11. Winona #2
I smile. “So, what do you do at halftime?”
“It goes quickly. It’s only fifteen minutes. Use the restroom. Get snacks. Stretch.”
“I’m good on all three counts,” I tell him. “Do you need to stretch?”
He lifts his arms overhead and his shirt rises up with the stretch. I glance away instead of staring at the sliver of skin along his waistband. What is it with him? Every inch is a work of art.
“So, that play?” he says. “The one I called before they ran it?”
“Third and ten?” I ask.
“Yes. The game is played in four quarters over a whole hour of play. Fifteen minutes each quarter. And our goal is to get the ball down the field.”
“To get a touchdown,” I supply.
“Yes. Exactly. But we count progress in ten-yard increments. And the offense—the team with the ball—gets four chances to move the ball ten yards. The chances are called downs. If they don’t move the ball ten yards, the ball goes to the other team.
Then our defense comes out and tries to block them. ”
I nod. I’m not sure why they’re called the offense.
The guys trying to knock people down are far more offensive.
But I don’t interrupt Declan to make that point.
He’s animated and smiling. It obviously means a lot to him that I learn his sport.
This is the happiest I’ve seen him since the day I came to work here.
If teaching me football makes him happy, I’m here for it.
“So,” Declan continues. “Third and ten means we already had two chances to move the ball and didn’t move it. And that was our third chance.”
“Ohhhh!” I say. “And that’s why the next time it was first and ten. You got back to having four more chances.”
“Yes!” he shoves his fist in the air again, and I watch his leg to make sure he’s not destabilizing himself.
“So, the ten is how many yards you have left in that chance?”
“Yes. It could be second and four.”
“Second down. Four yards left,” I say.
“Yes!”
Making him happy is addictive.
“Tell me more,” I say. “This is starting to make sense.”
He spends the rest of halftime filling me in on what a blitz is—when all the defenders go for the quarterback and try to tackle him right off the bat. And he explains what the difference between a passing play and a running play is. And then he tells me about his position.
“Tight ends block and receive.”
“Two jobs?”
“Yeah. We have to be versatile.”
“That’s impressive,” I say. And I mean it.
His face grows a little solemn.
“Is it hard to watch your team play from here on your couch?” I ask.
“Yeah. But not as hard as it might have been.”
“Well, I appreciate you inviting me to stay.”
I’m quiet the whole second half, except commercials. That’s when I ask questions. The game is down to the last minute. It’s third and eight. We’ve got the ball. And I can’t even believe I understand all of that already.
“You’re a good teacher,” I say, quietly.
Declan doesn’t look away from the screen, but he says, “Thanks. You’re a good student.”
I’m glad his eyes are fixed on the players lining up at what I now know is called the line of scrimmage, because my chest tightens and a light stinging pulls behind my eyes.
It’s no big deal. Declan said I’m a good student.
But it is a big deal—to me, it is.
I clear my throat and focus.
“Go Thunder!” I say.
Declan huffs out a soft laugh. I can only see the side of his face from where I’m sitting, but his cheeks tug up and a dimple pops.
He’s smiling. And I’m the reason.
The ball snaps and the quarterback looks around.
The guys blocking are keeping the LA team away from Delaney.
That’s who Declan said was the quarterback.
I met him. And now I’m watching him throw the ball high and long to a guy who is running like he’s being chased by rabid dogs while he’s carrying a steak.
The guy turns, jumps, catches the ball and does this sideways dive maneuver that sends him over the line into the end zone.
I jump up and shout, “We won!” I look at Declan. He’s beaming. I’m jumping up and down. “We won! We won!”
“Yeah,” he says with a smile that shoots straight through my heart. “We won.”
The cameras pan around as the players leave the field. Reporters show up, mostly women, interviewing the guys about the game.
I ask Declan, “When’s the next game?”
“Next Sunday,” he says. “Are you planning to watch?”
“I have to watch it now. I need to see if we win.”
His smile gets even wider. Then he says, “Most games are on Sundays. But we can have Thursday or Monday games. And we often play on Thanksgiving.”
“What?” I pause, my post-game excitement ratcheting down a notch. “You play football on Thanksgiving?”
“Six teams play on Thanksgiving Day every year. No one gets a bye week that week. The rest of us play Black Friday or Sunday.”
“A buy week? If you can buy the week, maybe you should offer more money. I would. I’d pay a lot not to have to work on Thanksgiving.”
