Page 28 of Hometown Halftime

She huffs, “Thank you for that.”

I shoulder my bag and wait for her to move first.

After a long beat, she turns toward the parking lot. “We’ll finalize drills tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” I say.

We walk in silence, and I don’t like it. This is the first crack in our easy rhythm. The first tension-filled sign that we’re figuring each other out. And with a woman like Kinsey, that might get messy.

Chapter thirteen

Riley

A week goes by fast when you plan your life down to the minute. There are virtual classes, picking up siblings, making dinners, running practices and keeping up with my training at the gym. I feel like I barely have time to think.

The girls voted—loudly and with questionable logic—to do the “Yoga with the Coaches” fundraiser, and somehow, I agreed to be placed in front of half the town while touching my toes.

Kinsey and I have been cordial. I think she forgave me for asking twenty questions, or at least I hope so. We have a rhythm with coaching, and we’ve seen improvement in the team. We work well together.

But more and more, I wish she would let me see who she is when she takes the whistle off.

Tonight, though, I am officially off duty from everything. Lee and Darren insisted on a night out, which I agreed to because I need to blow off some steam. I need to feel like I have something that resembles a social life.

I button a clean shirt, run my hands through my hair, and prepare to not think about anything responsible for one damn night. Darren grips the door jam and leans through the open door of my bathroom without warning.

“Are you ready, or are you still moisturizing those pretty cheeks?”

“Get out,” I say, grabbing my wallet and walking toward the stairs.

Lee is waiting in the living room. “He’s just jealous you had a yoga fundraising photoshoot.”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

“It’s going to be a shirtless stretching spectacle,” Darren says proudly. “I voted for body oil, but apparently it degrades the integrity of the yoga mats.”

“You’re an idiot. Everyone will be wearing shirts.”

They shove me out the front door and toward my truck, loud and ridiculous. The drive to Roanoke takes forty-five minutes, long enough for Lee to pick a playlist and force us through too many back-to-back sad 90’s country songs.

The bar sits near the river, about a mile from the Pride’s Ironcrest Stadium. Inside, it’s decorated with neon signs and has rustic wood floors, spot on for a country bar. People pack the place—college kids, locals, couples swaying in slow circles, boots clacking on hardwood.

We flag down a bartender and order drinks. Once we’re handed our beers, we head toward the second level that overlooks the dance floor. We find a spot against the rail, and I exhale, letting the music and the commotion settle in.

Darren elbows my side. “All right, Weston. We’re out of town, this place is filled with women, and Lee and I are ready to be your wingmen.”

I sigh. “I thought we came out to chill.”

Lee takes a sip of his beer, then says, “We are, but you should take advantage of the evening. We all know we can’t fool around back home. That town is too small, and the people are too nosy.”

“So, what, you guys drive all the way here to talk to women?”

Darren looks at me like I’m stupid. “Yeah. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t.”

He squishes up one side of his face, giving me an exaggerated blink.

I shake my head. “Classy. I’m not into that sort of thing.”

Darren looks at me, puzzled. “What sort of thing? One-night stands or sex in general?”