11. Winona #3
“Steady there,” he says, the low rumble of his laughter vibrating through my back.
“Sorry,” I say, gulping.
“Let’s try that again.” His hand firmly covers mine like a weighted blanket. He pulls our arms back and slowly moves through the motion, not releasing me or the ball. “Feel that?”
“Mm hmm,” I say.
I feel it, alright. And I shouldn’t.
“That’s the motion we want. Tell the ball where to go. Let go when it’s here.” He moves our arms in unison again, stopping at a high point.
“Got it?”
I’ve got something.
Probably something devastating.
I’m in trouble.
I like Declan.
I like the man. I like the feel of his hand on mine. I like how he wants me to learn about his sport. I like how he sees me.
The realization almost makes me sink into him again. My legs feel like they could fail me.
I focus. Throwing the ball. That’s what we’re doing.
“I’m ready,” I tell Declan.
“Good. Let’s see what you’ve got,” he says again and he propels himself away from me.
The space he leaves behind feels emptier than usual.
Not good.
I’ll deal with this mess later. For now, I’m just going to throw this ball. That’s what he wants. And what Declan O’Connell wants, Declan O’Connell gets. That’s what the orthopedic doctor said, and I’m pretty sure he’s not wrong—on any front.
Women like Chantal throw themselves at Declan’s feet. Women with shoes that match their lipstick. Women who keep overnight bags in their cars so they can offer massages in a tone that implies a lot more than me tickling his baby toe.
He’s an NFL player.
The reality smacks me like a glass of cold water in the face.
I grip the ball.
“Not so tight. You’re not trying to kill it. You’re trying to throw it.”
“Sorry. I was just … focusing.”
“Hold it loosely enough to let it fly.”
I do as he says and ask, “Ready?”
“Yeah, Winona. Wow me.”
I focus and pull my arm back the way he showed me. Then I release the ball and focus on my index finger being the last finger on the ball. This time the ball flies instead of wobbling. It lands about ten feet away from the net, but the throw looked good and it went way farther.
I turn around to face Declan and before my brain has time to engage, I throw my arms around him in an excited hug. He grips his crutches, staying upright despite my spontaneous assault.
“Sorry!” I say. “But did you see that?”
“I saw it! Get this woman an agent!”
I laugh. “Yeah. No. But it was so much better.”
Declan doesn’t step back like I expect him to.
He’s right there, his voice low, soft, deep. “You’re a natural, Winona.” He winks and a slow smile spreads across his face. “You just needed the right coach.”
The way he says my name ... And that wink. Can he sense the way my pulse thrums in my neck?
He stares down at me with a look in his eyes that I can’t make out.
Then he confesses, “I wish I could throw right now—and catch.” The note of longing in his voice breaks my heart for him.
“You will,” I promise.
“And then we can toss the ball around,” he says with a casual air that makes me wonder if I was imagining what I thought I saw a moment ago.
“I can play catch with the great Declan O’Connell?” I ask, keeping my tone intentionally bright.
“You can just throw the ball around with everyday, ordinary Declan,” he says.
“Even better,” I say, looking up into his eyes and smiling softly.
Though, even here, there’s nothing everyday or ordinary about him. The way he looks at me. No one has ever looked at me like that.
A silence hangs between us.
I’m in danger of reading into it, so I say, “I should go.”
He just nods. “Yeah. You’ve got book club.”
He pivots. I follow him, carrying the ball in and placing it on a counter in the laundry room.
When we’re at the front door, I ask him, “Do you have everything you need?”
“I’m good,” he says.
“Thanks for putting up with all my questions. And thanks for the throwing lesson.”
“It was fun,” he says.
It was something. That’s for sure.
Maybe a little space will put things back into perspective.
Declan propels onto the porch and watches me get into my car. When the gate to his property is sliding shut behind me, I look up into my rearview mirror to see him still standing on the porch, watching me go.
I drive the first few blocks on autopilot.
The weight of Declan’s hand over mine. The way it felt to sink back into him.
The low timbre of his voice when he laughed at my flub-ups.
What was that look in his eyes right before I said I had to go—like he was deciding something—or maybe that was just me wishing for something I obviously can’t have.
I push Bluetooth and call Cass to tell her I’m on the way.
“Do you need me to pick anything up?” I ask her.
“You know Emberleigh and Syd bring the goods.”
“True. Can you bring my book? It’s in my bedroom,” I ask her.
“Sure. Where have you been all day?”
“I was at Declan’s.”
“This whole afternoon?”
“Yeah. We watched the game together.”
“The Thunder?”
“Yeah. Can you believe it? And we won!”
My excitement must carry through my voice because Cass asks, “So you’re finally a fan of football?”
“I’m starting to see the appeal.”
Understatement of the century.