espresso machine sputtered once more. “Look, I’ve worked in a coffee shop off and on over the years. I know the equipment. Can I take a look?”

Doubt—or maybe confusion—brushed over Megan’s face, but she motioned to the waist-high swinging door that led behind the counter. “Be my guest.”

Kate skirted around the counter corner and inspected the machine. Oh yeah, easy fix. She fiddled with it until it looked right, then stuck a cup under the spout and turned it on.

But instead of gurgling to life the way it should have, the machine spat, hissed, and in a fit of malfunction, water gushed like a fountain. A shriek slipped out, joined by Megan’s voice behind her.

“I thought you said you knew what you were doing.”

“I thought I did.” Liquid slapped at her face, drops sliding down her neck and splotching over her shirt. “A little help?”

“If I knew what to do I’d have done it ten minutes ago.”

The distant chiming of the bells over the entrance joined the noisy moment. Kate plunged one hand into the mess of
equipment, palm clamping over the spot spewing water. Lot of good that did. Now it just spurted through her fingers, spraying every direction.

“Unplug it.” She closed her eyes against the jetting water. Good thing she hadn’t tried too hard on her hair today. It framed her face in matted strands.
And please tell me the mascara I flicked on this morning was waterproof.

Megan yanked a cord, and seconds later, the flow of water slowed . . . and fizzled to a stop.

“Trouble, ladies?”

Nooo.
Of all people?

She and the barista turned in sync as the espresso machine gave one more chug. And there stood Colton, black hoodie hanging loose over a black-and-white-checkered button-down, the perfect picture of ease and enjoyment.

“No trouble at all.” Kate drawled the words, daring Colton with crossed arms and narrow eyes to tease any further.

But it wasn’t enough to drain the amusement from his smirk. “So if I ask for an espresso, there’s no problem?”

Cheeky man.

“You can order anything but espresso.” Megan gave a toss of her hair and pinned him with a glare. “What’ll it be?”

He glanced back and forth between them. “Actually I was just meeting Kate—”

Megan shook her head. “You come into the shop, proceed to laugh at us—”

“I didn’t actually laugh.”

“And then you don’t even have the courtesy to buy anything?”

Kate stifled a giggle as Colton’s focus darted to the menu. “Cappuccino. Medium.”

“Fine. It’ll be ready in a minute.” Megan turned with a huff.

Kate angled around the counter and followed Colton as he
inched away. He leaned in when she reached him. “I don’t even like cappuccinos. She intimidates me.”

“Don’t worry. You’re not alone.” Kate smoothed her hands over her jeans, sudden tremble of unwelcome nerves making an appearance.

Which was silly. Because all they were going to do was sit down and talk about his book. Figure out a game plan, how they were going to turn an idea into reality within a month. Shouldn’t matter that he towered over her, seemed to gulp her up in his shadow in an illogically enjoyable way.

“Talked with my manager today, by the way. Gave him your agent’s contact info. Should have a contract for you in a few weeks.”

Wow, her own experience in the publishing world might’ve been short-lived but it was enough to know things usually happened in months, not weeks.
They’re fast-tracking it.
Because of her. Because Colton had picked her to write the book that could make or break his career.

And he was just standing there now, a thesaurus full of synonyms that added up to ridiculous amounts of handsome. And she, with her coffee-stained shirt and a gripping certainty that she couldn’t hope to live up to his expectations.

Colton shrugged out of his hoodie then, just as Megan called out from the counter. “Cappuccino.”

Colton brushed past Kate, reached for the drink, and handed Megan a ten. “Keep the change.” He turned back to Kate.

“Trying to buy her off?”

“What are the chances she spit in this?” With his other hand, he held his hoodie toward her.

“Do I look cold?”

“No, but, uh . . .” He nodded at her shirt, covered in water and coffee grounds.

She looked from Colton to the hoodie and back to Colton. “I can’t do it.”

“I know it’s too big. You’ll swim in it, but—”

She shook her head. “I mean the book. I don’t know what I was thinking. You need someone who knows how to write a sports memoir. Who can tell the cinnamon shaker from the stir stick from the napkin bits.”

“You lost me, Rosie.”

“It’s Kate, and I’m not your writer, Colton.” Even if, for no reason that made any sense, she suddenly really wanted to be.

“I think you are.” He held his hoodie out to her once more, waited until she finally accepted it. “And if it’s football that has you worried, don’t worry. I’ve got a plan for that.”

The energy of the Mavericks players radiated from their cluster around the fifty-yard line, reaching over to where Colton watched from the fence outlining the field. They were running in place, knees high, and palms clacking against their thighs with each step.

