“You’re famous at Mommy’s hospital,” Abby says.
“Especially since you’ve been playing like you’re about to own the heck out of free agency,” Jamie calls from the kitchen, then pops his head in the doorway, waiting expectantly.
Like now is when I’m going to decide my off-season plans.
My entire career plans.
Truth is—I still don’t know what I’ll do in January.
No clue whatsoever. Maybe I’m waiting for a sign. Is my good health—knock on wood—a sign to keep playing? Or is it a sign to quit while I’m ahead?
I wish I knew.
Danielle rolls her eyes. “Jamie. He’s not going to just tell us one morning in the entryway.”
“A man can dream,” Jamie says with an easy shrug.
“And the answer is—I’ll keep making you pies,” I tell him, like that’s a satisfying answer.
But it’s the only one I can legitimately give.
I bend to scoop up Abby, giving her one more hug. “I’ll miss you, little bear. Good luck in your gymnastics showcase,” I say, since that’s another thing I’m going to miss this weekend.
“Good luck in your game.” She gives me knuckles, and her fist explosion is legendary but it breaks my heart all at the same time.
We fly to Seattle to vie with one of the toughest teams in the league. That Sunday it’s the game of the day, a marquee matchup between two top teams in the west.
When we run through the corridor of the stadium and hit the field, that familiar rush of energy blasts through me.
Always has.
Ever since I was a kid and touched the gridiron for the first time, I’ve felt it. The thrill. The excitement. For nearly fifteen years, I’ve been playing the game I love for a living.
Will I still feel this way next year?
Who knows?
Right now, though, it’s game time.
And I’m in the zone.
Trouble is, so’s Seattle.
Their defense is on fire, and I don’t get a chance to make a single play during our first possession. I run a quick route right, but the secondary is all over me like flies on honey.
The game’s a tight one for the rest of the quarter, with both teams putting up zeroes.
When we get the ball with three minutes left before the end of the half, I’m raring to break the scoreless streak. Hell, we all are.
Cooper gives us the play, and I head to my spot on the line of scrimmage. I’m in motion, and once he takes the snap, I race off down the field, slip behind the linebackers, and catch a beautiful twenty-five-yard pass at the edge of the field.
And hot damn, I would love to sail away with this baby into the end zone, but Seattle’s about to steamroll me. I scramble two feet to get out of bounds, spinning around before the linebackers tackle me.
I land just so, and for a smidge of a second, I wait for that wince in my hamstring.
But I feel fine.
Completely fine.
And that makes me feel good.
Now, I know Katie didn’t cure my hamstring strain in a couple sessions. Sports and training don’t work that way.
But every little bit helps, and I’ll happily enjoy this moment, especially since it turns into a touchdown before the clock runs out and we head inside at the half.
The seven points is energizing, as it fucking should be.
And this—this is what I’ll miss if I retire.
The buzz, the intensity, the utter joy in making plays as a team.
That’s what we do in the second half too, hunting for a chance to put more numbers up on the board.
It’s not easy, but Cooper slings another pass my way right before I spin out of bounds. But I haul it in, whirl around, and put my fleet feet to use to bring it all the way home.
I feel great when I reach the end zone.
The kind of great that makes me want to run to the stands and kiss the girl I like.
Too bad she’s not here.
And, more so, that we’re not together.
16
Katie
That happened fast.
I lift a glass of Wild Chemistry at The Spotted Zebra. “Let’s toast to Zachary’s deal-making skills,” I say on Monday night. My VP lifts his glass and clinks mine, then Olive’s.
“To the best, most fantastic exec there is,” Olive chimes in, with a grin she can’t seem to contain.
Our whiz kid is the man of the hour. The day. The week. First there was the deal with Wilder Enterprises last week, and now he’s moving on to bigger and shinier contracts.
He shakes his head. “Just doing my job,” he says, but I can tell he’s pleased. Since he joined Sassy Yoga a few months ago, the bespectacled wunderkind has been on a tear, inking deals left, right, and upside down. “Besides, it’s all on the two of you. The Renegades loved you, Katie, and Lacey was quite impressed. And they love the terms that Olive presented to them,” he says, giving credit to the business genius that my sister is.
Gotta love this guy. He often deflects praise—such a rarity in business. But the man deserves it. His cheery attitude and nice-guy approach work so damn well when striking deals. Sort of the opposite of the conventional wisdom on how being a prick can land you better terms. Zachary snags the deals we want by actually, gasp, negotiating with a smile and making sure everyone wins.
And I want him to know that. “We need you. We think you’re fabulous, and you’re, what, one deal away from the bonus we didn’t think you’d earn till the end of your first year? Credit given where credit’s due,” I say, then take a drink of this delish cocktail the bartender whipped up. Mmm, it’s tropical with a splash of tequila, and it’s fabulous. Like Sassy Yoga right now.
“And Zachary,” Olive prompts, shooting him an appreciative smile, “don’t hold back from Katie. Tell her what you told me in the office earlier today.”
Zachary straightens his shoulders, sets down his glass. He pushes his glasses up on his nose. “We’re in talks with the San Francisco Dragons. It’s early days. But I’m hopeful. I’ve been talking to the new owner and she’s amazing,” he says. “And, just like the Renegades, they like the idea of having a high-profile yoga expert teaching the team. I’m telling you, YouTube has turned yoga teachers into celebs, practically, and you’re one of those.”
I dip my face, both embarrassed and proud.
He’s not wrong though.
The online videos we’ve created have raised our profile, and I lead most of those videos.
But there’s another emotion swirling in me too—regret. For what might have been with Harlan. I wanted the chance to explore possibilities with him. To take my time getting to know him. Is there a way to have it all? Or maybe . . . eventually?
I shift in my chair, feeling a little awkward asking, but needing to anyway. “So, how long is the Renegades contract for?”
Part of me hopes he says it ends when the season does, and I can seize the chance to see Harlan then. Another part hopes he doesn’t say that at all.
Surely, this is the universe’s way of telling me to slow down, right?
Universe, why are you so hard to read? Just give me a sign.
Zachary clears his throat. “Till the end of the season, with an option to renew for next year. But they already expect to renew it. The contracts department said as much.”