13. Nutmeg & Knockouts #2
It was silly to think he could avoid me forever. That he’d stay hidden. So no. I’m not entirely surprised that he’s here today. And if I’m being honest, I’m not entirely disappointed to see him. The man is fine.
Running into him the other day—finally confirming that the strange, nagging feeling was right, that it was him on the sidewalk—was the most incredible, most excruciating thing I’ve ever felt. The man who touched my heart so completely in just one night is so close and still completely out of reach.
I’d rehearsed what I’d say to him, if I ever saw him again.
Some ridiculous, foolishly hopeful part of me had spun out an entire fantasy.
Words I’d say if I ever stood in front of him again.
Words that might somehow convince him to give us a shot.
To show him I’m not like most women my age.
That life’s carved a few extra layers into me. Seasoned me differently.
That I see him—really see him. Not the money.
Not the headlines. Not the empire he's built with sheer grit and charm. I see him. The man beneath it all. The one who hides his soul behind swagger and seduction. The one who tells the truth when it matters most, because the idea of being a fraud terrifies him. The man I haven’t stopped thinking about.
The one I haven’t been able to shake since the moment he first looked at me like I wasn’t just someone passing through—but someone worth remembering.
I’d planned to tell him I don’t need flash. I don’t need the extras. I don’t need to be entertained. I just wanted to try and see what a life would be like with just him. And see where it could go.
But the moment I found out about Marlow—that she was his daughter—everything changed.
Every hopeful idea. Every foolish plan died right there in Marlow’s office.
Because I take my job seriously.
Because I respect her too much.
Suddenly, cheers erupt from the field, pulling me out of my thoughts. A fresh round of applause ripples through the crowd as another match kicks off—players mixing in with the kids, everyone grinning ear to ear.
Justice Trager, the current team captain—grizzled, grinning, and beloved—is out there too. He’ll be retiring soon, but today, he’s moving like a man ten years younger. He taps the ball upfield with easy control, passing it between two kids before flipping it back to one of the younger players.
The pace picks up—quick passes, shouts of encouragement—when one tiny player with pigtails and a determined gleam in her eye darts forward. In a blink, she slides the ball right between the legs of one of the players.
The kids on the sidelines lose their minds.
“WHOAAAH NUTMEG!” They shout in unison, little voices cracking with excitement, laughter and cheers bouncing across the field.
I smile, soaking it all in—actually feeling proud of this moment—just as something shifts in the air.
I turn and see Grant walking my way, wearing that smile—that damn smile—that instantly makes my panties feel like they’ve vanished into thin air.
I smile back.
And then—lights out.
Blinding impact. A thud that echoes in my skull. Pain blooms sharp and hot across the side of my head.
Someone gasps. Someone else yells.
I’ve been hit.
A soccer ball—launched hard and fast—straight to my damn head.
Great.
One minute I’m looking fly and unbothered—cool as hell in my dressed-down chic, looking unphased and unmoved by Grant make me scream Mills.
The next?
My head is nearly taken off by an eight-year-old with a lead foot.
What the hell are they feeding these kids?
Now, all the cameras are on me, and the guys from the team are rushing over, yelling, “Coach Saunders!”
A new nickname they’ve got everyone calling me.
And then Grant is there. On me before I can even blink.
My head is pounding so hard that if I close my eyes for more than a few seconds, I’m definitely going to pass out.
Fantastic. Really nailing that whole professional, put-together team therapist vibe right now.
Grant is at my side, steady hands on my shoulders, his voice low and firm.
“Eslin. You’re hurt. Just sit still a second. You could have a concussion.”
“I’m fine,” I grit out, already trying to push myself up.
My head is spinning, the pounding in my skull only getting worse, but damned if I’m going to fall apart in front of him. In front of everyone.
“Eslin—”
“I said I’m fine!”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t let up. One brow arches in that maddening way that says he’s not buying a word of it.
I manage to get to my feet, swaying slightly. My pride is screaming at me to walk it off. But as soon as I take a step, the ground tilts, my knees buckle, and I fall straight into Grant’s arms.
Strong, steady, warm. His grip tightens around me instinctively. Our eyes lock, heat flashing between us, thick and sharp.
Too much. Way too much.
He’s so pretty.
“Let me call an ambulance. Take you to the ER, get you checked out or something?” he says, voice edged with concern.
I hear Marlow from behind. “That’s a good idea, Daddy.”
Fuck me. Daddy.
She had to call him Daddy right now?
While he’s cradling me in his arms, holding me like he’s felt every bit of this ache I’ve been carrying? Like he’s missed me just as much as I’ve missed him?
Perfect timing. Just perfect.
I jerk back, breath catching hard. I force my legs to move, steadying myself. “I’ve got it,” I say quickly, breathless.
Without another word or glance, I turn and head for my car.
My driver, Sammy, is already there, back door open. I nearly sprint the last few steps and drop into the seat.
The door shuts, and finally, I catch sight of myself in the rearview mirror.
Grass tangled in my hair. My cute, chic ponytail of locs now crooked, lopsided, with little sticks poking out at random angles.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Sammy glances back. “Are you okay?”
He clearly missed all the commotion and the goal that was scored on my head!
I groan, leaning my head against the seat. “I’m fine. Just… get me home. Fast.”
And if I’m lucky, maybe by the time we get there, I’ll have figured out how the hell to erase the feel of Grant’s arms from my skin.