She said she knew right then that I’d play football.
What she didn’t know was that I wouldn’t just play it, I’d become obsessed with it. From the time I was on my first Little League team, football was my life. I couldn’t wait for practices and games. I watched football whenever I wasn’t playing it. I followed ESPN football stories like it was my job. I collected cards, ran drills on my own when the season was over, and was always looking forward to the next time I’d get on that field.
But where my teammates in high school dreamed of being scouted to a college and drafted into the NFL, my heart drew me to the behind-the-scenes work of it all. I wanted to dissect every play, watch every game, replay every tape, draw up my own plays, and — perhaps more than anything — I wanted to coach.
I never took for granted that my dream had come true, that I was doing what I loved most in the world and somehow managing to get paid for it, too. That’s why a familiar buzz of excitement crawled under my skin as I pushed through the doors of the stadium locker room, eyes on my clipboard, words I would say to the team repeating in my head. It was only an hour until our first practice, and nothing compared to that feeling of starting a new season — not the ten days of summer camp, not the energy that coursed through every kid at tryouts.
Nothing.
It’d been a fast first day of school, my regular day filled with introducing myself to freshmen who were in my physical education class and catching up with the athletes in my weightlifting classes. I enjoyed teaching both for very different reasons. The freshmen were nervous, and I always jumped at the opportunity to make them feel welcome and comfortable in their new atmosphere — mostly by encouraging them to join a sport. And when the students I’d worked with came to me in weightlifting, athletes of all backgrounds with issues ranging from golf swings to softball pitching, the excitement that rang through me was palpable.
I lived for this, for discovering a physical limit and making a plan for how to overcome it.
But as much as I enjoyed teaching throughout the day, it was the first day of football practice after the school day let out that my heart really pounded for.
My head was still down when I pushed through the door to my office, using my back to open it. I kicked the door stop under it with my foot to prop it open, still not taking my eyes off the notes on my clipboard. I didn’t realize my office wasn’t empty, even after I sat down in the familiar, worn chair, the old leather splitting under my hamstrings, a soft whoosh of air from the cushion.
It wasn’t until a soft clearing of a throat hit my ears that I looked up from my work and saw her sitting across from me.
Sydney Kelly was not the kind of woman you could pass by without noticing — she never had been.
I hadn’t known her well in high school, but even then, every head would turn when she walked by, regardless of their sex or sexual orientation. She was riddled with unique features, from her jet-black hair — which was pulled into a high and tight ponytail right now — and almond-shaped eyes to the curious complexion of her skin. It was a golden brown, darker than the tans my brothers could achieve in the summer but lighter than my own. She never covered that complexion with anything but sunscreen, not in all the years I’d seen her around town. Makeup seemed to be nonexistent in her universe, which made the dusty pink of her plump lips and the severeness of her high cheek bones and the length of her black lashes that much more mesmerizing.
She was beautiful — dangerously so.
And she had team distraction written all over her.
I mentally cursed Principal Hanley, wondering how he didn’t see this as an issue when he hired Sydney as our new athletic trainer. Of course, I’d voiced my concerns when we were reviewing applicants, but Dustin Hanley was close friends with Sydney’s older sister, Gabriel. Dustin and Gabby had been in the same college when the Clarks first moved to Stratford. Apparently, the bond they’d formed in school had carried through.
What I had to say on the matter didn’t seem to be a factor in the decision at all.
Not that I thought discrimination in any form was okay, but the truth of the matter was that teenage boys with raging hormones were hard enough to wrangle with a staff full of stalky, grumpy men.
With Sydney on the field, it’d be damn near impossible.