Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Decker McKenna’s ankle throbbed. He’d iced it on the flight from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City, but since then, he’d been hobbling around an airport, trying to find a way home.
And then, out of nowhere, he’d found an absolute powerhouse of a woman who’d snatched the keys out of his hand and taken control of the situation.
That was hot.
As the quarterback and captain of his team, every-fucking-thing sat on his shoulders. And he loved it—no question. He loved his life. But it didn’t suck to have someone take the lead for a change.
They’d just left the rental car parking lot and were heading for the highway, and since she’d already paired her phone, her shit music filled the car.
He knew she’d listen to that crap. “My playlist, remember?”
“Your music will make me drive off a cliff. It’ll make blood gush out of my eyeballs. If you want to get there in one piece, we’re listening to my tunes.”
No one talked to him like that. Most people either tried to impress him or handled him with kid gloves. This woman had taken his keys, hijacked the stereo, and acted like she was doing him a favor. She was a trip.
A beautiful trip, he’d give her that. Everything about her was expensive. Her blonde hair, heels, and leather tote bag. She had style and attitude, and it was impossible not to notice her.
After suffering through another minute of whiny music, he couldn’t take it anymore. “Is this guy singing, or is he just reading his diary out loud?”
“I love The National.”
“Well, he’s got emotional damage I don’t need to know about.”
“Shh. This is my favorite part.” She belted out the lyrics.
“‘Lay me down and say something pretty?’” You’ve got to be kidding me. “Why would you want to sing stupid lyrics?”
She fiddled with her phone, cutting off the song and leaving them in blissful silence. “You’ve just ruined one of my favorite songs. Now, I have to start all over again.”
Boom. That dull, flat voice of a man who made sadness his whole personality filled the car. “Fuck my life.”
“Uh, I’d say you’re doing pretty damn well, considering you get a private driver to your brother’s wedding. You could be spending the night in an airport hotel, eating a protein bar and a bag of microwave popcorn.”
“I have resources.”
“Oh, really? You know the governor? Or did you think you could pay a pilot to fly you into a storm?” She released a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief.
But she was right. No amount of money could fix this situation. It had worked out strangely well to find someone else heading to Calamity at the same time. Even more coincidental, she happened to be the bride’s friend. “That’s fair. Can we have a little quiet, though?”
“Fine.” Not even three seconds later, she started yapping at him. “So, which brother are you? The firefighter, the vet, or the football player?”
All right, that’s enough. Even if she didn’t watch football, his face showed up on national broadcasts every Sunday for half the year, not to mention the commercials and highlight reels that seemed to play in every airport bar in the country.
There’s no way she didn’t know who he was.
“Football.” He hated when people pretended not to recognize him.
“Okay, that tracks. When I first saw you, you gave me this weird look, and I thought you were maybe a model or an actor, but yeah…” Her gaze did a quick trip up and down his body. “You look sporty.”
Sporty? Ha. “I don’t give weird looks.” Mostly because he didn’t spend time worrying about how he came across. His attention was already spoken for—eighty percent football, twenty percent family.
“Ha. You were basically waiting for me to slip you my hotel key.”
“I can promise you I wasn’t thinking that.”
“Then you were wondering whether I recognized you.”
He gave a curt nod. “A lot of people play that game. I’m not a bullshitter.”
“Well, trust me, neither am I. I don’t watch football. Sorry if that hurts your feelings.”
“My team won the Super Bowl last year. My face was all over the news.” Not to mention the commercials and magazine spreads. “Besides, we grew up in the same town.” Mountain people didn’t give a crap about money or fame, so they mostly left him alone. But everyone recognized him.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Twenty-seven. Why?”
“Well, there you go. I’m four years older than you and moved away for college when I was eighteen. I mean, obviously, I knew one of Jude’s brothers was a big deal in sports, but a pimply fourteen-year-old was not on my radar. Sorry if that’s a blow to your ego.”
“Not about my ego.” He’d prefer anonymity. But it came with the job, so he did his best to tolerate it. “And I didn’t have pimples.”
She let out a laugh that in no way fit with her polished, professional appearance. It was loud, it showed her teeth, and it didn’t hold back. “Right. No ego at all. I’m sure you were an exceptionally handsome teenager.” She flicked a hand to his leg. “So, what happened?”
