It wasn’t the worst.
“Need anything? I might get some hot chocolate,” Brock said, standing from the chair and showcasing his impressive build. He wore a winter hat and scarf, the look almost too much for me, and I felt smitten. I was smitten over my boss.
“Uh, you said chocolate. Yes. Please.”
He grinned before heading toward the concession stand. We had been there an hour already without anything happening. I wouldn’t go as far as to complain because no one wants injuries, but it was less eventful than I’d planned for. Two bags of ice and a sprained finger, that was it.
“Here you go, Grace.” Brock returned and handed me the Styrofoam cup. Our fingers touched, and it was stupid to feel all tingly about it.
“Thank you.”
“What do you think so far?” he asked, mirroring my position, so our legs were inches apart. He repositioned himself deeper into his chair and looked so damn snuggleable, I avoided looking at him. My hormones were almost killing me.
“It’s slower paced than college football.”
“No shit,” he said with a laugh. “This is a unique situation, too. If you’re at a school, you’re going to know the kids and their pasts. If an athlete has a concussion, you’ll check in with them. Stretches before a game, warm-ups, taping, and wrapping, too. From my understanding, high school ATs work with all sports, not just football. That’s a hell of a lot of kids now that I think about it.”
I forgot about my tactic to not stare at him. His eyes seemed bluer in the cold wind. “I like being busy, so the numbers don’t worry me. This is good though. Seeing how they interact with each other, how they move at different ages. It’s interesting.”
“It is.” He leaned forward onto his knees, making it so our arms touched. “Next kid that comes up is yours.”
“Wait, are you sure?”
“Yup. I’m going to be an observer. Won’t say a word.” He held up his hands, like he was surrendering to something, and jutted his chin toward the south. “You’re up.”
I stood and set the hot chocolate on the small table just as a teenager walked up to us with his arm pressed against his stomach. “What’s going on? You hurt your arm?”
“Yes, ma’am. Fell on it funny, coach sent me over to you guys.” The kid winced when I reached out to see it.
“I’m going to feel if anything is out of place, okay?”
He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut as I carefully pressed my fingers along his forearm, his wrist, and elbow. There was no evidence of swelling, and the kid only winced when I pressed on the bone near his hand. “This hurts, huh?”
“Yeah. I fell on it.”
I clicked my tongue and grabbed a bag of ice from the cooler. “Put this on it. I think you knocked it pretty hard and could’ve bruised it. But since you don’t have swelling and it’s not turning any funky colors, I think you’re in the clear. Keep an eye out, though. If it gets worse in a day or two, have your mom take you to the doctor.”
“You don’t think it’s broken?” he asked, looking at me with wide, worried eyes. It was cute.
“Nope. Your bones feel strong to me. Do you drink milk, eat a lot of protein?”
“Yes, ma’am. My parents force me.”
“Good, make sure you listen to them.” I smiled.
“Will do, thanks.” He took off back toward the southwest field.
Brock gave me a smile so warm, my toes curled in my fuzzy socks.
“Well,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “How did I do?”
“Excellent. Not a single critique.”
“Yes!” I twirled around before returning to my seat. “I hate to say you were right, but you were maybe kinda right for suggesting I do this.”
He wasn’t smug this time. He shrugged. “I wanted you to experience different ages. That’s all. Hey, my dad just got here.” He stood and waved over a man who looked just like Brock, only thirty years older.
His father had black hair tinged with gray, the same playful smile, and similar blue eyes. Brock introduced him as Ryan, and I jumped to my feet to shake his hand. “Hi! I’m Grace Turner.”
