With this quarterback sack, the game is over and Taysom’s team has lost. Cheers erupt all around me as spectators laugh, high-five each other, and others groan in defeat.
Taysom’s hard, muscle-taut shoulders slump, his head down. Within seconds, though, he’s smiling again, congratulating the opposing team and commiserating with his fellow teammates about how close they were and why this play didn’t work and even a “nice catch!” to someone on the opposing team.
As attractive as his drive to win is, his ability to bounce back and look outside of himself is even hotter.
Oh boy.
I rub my palms against the fabric of my dress over my knees.
The announcer says the guys are going to shower and change while we watch a video of highlights from last year. Apparently, the video was shown to the guys at a post-season party in January.
Great. More Taysom. Up close and personal. Front and center.
I try to shield my eyes, I really do, but he’s everywhere in the video. And it’s not just footage from the games, it’s also locker room rallying speeches and shenanigans, as well as outreach stuff they did in the community.
Taysom is a good man.
I’m still trying to ignore that flashing billboard in my brain when the waitstaff brings appetizers out on trays.
Thank goodness.
I take pinwheel sandwiches and a little cup of some sort of savory-sweet chicken on a bed of greens. So good. I stuff a mini quiche in my mouth right as Taysom appears in all his post-football glory.
He sits on the bleacher, right next to me, his shoulder brushing against mine. “Thanks again for coming.”
My brows go up and I nod while I try to chew and swallow down the quiche as discreetly as possible.
He motions to a middle-aged woman in a business suit approaching us. “Wanda Knighton, I’d like you to meet Charlotte, the woman I was telling you about.”
Standing, I manage to swallow and then smile, shaking her family. “Hello, I’m Charlotte Mercer.”
“Wanda is the Human Resources representative for the Sports Medicine Institute.”
“Yes,” Wanda smiles warmly. “We’re actively recruiting to flip our staff right now, and Taysom said you’re an excellent occupational therapist here on campus.”
“Oh, well, thanks. Yes, I’ve worked at the Early Childhood Center for the last few years and loved it.”
Her brows scrunch together, like she’s never heard of it. I’m not surprised.
“It’s right next to the Sports Med Institute, but we’ll be closing, temporarily, in June.”
Wanda offers her sympathies and asks me questions about the kind of work we do there. She describes what working for the Institute would look like when they open next month. Flexible hours. Competitive salary. Benefits and 401K.
I can feel my eyes widening with every perk she mentions.
“We have a children’s clinic at the Institute, where we service elementary-aged kids. I think you’d love it there. I trust Taysom’s judgment and I can tell you know your stuff.” Wanda glances at Taysom. “How would you like to join us over at the Institute? We’d love to have you start right when we open.”
My lungs dip and squeeze around the flash of nerves in my middle. They’re offering me a job?
The Institute is an elite opportunity. Better connected, better pay, more room for advancement than the Early Childhood Center.
Oh, and it’s not weeks away from closing, so there’s that.
From a career perspective, this is a step up. A privilege.
But, what about my kids? I want to work at a free clinic somewhere for the kids who can’t afford the OT they need to walk and have a functional, normal life. I care about improving their quality of life. I just…when I think about working with sports injuries, it’s not the same. There’s not the same fire in my belly. I want to continue doing the work I know I was meant to do.
The Institute is a good opportunity. I would be foolish to turn this down. But at the same time, I’d be selfish to trade in the kids I love so much for a fancy breakroom and company perks.
