Page 101 of Tangled with the Tight End

“They’re not going easy on me.” He smiles. “I’m glad. It’s a sign they’ve got hope I’ll need to be in shape for the end of this season.”

He’s thrilled. It shows in the crinkle around his eyes and the way his dimple pops. His optimism is palpable. All I can think is that nights like these are not going to be a part of my life in a matter of months. So, I push down all intrusive thoughts and dig into my chicken and sides, and I focus on Declan—his nearness, the ease between us, the way he’s so happy right now.

I clip all these moments and tuck them into an invisible album in my mind.

After dinner, Declan offers to throw the ball.

“You need practice if you plan on going pro,” he says while I’m clearing our plates.

I follow him out the back door of the laundry room, picking the ball up from the counter where I left it last time.

“Let’s see what you remember,” Declan says.

“My skills might be impeded by my full stomach,” I warn him.

“No excuses,” he teases. “Throw the ball.”

I love how his natural love for the sport comes out when we’re out here. He’s different around a football. It brings out a coaching side of his personality—a little bossy and very invested.

I place my fingers around the laces the way he taught me and pull the ball back. Then I fling it forward with the technique he walked me through. Only, my mind drifts to the way he stood behind me, and I release too late. The ball drops to the ground only yards away.

“That would work for a spike in the end zone after a touchdown,” he says with a huff of laughter. “Did you forget the moment of release?”

“Maybe,” I lie.

He propels over to me and steps right up behind me.

His head bends low so his cheek is next to my ear.

“Grab the ball, Winona.”

Oh, for the love of Dolly Parton’s rhinestones. I can’t even focus.

I place my fingers on the laces, trying to ignore the heat radiating off Declan, the feel of him behind me, the way he smells like dinner and man and someone’s happy future.

“Focus,” he says.

“Easy for you to say,” I breathe out.

He laughs, oblivious to my predicament. “Do your best.”

He lifts my hand, his over mine, guiding me. And we throw. The ball sails toward the net across the yard and hits the center circle on the net.

“Did you see that?!” I jump and turn.

He’s right there. His eyes roving over my face. And my brain is screaming, Kiss me! Kiss me, now!

Instead of mind reading, he propels backward, still smiling straight at me.

“Try again,” he says.

So, I do.

We throw for a while. Well, I throw and he coaches.

I notice him growing weary of standing. It’s the small things, a shift of his weight, the thinning of his lips for a brief moment.

“You’ve had a long day,” I tell him. “You need to elevate your foot so you don’t overdo it.”