8. Nessa
8
NESSA
I park my car and stare at the expanse of Blackstone University. A weird feeling of nostalgia washes over me even though I’ve never been here before. There’s just an energy on a college campus you can’t replicate anywhere else. Students hustle between buildings, joking and laughing and enjoying this little taste of adulthood.
My heart squeezes in my chest because I’d really never had this. I’d gone to college in Maine on a scholarship—the same school that Emily Patterson had attended before me. She’d been a beast on the soccer field but had chosen a different path instead of going pro. I respected the hell out of her, envied her some days even, because my path had been forged by one event after another.
Swallowing down the lump of emotion, I push my door open and stand. The air is chilly but nothing compared to Maine in December. Jensen had asked me three times if I needed a heavier coat this morning, and the memory has a smile flitting over my lips.
I assured him I did not, having already run five miles around town before he’d even gotten up. I was well acclimated to Tennessee weather.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out as I make my way toward the athletic complex.
KINSLEY: Good luck today!
NESSA: This isn’t an interview. They’re asking for help taking their soccer program to the next level
KINSLEY: I can still wish you luck
NESSA: I miss you too
KINSLEY: (gif of puppy with cartoon heart eyes)
NESSA: You’re ridiculous.
KISLEY: How are things going? You haven’t sent me pictures of Remi and I’m having withdrawals!
NESSA: (picture of Remi smiling)
NESSA: (picture of Remi napping in her bassinet)
KINSLEY: OMG! She’s getting so big. I need to come visit soon!
NESSA: You saw her yesterday
KINSLEY: I know. It’s weird that I miss her right?
NESSA: Of course not. You did all the late nights with me too.
KINSLEY: I did enjoy a full night of uninterrupted sleep though
KINSLEY: How’s the sexy sheriff?
NESSA: He makes a really hot dad
KINSLEY: I bet
KINSLEY: Also I need details…
NESSA: I will after my meeting xoxo
My phone buzzes again but this time it’s far less fun.
AGENT: Did you look over my email with the contract?
NESSA: Yes and I want better endorsement options and bonuses. I sent you one of the contracts for a player on the men’s team—it’s got to be closer to that
AGENT: Women’s soccer is not men’s soccer
NESSA: That’s why we need to be tactful before we shatter that glass ceiling
AGENT: I’ll see what I can do
NESSA: The more I get paid—the more you get paid (wink face emoji)
AGENT: As if I could forget
AGENT: I’ll text you when I know more
Throwing my phone in my purse, I pull open the door and step inside. I’m met with a wall of warm air, and I’m suddenly thankful I didn’t take Jensen’s suggestion for a heavier coat.
“Can I help you?” a pretty woman behind the desk asks. Her hair is light brown and her smile is bright even if it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks tired, and I have the strangest urge to hug her or buy her a coffee.
“I’m Nessa Hart. I’m looking for Coach Turner.”
A real smile stretches over her lips, and she nods as she reaches for the intercom and announces my arrival.
“There’s been a real buzz about you the last couple of weeks. Coach Turner has been workin’ on this for a long time now, and we’re just so thankful to have your expertise.”
Her praise has me blushing in a way that is completely foreign to me, and I barely get out a shy thank you before Knox Turner bounds into the room with a grin and a hearty handshake.
“Welcome, welcome, Miss Hart. It is a pleasure havin’ you here.”
“Nessa, please,” I say and he nods, leading us out of the entryway and into the complex. “This setup is pretty impressive,” I say, taking in the space.
“It is. Our teams here are top-notch and the kids work damn hard to keep it that way. We’ve had more than our fair share of professional athletes over the years, but I’ve had a hell of a time getting our soccer program up and running,” he says, looking at me from the corner of his eye.
“And?” I ask, already knowing there’s more.
“And I find myself in the unique position that I don’t have to impress you,” he says with a cheeky grin. “You’re here as a favor, so I feel like we can skip over the formalities.”
“By all means,” I say, my interest more than a little piqued.
“Good, good.” He motions toward the banners hanging from the ceiling, championships forever memorialized on display. “I don’t need help building a winning program, Miss Hart. I’ve done that plenty myself. What I need is a younger perspective on the game. Women’s soccer is gaining popularity, and I don’t want to do these kids a disservice by not preparing them.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.”
Stopping, he turns and faces me, his expression serious. “Being a professional athlete is not for the faint of heart. Look at how your game—the industry—has changed since you started playing. I can’t just send talented players to the next level based on their skill anymore. You’re role models but now it’s not just for the girls who like soccer. The nation is tuning in and they’re wearing your name on their back. I need to prepare them because it’s not just about bein’ on the field anymore.”
“You’re looking for public relations?”
“I want to turn out the kind of athletes you want as your teammates. Tell them the things you wish you knew, how to navigate the stress of going viral and this new level of social media exposure. Yes, the world of professional sports has always been under a microscope but as times change, we must too.”
“Sounds like you’re offering me a job, coach,” I say wryly and he chuckles.
“Say the word and I’ll have a press release before you’ve made it to the lobby.” His eyes twinkle and I know that he’s not kidding, not even a little. “Help me advocate for this new generation of athletes.”
“And despite me being here under circumstances that make you feel like you don’t have to impress me,” I say as I throw a sideways glance at him, “you really think I’m the best fit for what you’re trying to do?” The man-eater headlines roll through my mind, and while I feel the message he’s trying to send in the very fiber of my being, I need him to be sure.
“Nessa,” he says with a hand on my shoulder, “I’ve been at this game a long time. Your narrative is what you want it to be but when I look at your headlines—when I see clips of you on the field—I see a woman who hasn’t let anyone else dictate the path she’s on. I see a woman full of determination and pride who works hard and supports her teammates and her community. And can I tell you a secret?” he asks, his eyes twinkling again as I try not to let the full impact of his words show on my face.
“Sure.”
“You bein’ here is providential,” he says with a dramatic pause, “but given the choice I would have asked for you anyway.”
It’s a compliment. It’s validation.
And it’s the highest praise to have someone see past the shiny facade to the person I work tirelessly to be.
“I appreciate you saying that, Coach,” I say, the words somehow insignificant and fitting all at the same time. Clearing my throat, I offer my hand. “It would be an honor to be a part of your program.”
His smile grows impossibly wide as it stretches over his face. “The Blackstone Lions thank you, Miss Hart.”
“Nessa.”
He grins. “Well, Nessa, let’s go out and talk to Lana and see if we can get you set up here for the duration. After you,” he says, motioning for me to go ahead of him, and I can’t help but feel the significance of me leading the way .
Goose bumps break out over my arms, and I let myself settle into the whirlwind of emotions. The woman at the front desk looks up at our return. I’d been so hell-bent on getting back to Nashville as soon as possible, but somehow, in the midst of all the chaos, I might have found where I’m meant to be.
At least while I’m in Blackstone Falls.