3. Ryder
Ryder
“A s long as I’ve known your brother, how is it that we’ve never met?” I ask as Blake gives me the nickel tour of the facility. She made me donate $15 to buy her a new Play It Forward T-shirt that had a logo on the front and a list of locations on the back. I had no idea the organization was nationwide or that there were so many locations.
As we meander down the halls, children are running around as fast as cockroaches scattering when the lights come on, barreling past us while screaming and laughing. I’ve already saved one kid from imminent demise by catching him as he tripped over his own two feet.
Blake pushes the bar on the glass door that leads outside, where even more kids are expending enough energy to power every house in Texas. “Teague and I grew up in different homes and haven’t spent much time together since he went off to college. He was busy focusing on his racing career, and with almost 1,500 miles separating us, it wasn’t like either one of us could just pop over for dinner.”
“That doesn’t explain why I haven’t seen you at the Morrison Motors headquarters or the training facility since you moved here a month ago. Surely, we should have run into each other at least once before now.” I lean over and whisper, “Why have you been hiding?”
Something about my question puts Blake on edge because her posture suddenly becomes as rigid and wooden as her gait. “Who says I’ve been hiding, Ryder? Maybe I’ve just been avoiding you! ”
“Why would you want to do that? I’m a lot of fun, easy to get along with, and have been told I have a swoon-worthy smile.” I grin to highlight my point and showcase the dimples that cause women to melt into a puddle of goo.
“Smarmy is more like it,” she retorts with a dazzling smile of her own. Long, dark lashes frame her sparkling emerald-green eyes, and her short, blonde hair makes her look like Tinkerbell. Granted, a much larger version because Blake is almost six feet tall without wearing heels, but a pixie, nonetheless. My racing heart nearly stops when she adds a wink for effect. I’ve been around Blake for a nano-second, and I’m already smitten. This does not bode well for me and for staying out of trouble—something I’m prone to getting myself into.
“Did you say charming? Because yes, yes, I am. I’ll have these kids wrapped around my finger in no time flat.”
Stopping in her tracks and grabbing my arm with a strength I didn’t know she could possess; she narrows her gaze at me. “Ryder, that is not how this works. Play It Forward is about professional athletes empowering children through sports, leadership, and community. We’re here to foster teamwork, self-discipline, and sportsmanship. We’re here to inspire these children to reach for the stars, never give up, and to give back to their communities. We are not, I repeat, not here to bend them to our will.”
I glance at the hand on my arm, the warmth from her touch seeping through my skin and sending sparks of electricity through my body. The current is so strong that I’m shocked that I’m not on the ground and flopping around like a person who has just been tased. She doesn’t appear the least bit phased.
“I was only joking. What am I supposed to do? I’m here at the behest of your father and Bennie, but I’ve never really been a ‘kid’ person. I grew up an only child, so I don’t know the first thing about being a Big Brother or a mentor.”
“But you are an athlete with the time to give back,” she says. “You’re home Sundays through Wednesdays to train, but Morrison Motors is giving you three hours every Wednesday to come here. Use that time to connect and teach these kids some skills that will be useful.”
“Like what? I drive a car at 180 miles per hour, and most of these kids aren’t even old enough to shave. When I was their age, I was stealing cars and evading cops,” I tell her. Anyone who’s read MotorMag knows this about me after a kid from my high school sold the story. Because I was a minor when I testified against my father and his buddies, my name was redacted, but that didn’t stop the people who knew me from spilling the beans.
A teenage boy, around 14 or 15 years old, passes by as the words slip from my mouth. His dark eyes match his dark skin, but the whites of his eyes are bright as his smile. “You used to boost cars? That’s so cool!”
Blake pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s not cool, Trevor. Stealing is wrong, and you should never, ever do that.”
Trevor frantically waves his hands in the air, swatting away Blake’s rebuke. “No! No! No! I mean it’s cool that he escaped that life and is here now!” When he turns to face me, he cocks his head and studies me, scanning me from head to toe. “You’re a pro athlete, right? Based on your attire, I’d say you’re a golfer all the way, Man.”
I extend my arms and do a spin. “Was it the polo shirt or golf shorts that gave me away?” I joke.
Trevor points to my shoes. “Nope. It’s the loafers and the fact that you aren’t wearing any socks.”
“He’s not a pro-golfer, Trevor. He’s a NASCAR driver. The sunglasses on top of his head and the cocky grin should have clued you in. Now skedaddle while I show Ryder around. You can go and Google him if you want.” She starts to lead me away and then turns back toward Trevor. “On second thought, don’t. Stay away from the internet.”
I lean over and whisper. “He’s a teenage boy who’s just been told not to do something. You realize that’s the first thing he’s going to do, right?”
Blake graces me with another one of her ten-mile smiles. “See, Ryder, you do understand kids! Trevor’s a good egg, but he’s had it rough. He comes from a broken home, and his mom works three jobs to take care of him and his three younger siblings. His dream is to be a basketball player for the Houston Rockets or Dallas Mavericks.”
