Page 53 of Tangled with the Tight End

I have teammates who fell for women like her—beautiful, alluring, but not at all interested in the man behind the jersey.

“I love your house,” Chantal says, looking around. “Who decorated it for you?”

“I think my mom had a local designer do most of the work.”

“Nice.”

Winona enters the room. “It’s time for your meds, Declan.”

Chantal gives Winona a pageant-worthy smile.

Winona smiles a thin-lipped grin in return.

“I’ll be out of your way in just a minute,” Winona says to Chantal. “He’ll get a little drowsy. Just giving you a heads-up. You might want to get any coherent conversation in within the next fifteen minutes.”

Winona smiles at me and I smile back, like a man grasping at a life ring.

Save me!, my eyes plead with her.

She either doesn’t speak eye-language, or she’s not interested in being my savior, because she dispenses the pills into my hands and gives me a glass of water to chase them down.

I empty the glass and hand it back to her.

“Okay. Well … I’ll just be in the kitchen. Call me if you need anything.”

I watch her go.

“I could stay here,” Chantal offers.

Winona’s not even at the doorway. She pauses for a moment and then disappears into the hallway.

“I have an overnight bag in the car,” Chantal says, her eyes soft and full of promises.

“You would … ?” I feel my brows draw in. “Why?”

“To take care of you,” she shrugs. “How hard could it be? I can read a pill bottle.”

“She does more than that,” I defend, a surge of protectiveness for Winona roaring through me unexpectedly.

Winona does a lot more than pass pills. She keeps a watchful eye—notices my needs, anticipates them, even. At some point I stopped questioning her competence. I don’t know when. She’s quirky and lighthearted. But she knows her stuff—as long as that stuff isn’t football.

I smile to myself.

“I’m sure she does.” Chantal’s tone is dismissive—or worse, suggestive.

I force a yawn. “I’m feeling tired.”

“Oh. Of course. Well …”

I feel bad. Chantal drove up from Nashville. But I didn’t invite her. My mom obviously did.

“I think I’m just going to rest,” I tell her.

“Well, you have my number. I’m in Nashville for the week.”

“Thanks,” I say.

I try to think of anything else I could say to let her know I won’t be calling, but nothing sounds kind without feeling like I’m leading her on. So I let the silence linger until she finally stands.