Nope. Not a chance. “Nothing. No big deal.” She didn’t seem the type to let something go—she was too sharp and too observant for that—so, he added, “Precautionary.” Whatever the fuck that meant.
Turning on her signal, she got onto the highway onramp. “Buddy, your face was white as a sheet, and you were sweating just from getting on the shuttle. You’re in serious pain.”
Yep. Observant.
He shouldn’t have closed his eyes. The instant he did, the moment replayed—the LA heat, the smell of freshly cut grass, Big Mike stumbling backward into him just as Decker planted to throw.
Then the pop. A sickening snap deep in the joint that told him something had gone very wrong. Pain had detonated up his leg and dumped him flat on his back.
Even now, his body reacted, nerves firing like he’d chugged a gallon of coffee.
Because the timing sucked. Veteran camp started in five days.
I’m screwed.
He had goals. Records to break. A season to lead.
He could not believe he’d rolled his ankle. What made it worse? It was the second time.
And stretched ligaments didn’t snap back.
A warm hand landed on his forearm. “Are you okay?” Her voice was soft, gentle. “Do you need me to pull over?”
“No. Drive.”
The hand disappeared, and he sat in the throbbing, burning pain of his high ankle sprain.
Of course, he’d gone straight to the facility. The team doctor had taken X-rays and an MRI. It wasn’t the worst outcome. He’d be fully healed in three weeks. And even if he couldn’t play, he’d still show up at training camp. Still lead his team. And in three weeks, he’d be ready to go.
Fuck, it hurts. He’d put the seat back as far as it could go, but his legs were too long to stretch out in the footwell of this tin can. There was no position that gave him relief.
Zach. He needed to talk to his mentor. He pulled out his phone to update him.
Decker: Got a driver. On the road now.
Zach: Good. You’ll be back Monday?
Decker: Depends. I made an appointment at the Anti-Gravity Center. Want to get their opinion.
Zach: The team doctor gave you a plan. What’s wrong with it?
Decker: We have different objectives. He wants me back on the field. I want to be healed. I want longevity.
Decker: Did a lot of research on the plane, too.
Zach: Hold on. I know you’re worried, but don’t spin out. Trust your team doctor.
Zach: You get too many opinions, you’re left with no clear plan.
I’m the clear plan. Experience had taught him to look out for himself.
Decker: My bigger concern is how to handle camp.
Zach: Meaning?
Decker: Showing up in a boot. It’s all anyone’s going to see.
Zach: Then let them see it. You’re not the first guy to walk into camp banged up. Everyone’s got something.
Zach: You show up. You’re in meetings. You lead. And you don’t practice until you’re right.
Zach: You set the tone. You act like it’s not a big deal, and that’s what they’ll see.
Zach: The only way you screw this up is by rushing it. You push it now, you’re the one who pays for it when the games start.
Decker exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest easing.
Zach: Be smart. Don’t screw around at your brother’s wedding, and you’ll be fine.
When his driver accelerated too quickly around a slower car in the passing lane, the boot hit the wall, and pain exploded. “Slow down. Can we not die on the way to the rehearsal dinner?”
“It’s a four-and-a-half-hour drive. If we have no traffic and no weather issues, we won’t get there until five-thirty.”
“That’s right. Exactly in time.”
“Sure, if it wasn’t Friday afternoon in the summer. The road’s going to be crammed with tourists heading to the parks.” She drew in a breath. “But you’re right, I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”
“Thank you.”
She tapped the screen of her phone, and the next song on her playlist filled the car. In no time, she was back to singing her heart out. And it wasn’t that she had a bad voice—it was actually okay—he just couldn’t stand that emo crap.
But she was driving, and he guessed he’d have to suck it up.
Thanks to the pain, he hadn’t slept the last two nights, so he’d just close his eyes and take a nap.
Right as he started to drift off, she lowered the volume and started yapping again.
“I live in New York City, so I never get to drive. And I love, love, love it. I used to drive all over Jackson Hole. I’d have the windows open, singing my heart out.
I was obsessed with ‘Fireflies’ by Owl City. You remember that song?”
Fuck my life. Of all the people to share a ride with, he’d wound up with a chatterbox. “No.”
“What did you listen to back then?”