“He’s a little short for pro basketball,” I remark. I don’t want to squash a kid’s dreams, but there’s also facing reality. There are a select few who have crushed the height stereotype that’s associated with the sport, and though it can happen, it’s rare.
“Earl Boykins was 5'5" and played for the Houston Rockets in 2012, and Isaiah Thomas is 5'9" and played for the Dallas Mavericks in 2021. Besides, Trevor isn’t done growing and could have a growth spurt,” she fires back.
“I’m impressed you know all that. Not many people do.”
She snorts. “I didn’t until Trevor rattled off the facts. Something tells me the height issue has come up before.”
We casually stroll along as she points out a tennis court, a small golf range, basketball courts, a baseball diamond, a running track, and a large open field edged with a few other outbuildings. The entire time I’m trying not to focus on the sway of her hips or the twinkle in her eyes. “Ryder, these kids have a ton of heart, but they still need positive reinforcement. They don’t need anyone telling them they’re too short, too tall, too skinny, too fat, not fast enough, or that something they can’t control will cause them to fall short of achieving their dreams.”
“The reality is that not everyone is going to become a professional athlete, Blake. Less than 2% of college athletes become pros. I’m not trying to be the bearer of bad news, but living with your head in the clouds instead of being grounded in reality can also be equally debilitating.”
She nods and hooks her thumbs in the back pocket of her pants as we continue to walk toward the buildings off in the distance. “That’s true, but they’ll adopt skills that will make them successful in whatever they do—teamwork, leadership and followership, learning to win or lose gracefully, determination, and so much more. We just use sports as a mechanism to teach them life skills. You have to admit, it’s a lot more fun than a lecture.”
“Like the one I’m getting now?” I tease.
The corner of Blake’s mouth curves upward in a half-smile that makes my pulse quicken. “I’d like to think of it as educating rather than lecturing since this is a two-way conversation and you don’t seem to be taking notes.”
I tap my temple. “It’s all up here. My brain is a sponge and I’m soaking it all in.”
Once we get to the buildings that skirt the edge of the property, Blake explains, “These are our workshops. Not every child here is into sports, but a few are here because of their siblings, and we still like to make it fun. We have a hobby shop, wood shop, and auto shop.”
“If the goal is to get pro athletes to mentor kids, what sport do you play that warrants you being here?” I ask.
“Would you believe me if I said badminton? It is an Olympic sport.” Blake makes her comment with such a deadpan expression, I can’t tell if she’s joking or not.
I shrug. “I would have guessed volleyball with your height.” She’s got the lean, muscular build yet distinctly feminine physique for it. Trust me, I noticed. However, I keep that thought to myself. “Would you believe that I personally know several elite cornhole players that are going to the world championships? It’s not an Olympic sport, but it’s supposed to be within the next ten years. I’d believe anything at this point.”
Her giggle at my comment sounds like chimes dancing in the wind and makes the skin on my arm pimple. This woman has me enthralled in a way no other woman has before, and she’s done it faster than I can go from zero to sixty. However, two things stop me from asking her out like I want to. One, she’s my best friend’s sister, and he’s gone out of his way to keep us from meeting. I have to wonder why. Is it because of her, or because of me? Despite my desire to taunt Teague by dating his sister, ultimately, I have too much respect for him to do that behind his back. Two, Blake’s going to be my boss eventually, and that could make things sticky down the road. The little imp on my shoulder murmurs in my ear, “She’s not your boss—yet.”
Blake opens the auto shop doors, and a 1966 Mustang hard-top, jacked up on stands, greets me. It has seen better days. “Not all of the volunteers at Play It Forward are athletes, Ryder. There are the day-to-day volunteers who keep this place operational. The athletes play a major role and have two options in how they donate their time because schedules can be erratic. They can either do the Big Brother/Big Sister thing or they can show up when they can and engage with the youth. The rest of us fill in where we’re needed. If there’s anything that I know as a Morrison, it’s business and cars, so the auto shop is where I spend most of my time with the kids. I’m working with a few of them to restore this car.”
I run my hand over the rusted body and let the soul of the car flow through me. “Manual four-speed transmission, rear-wheel drive, two-door coupe with a V8 engine. This is a Shelby GT-350H with 306 horsepower. They don’t make muscle cars like this anymore. Even in this condition, it would cost a pretty penny. Man, it’s been almost 60 years since this car came out, and it’s as sexy today as it was back then—rust bucket and all.”
“It’s always been my dream to own one,” Blake says with a dreamy look on her face. “Zero to sixty in under seven seconds. You don’t even need a track to feel the power at your fingertips, even though that’s what it was designed for. Back in the day, anyone who wanted to race could—long stretches of road with nothing to stop you from flying. Driving a car like this is as close to Heaven as one can get on Earth.”