He chuckles. “Bye. B-Y-E.”
“Oh. Okay.” I stand to leave. “Bye.”
That was abrupt, but I have been here a long time. Maybe he’s tired after watching the game.
Declan laughs. “No. Winona, I’m not telling you to leave. We call it a bye week—the one week a season we don’t work. It means we’re not playing.”
“Oh! A bye week. That’s a funny name.”
“I guess it is. I never gave it much thought.”
“And you play for work. I do like that part.”
He studies me. “It’s hard work.”
“I can tell. I’d never be able to do your job. I can hardly get a Kleenex to land in a trash can from a short distance. And all that tackling? No. That would not be one of my jobs.”
“No Winona for Hire in the NFL?”
“Yeah. No. Definitely not.”
“I can assure you the Thunder isn't looking to hire you to stand in for a day,” he says with a smile.
I laugh. "Yeah. I'm very certain of that."
“Would you want to learn to throw a Kleenex into the trash can?” he asks me.
“I mean … yes? Who wants Kleenex landing on the floor?”
“I’ll teach you,” he says. “Let me get my football.”
Declan reaches over and grabs the remote, turning off the TV.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s grabbing his crutches and propelling himself across the room. “It’s in my bedroom. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay!” I shout after him.
The sound of the elevator clunking into place and the doors opening echoes down the hallway. I sit on the edge of the chair where I sat watching the game. A few minutes later, Declan’s back, a football awkwardly tucked under his arm while he maneuvers with the crutches.
I jump up, grabbing the ball. “Remember the sling I made you?”
“How could I forget?” he chuckles, looking down into my eyes. “You nearly took Patrick out.”
I laugh. “Yeah. Thankfully he’s got lightning reflexes.”
“Let’s go out back,” Declan says.
“To … ?”
“Learn to throw.”
“You’re going to teach me to throw?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t wait for my answer. He just propels through the house, out the side door at the back of the laundry room and down the steps of his back deck.
Declan’s yard is as massive as his house and as well-kept.
He stops at a spot, waiting for me to catch up.
“Okay, show me what you’ve got,” he says.
“Just throw the ball?”
“That’s how I’ll see your skill. Aim for that net over there.”
I glance across the long yard to where Declan’s pointing. A taut net is strung across a metal frame.
“I got that so my nieces could practice throwing when they’re over. I mess around with it sometimes too.”
“And you think I’m going to throw and hit it?”
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Prepare to be wowed,” I say. And then I add, “And I don’t mean in a good way.”
I hold the football, it’s not exactly comfortable, then I pull my arm back the way I saw Marcus do in the game. And then I hurl it forward. The ball flies end over end in a wobbly, irregular pattern and falls to the ground about fifteen feet away from us.
“Wow,” Declan says.
“Told you. That’s a whole lotta wow right there.”
He laughs again and our gazes catch. I study the crinkles around his hazel eyes—they’re darker green today—and the way his dimples pop, framing his full mouth.
Declan’s words snap me out of my stare-fest. “First of all, we have to work on your grip. Do you mind getting the ball?”
“Of course not. Are you okay out here?”
“Yeah. I am. I’m not weight bearing on my bad ankle. It feels good to be off the couch.”
I jog to the ball, pick it up and bring it back to Declan.
“You want to hold the ball like this,” he says, splaying his big hand around the ball.
He tosses the ball gently to me and I catch it.
“Put your ring finger and pinky across the laces,” he says.
I do, but I must not get it right because he propels closer to me and reaches over, moving my fingers—gently and with precision.
My heart beats in my throat and a tingling hums across my hand where he touches me.
I haven’t been on a date in years—intentionally avoiding dating because no one interested me.
Not that I’m dating Declan. At all. I just haven’t been this close to a man, his hand over mine, in a long, long time.
“Put your thumb here.” Declan’s hand engulfs mine, securing my thumb where he wants it. “Balance your grip.”
He looks down at me and I wonder if I’m still breathing.
Get a grip, Winona—and not just on this ball.
Just when I think we’re finished with him touching me, Declan says, “The ball should roll off the fingers, with the index finger being the absolute last point of contact.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Here,” he says, maneuvering himself slowly and carefully until he’s right behind me. He rests his underarms on the crutches, keeping his injured leg bent. His arm comes around in front of me, his hand covers mine on the ball. He bends our arms together. I sink back into him.