Page 70 of Tangled with the Tight End

I jump up and start shouting, “Run! Run! Go!”

The guy gets tackled by a Los Angeles player and I plop back into my chair.

Declan looks over at me and laughs. “They can’t hear you, you know?”

“Ha. Ha.”

“So, it’s third and ten,” Declan says. “That means a passing play. Their D is going to try to blitz our QB and we’re going to block them so he has a clear route. Hendricks is in my place as tight end. I’m guessing he’ll help with protection and then get into the flat so he’s a target.”

I stare at Declan. His face is neutral, his eyes riveted on the screen. He’s trying to include me—by speaking Greek.

“I understood exactly none of that.”

“Hang on,” Declan says.

There’s action on the screen. The guys on both sides of the line move toward one another. A bunch of men are running straight at the guy with the ball—I think that’s the quarterback, Marcus—but the Thunder guys are standing in the way and pushing back.

One guy shoves an LA player out of the way and then he runs off toward the side of the field. LA doesn’t have anyone over there. Marcus looks around. The men on the LA team are massive and they’re heading right toward him.

I’m sitting on the edge of my chair, gripping the seat cushion. I don’t even know if I’m breathing. No wonder Declan broke an ankle. If those guys hit Marcus, he could get really hurt.

But Marcus sees the guy who ran off to the mostly empty side of the field and he pulls his arm back and throws the ball like he’s a machine. The ball soars through the air. The guy who didn’t have anyone around him jumps up, catches the ball, turns and runs.

And now all the guys who were dead set on getting to Marcus are turning and running after the guy with the ball. He’s faster, though, or he had a lead, so he outruns them. Hendricks. That’s the name on his jersey. That would have been Declan.

One guy catches up with Hendricks and throws himself at him. And Hendricks goes down. A bunch of men in suits and windbreakers on the sidelines have to jump back to get out of the way. Even a guy holding a massive camera almost gets hit.

“Wow,” I say.

“Yeah,” Declan turns to me, a wide smile on his face. “Wow.”

He raises his brows like, told you so.

And I can’t disagree. Even though I didn’t really know what was happening, the aftermath of the adrenaline is making my heart pound just from watching that play.

“They did exactly what I thought they would,” Declan says. “And they pulled it off. So now it’s first and ten.”

“It goes backward?” I ask. “From third to first?”

“You really don’t understand football, do you?”

“Barely at all.”

“Well, we’ll get you there.”

We. I don’t really know what makes Declan care if I understand football. It’s his job, not mine. I just sniff casts and tickle toes. He’s the one regularly putting himself in harm’s way for a ball game.

But, despite not knowing why he’s offering, I find myself saying, “Okay. You can teach me.”

The game continues. I watch it and I watch Declan. He continues to give me play-by-play rundowns in the language of the sport. Maybe one day I’ll understand it all. I don’t ask him any more questions. I just watch the men throw and catch the ball, chasing after one another and tackling one another with a force that makes me wince at times.

“Halftime,” Declan announces.

“That means the game is half over?”

“Yes! You got it!” he exclaims as if I passed the licensing exam to become a nurse.

I close my fingers into a soft fist, turn it toward myself and blow across my knuckles, brushing them off on my shirt. “Expert over here.”