“Zoey, you need to get lined up,” he said as the girl with two uneven ponytails stood at the line of scrimmage, facing the entirely wrong direction.
As in, her back was to the play.
“It’s too windy to look that way,” she said, shaking her head but not turning around to face him. “It’s too windy, Mr. Cunningham. I’m gonna get blown over on that side.”
“But how are you going to know the play’s starting if you aren’t in your spot?” he asked, so incredibly sweet. If it were me, I’d just yell that we couldn’t start until Zoey got in place.
“We get to be done as soon as we finish running this three more times,” he said, crouching down so he was closer to her height. “So you’rethisclose to being in the warm car, kiddo. Just turn around—I promise you won’t blow down—and give me your toughest stance.”
I was literally thinkingIt’s never going to workwhen she turned around and got into position without another word.
“Attagirl, Z,” he said with a grin, and I was pretty sure every person at that practice—me included—fell madly in love with him that instant.
When there were five minutes left in practice, the sky opened and the coldest fall rain poured down. Everyone got soaked, but the kids just screamed and giggled and jumped in the puddles until their parents grabbed them and they all dispersed.
Connor wasn’t fazed, either. He simply popped open the trunk of his car, loaded everything up, then grabbed a blanket for me to sit on so I didn’t get his seats wet and muddy.
“God, it’s like you were born to be a flag football coach,” I said as I buckled my seat belt. The seat belt stuck my cold, wet clothes to my skin and I shivered, wishing the blanket was a bit larger so I could wrap myself in it.
“No, I’m definitely not,” he said as he pulled out of the parking lot. “I think it’s just that compared to you, I seem very patient.”
“Are you saying I’mimpatient?” I said with a laugh as he cranked up the car’s heater, because I absolutely was. I liked kids, but I also didn’t have a lot of tolerance for all their complaining and distractedness and propensity for giving me honest feedback on how much of a failure I was as a coach.
Coach Tony doesn’t do that.
Are you sure about that, Coach Duff? I don’t think that’s right.
“Little bit,” he said, but I could tell it wasn’t a dig.
“Listen, I can’t help but notice you’re shivering,” he said suddenly. “My place is really close; do you want to take a hot shower there while I get my bags together?”
“Oh, geez—how long until you need to be to the airport?” I’d forgotten that he had an away game to get to. “I can take an Uber home so you can go pack.”
He’d picked me up on the way to practice.
“Actually,” he said, looking like he was working through an idea, “if you want a hot shower at my place, I can pack while you clean up—killing two birds—and still have plenty of time to drop you off on my way to the airport.”
“Oh. Okay.” I sounded calm, but I was freaking out inside. He was seriously suggesting I shower at his place…as in benakedwhile he’s in the next room? Like it was no big deal?
He hesitated for a moment. “You’re also welcome to stay at my place so you aren’t alone at your dad’s while he’s in the hospital, if you want,” he said. “But no pressure.”
Oh my God.
What was happening?
He was offering to let me crash at his fancy apartment?
I wanted to so badly, so unbelievably badly holy shit, but that article popped into my head again. That stupid non-evidentiary-based article that haunted me on a daily basis.
Specifically, the bullet point that said: “Be Elusive.”
Jumping at the offer to sleep in his bed was the opposite of elusive, right?
“That’s really nice,” I said, already homesick for the luxurious apartment I was rejecting. “But Dale Earnhardt needs me.”
“File that under things I never would’ve expected any of my friends to say,” he muttered with a smirk.
But all I heard was the f-word.