Arms slung over the metal fence, Colton felt the itch of his own pent-up aggression. Yeah, he might fit in a workout most days—a physical therapist-approved regime, of course—but it was nothing like the feel of suiting up and training with a team, the mingling smell of mowed grass and exertion fueling his focus.

Next to him, Kate fiddled with the zipper of the hoodie he’d loaned her. It hung on her frame, draping over her like a blanket. “So watching a high-school football practice is going to teach me all I need to know?” The zipper stuck halfway up.

“Not even close, but that’s not the point.”

She yanked on the zipper. “Then what is?”

“Getting you into the spirit of football. You don’t have to know the sport to write my book. Just appreciate it. I’ll take care of the jargon and technical stuff.” He leaned in to help her with the hoodie, giving the zipper just enough of a jerk to loosen it, then pulled it upward.

In the background, the shrill of the coach’s whistle cut into the rhythm of the players’ kicks and grunts. “Give me fifty push-ups, followed by two laps. Then water up before we get to work.”

Colton paused, two fingers still closed around the zipper underneath Kate’s chin. The wind played with her hair, and afternoon sun highlighted the uncertainty in her eyes.

“Colton Greene. I thought that was you.”

Colton blinked and dropped his hand, then turned to see the coach ambling his direction. The man stopped in front of him, athletic frame tempered by the silver hair poking from underneath his hat and reading glasses sitting low on his nose. He tucked his clipboard underneath one arm.

“Coach Leo Barnes.” He jutted one hand over the fence for an awkwardly angled handshake.

Colton nodded his head toward Kate. “And this is Kate Walker.”

“Oh, I know Kate, all right. Had all four Walkers in high-school government class.”

Of course. Because he was in small-town Iowa, where it really wasn’t exaggerating to say everybody knew everybody.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Barnes.”

“I think you can get away with Leo now, kid. Or Coach.” He turned back to Colton. “I’m trying real hard to play it cool, but gotta admit to feeling star struck. I was at the playoff game where you threw that seventy-yard pass. Smoother than a Bing Crosby ballad. Made it look effortless.”

Effortless, or the result of some mighty good luck. Either way, it was the best game of his career, no question. “Good-looking crop of players you’ve got out there.” They sprawled across the grass, on hands and toes, pushing themselves up with bent elbows.

Coach Leo nodded. “They’re not half bad. Whined their way through hot summer practices, but now that it’s cooling off and the season’s about to begin, they’re shaping up.”

Colton could still remember the jolt of crisp morning practices at the University of Iowa—so different from fall in California. He’d forgotten how much this Midwest state had grown on him in those four college years—games on dark evenings when the chill turned his breath white, the sky so wide open and clear it was as if the stars watched him play.

If junior high and high school had stretched like one long desert, college in Iowa had been the first step into an oasis that offered new life. One finally mostly free of haunting half memories. He had his old social worker to thank for it—she’d forced him to complete all those scholarship applications. The University of Iowa had made the best offer.

“I should tell you I’m usually a stickler for closed practices,” Coach Leo said. “Got a couple parentals who think they’re coaches. Enough to drive a man nuts.” The coach pulled off his cap, swiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “This town and its football. Doesn’t go all
Friday Night Lights
or anything, but Maple Valley sure does love the game. Enough so that, if I let it, practice time would turn into a spectator event.”

“Sorry, we can take a hint.” Colton pulled his arms off the fence.

Coach Leo released a chuckle as he fit his hat back over silver hair. He had a weathered face—the kind wrinkled by smiles and probably endless hours of sun-soaked marathon practices. Considering his size and those linebacker shoulders, the man
must’ve played football back in the day. And if Colton had to guess, he’d bet the slight ridge in Leo’s nose came from a long-ago nasty hit.

“Don’t be an oaf, Greene. Not kicking you out. Just saying if you’re gonna stay, maybe try out the other side of the fence. I could use a guy like you.”

“Say again?”

“Not that I could pay you or anything. The school’s athletic budget is bare bones as it is. But surely you miss the game. Word on the street is you’re sticking around awhile. Why not come hang out at some practices? The guys would get a kick out of it.”

“I’m not a coach, Coach.” And yet . . . what might it feel like to dip his foot back into the game? To feel a part of a team again? The camaraderie, the sense of belonging. The thrill of competition.

He might not be able to play himself—a punching reality that still smarted if he thought too long on it—but look at Case Walker. The man had boasted the kind of career few men attained. Honorable. Bold. Admirable. Serving his country first in a war, then in an office.