“When I was playing at the college level, Jeff Tillman changed my life. He knew how muscles and bodies worked when playing the game, and I’m most comfortable on the field, so when my parents forced me to have a back-up plan, I chose AT.”
I smiled. “That’s nice. Do you want to stay at the collegiate level or go to the NFL?”
He tensed, those strong back muscles clenching underneath his tight shirt, and his expression clouded. “I’m comfortable here.”
“That wasn’t an answer to my question,” I said, crossing my arms and narrowing my gaze at him. He didn’t like being challenged by people, and I considered it one of my favorite hobbies.
He rubbed his hand over his face for a second before giving me a serious look. “When I’m ready.”
“When you’re ready?”
“Yes, Grace. For now, I’m comfortable. Running a program for a team is an end goal, but I’m not sure when that will be. I’d have to be able to throw, model movements, be in good physical condition, and I don’t feel that way.”
I digested his words, not imagining the vulnerability in his tone. “Fair enough.”
We went back to doing inventory, and I found a football wedged into one of the shelves. “Brock, could you teach yourself how to throw left-handed?”
“Uh, not likely.” He rolled his eyes, and I picked up the ball. Brock had hundreds of footballs all over the damn place. It was amazing how one person had so, so many. I walked to the door, motioning for him to follow. “What are you doing, Grace?”
“Let’s go. I want to see something. It’ll just take a second.” I took off down the hall, the ball in my hand. “Throw it back, left-handed.” I clasped the pigskin with my small hands and chucked it at him in a semi-good spiral. He caught it, eyes wide.
“Damn, Grace. Nice toss.”
“Do it. Stop wasting time,” I barked back, getting a goofy grin from him. “Do it.”
He tightened the ball in his left hand, his brow set in determination. I could tell this was hard for him. His body tensed with his jaw clenching and eyes turning a dark shade of blue. I cupped my hands around my mouth, catcalling him.
He looked up with fire in his eyes. He threw it left-handed. I reached up to catch the perfect throw, but, for a second, I forgot I wasn’t athletic. It flew by my hands and hit my stomach before bouncing onto the ground. I doubled over and rolled onto the floor. “Shit.”
“Grace!” He ran up to me, putting his hands all over my body. God, they felt good. “Where did it get you?”
“No. I’m fine. Embarrassed, but fine. I can’t catch well. I can throw, but no catching. Ever.” I stood up, with his help, of course. He dusted me off, in a friendly but touchy sort of way that totally did not send shivers down my body. “Nice freaking throw, Brock.”
“Yeah?” He grinned, the lines reaching his eyes. “It felt really good.”
“Do it again. I’ll catch it this time.” I picked up the ball, handing it to him.
So, he did. We threw back and forth for a half an hour, his tosses much softer as time went on. I even caught most of them. I ran up to him, going for a double high five, but no, Brock couldn’t handle it normally. He picked me up, swinging me around with a manic expression. “Thank you. Thank you, Grace.”
“You’re welcome. Now, put me down, crazy.” I hit his hands, cupped under my arms like I was a child. “People will stare.”
“I don’t care.” He set me down but kept his hands on my shoulders. “That felt real good.”
“I can’t believe you’ve never tried that before. Why?” I picked up the ball, grabbing the clipboards from the closet before heading to his car. He didn’t reply. His smile shifted to a frown.
“Let’s talk in the car. The stores should be open now.”
It was better than no answer which I’d sort of expected.
It wasn't until we sat in his car, the windows down that he brought up the subject again. “I went to a bad place after the accident. I wanted nothing to do with football. I blamed it for the accident. I mean, if I wasn't flying back from the airport, why would my sister pick me up?” He blew out air, his lips making a raspberry sound. He tapped his fingers continuously on the wheel, but that was his only sign he was nervous. He seemed much more relaxed. “I have a very limited range of motion in my right arm. I can only lift it a certain height without getting massive pain.”
“Then, why in the hell did you pick me up on multiple occasions?” I had to ask because it didn't add up. He never seemed in pain, ever.
“Grace,” he said, glancing at me with a sly smile. “You’re small. You never have to worry about hurting me.”
Hmm. I bit my lip, questioning the hidden intentions of that statement. Did that mean he would pick me up again? Did I want him to?
He pursed his lips, frowning at my awkward silence, so I cleared my throat and said, “Good to know. You never know when I'll fall and bust my ass again. It happens way more frequently than I'd like to admit.”
