He nodded. “To this day, Richie is still one of my best friends. I wouldn’t be here today, doing what I love, if it weren’t for him.”
I looked up, meeting his eyes. “And what does Richie do now?”
He coughed into his hands. “He’s a high school principal.”
I shook my head with a smile. “Okay, next question. You mentioned that football has become a big part of your identity. Do you ever think beyond it?”
He rubbed his jaw. “I’ve always known this won’t last forever. I’ve seen what happens to guys who don’t prepare for life after playing the game. I will never become one of them.”
I glanced around his modest house, his simple lifestyle, and it all started to click. Nate was humble and a hard worker. I remember reading once that he bought his first car with money he made from mowing lawns. He understood the importance of financial planning and hard work. A lot of times, these young kids come out of college, get signed, collect their checks, and end up with more money than they know what to do with. That often led to making really bad decisions, and the next thing they knew, they were as poor as a church mouse.
Listening to Nate talk about his future made me realize how grounded he was.
I flipped to the next page, even though I already knew what was on it. “Do you ever see yourself settling down and starting a family?”
I tried to pretend that this was just another question. The truth was, I wasn’t asking as a reporter trying to finish the story. I was asking as a woman who cared a little too much about the answer.
His gaze stayed on mine long enough that heat crept up my neck. “I would like that if I ever find the right person. I see my friends, my teammates, and their kids. I hear about how happythey are to go home to the people they love every night. Maybe someday that will happen for me, or maybe it won’t.”
It was such a simple answer. The kind any athlete would say in an interview, but my mind, or maybe my heart, was getting the wrong idea. Like maybe… nope. Absolutely not. Let’s not go there, Becca. He was talking in general—some hypothetical woman, not you.
“What does that person look like to you?” I asked, crossing one leg over the other, trying to get my shit together. Thank God, I only had a few questions left.
“She’s smart, independent, strong, knows how to laugh, and keeps me on my toes.”
It felt like the universe was challenging me. This was exactly why reporters shouldn’t get involved with their subjects.
I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trying to refocus. “How many more seasons do you think you have left to play?”
He shrugged. “Depends on my body. On management. All the things I have no control over. If I were to take a guess, maybe two, three, or four if I’m lucky.”
Something twisted in my chest at how somber he had become. I could sense him counting down the days and thinking about what his life looked like once he retired.
We went back and forth for the next hour. We talked about leadership. Growth and team culture. He answered everything smoothly. Never once taking his eyes off mine. I pretended to focus on my notes, even though my mind was nowhere near the page.
“Okay, final question. Who is Nate Sandler? Not the football player, but the man?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m the guy who doesn’t like to lose. I’m loyal, a hard worker, and I give one hundred and tenpercent in whatever I do. And when football ends, I want to find something real. Someone to share my life with.”
I scribbled that down, thankful that I had my recorder with me because I wasn’t sure I would be able to read my handwriting with how badly my hands were shaking.
I wanted to lighten the mood. Tell a joke. Do something to distract us both from what was happening. But I couldn’t concentrate on a damn thing.
“Are we done now?”
I looked up from where I was pretending to read my notes. “Huh?”
The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. “With the interview.”
“Yes,” I said on a shaky breath. So much for keeping my tone steady. “Why? Do you have something you want to add?”
His gaze drifted down to my mouth. “No. Now that the interview is over, do I walk you out and pretend that we’re finished?”
“Do you want to walk me out?” I asked, closing my notebook and sliding it into my bag.
He pushed himself out of the recliner and crossed the room. He stopped at the edge of the couch, looking down at me.
“No, Becca. I don’t want to walk you out. What I want is to finally be able to kiss you.”
