Interception.
Anger hammered through him. Helmet hits and grunts, pads pounding into each other—all the sounds that together formed the field’s constant choir. But all he could see was number 24 from the opposing team, leaping to catch the ball, then landing and spurting forward.
In milliseconds, he scanned the field. Realized there wasn’t a single Tiger who could catch 24. Not one man open to make the tackle or chase him down.
Only me.
Emotion and regret and livid irritation at his own failure fueled his burst of movement. He found his route, around a pile of black and orange, past the first defender, eyes on 24 . . .
And in an instant, his quest came to a crushing end as two linemen barreled into him from opposite sides. He felt the wrench in his back upon impact, tasted blood as the hit sent his entire body airborne.
Knew as he slammed into the grass—shoulder first, knee smashed between helmets and pads and body weight—this could be it. Probably was it. The injury that’d end it all. He heard his own yell as if from a distance.
And then . . . nothing.
Until the beep of a hospital monitor. And the whisper of confusion. Lilah’s voice. “He’s waking up.”
Except . . .
Colton opened his eyes. Up ahead flashing red lights pulled him back to the present and announced a train nearing the place where the back road intersected with rail. His stomach churned.
“You all right, Colt?” Case.
Had that really been Lilah’s voice? He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to remember. He hadn’t actually seen her that first day he woke up, had he? And the voice in his memory . . .
It was lower. Older.
“Colton?”
It wasn’t Lilah. “Not feeling so good. Probably the fast food.”
Red-and-white-striped barriers lowered into place, and Case slowed the truck. “Do you need to get out?”
The lights of the oncoming train chugged into sight, its whistle piercing the air. Colton unfastened his seat belt, hand to the door handle. “Think so.” His groaning stomach sent him from the car, toward the grass at the side of the road. The sound of the passing train, its panting movement and wheels grinding against the metal track, covered Colton’s heaves as he lost his dinner.
Case was at his side before he was done, crouching down with one hand on Colton’s back and handing him a water bottle when it was over. Colton drank half the bottle in one long swig and stood.
“Wow, sorry about that.”
Case shook his head. “No need to apologize.”
Was it the fast food that’d messed with his stomach? Or something else?
The train’s snaking form huffed around a bend and out of sight, leaving only the lifting crossroad barriers in its wake. The crossroad’s lights flashed to a halt. Silence, except for the cicadas humming in the field.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Case stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Right now I think getting back home, maybe finding some 7-Up, might be a good idea.”
Colton capped his water bottle. “I mean with my life. I walked out of an interview today. Just chucked it all. Ian has these plans, but I don’t think they’re going to work out. I’m a football player, not a TV show host. There’s the book, yeah. But I’m . . .” Lost.
The rumble of the combine approached, its headlights roving over the road. And then Case’s voice, thoughtful slowness in his words. “Colt, how much do you know about Raymond Berry?”
Huh, random question. “Wide receiver. Played for the Colts back when they were in Baltimore, right? Fifties and sixties?”
Case nodded, leaning against his truck. “And then he went on to coach. There’s a story about him. First day as the Cowboys’ receivers coach, he’s working with the rookies and demonstrating how to run a sideline route. The guy was notorious for his precision and practice ethic. So he runs the route, makes his usual practiced number of steps, cuts toward the sideline . . . and he lands a foot out of bounds.”
Colton took a drink of his water and nodded. “Happens.”
“Not to Berry. He says, ‘Guys, either the hash marks are wrong or this field’s too narrow.’”
“Based on one demonstration?”
Case nodded. “So they get a tape measure and Berry’s proven right. The practice field was eleven inches too narrow.”
Colton finished his water. “That’s hilarious. And a cool story.”
“And rife with analogies. If I were a pastor, I’d whip it out once a year. You can talk about living a life of precision. You can talk about boundaries. You can talk about taking the time to notice when life just feels off.” Case glanced over at him. “But for you, Colt, the story isn’t about the lines. It’s about the eleven inches.”
“Not sure I understand.”
Case pulled his hands from his pockets. “You’re playing on a field that’s too narrow, son. You marked off boundaries for your life and decided only certain things fit inside. Namely football and all its trimmings. And when those things dropped away, you felt like you’d gone out of bounds.”
That’s exactly how he’d felt. Not just out of bounds, but off the turf altogether. Directionless.
“But I’ll tell you what I think.” Case took Colton’s empty water bottle and tossed it in the backseat of the truck. “I think God might have eleven more inches for you.”
“Which means . . . ?”
Case rounded the truck bed, looked over at Colton, and shrugged. “There’s more.”
“That’s it? Just a vague more? I’d kinda like to know what’s in those supposed eleven extra inches.”
Case laughed and opened his door. “You will. Give it time, give it thought, give it prayer.”
“And in the meantime?”
“Get in the truck so we can go home.”
Home. Colton got in the truck.
12
Kate used to imagine this moment. What she’d say or do if Gil suddenly reappeared in her life.
But she’d never expected it to happen in a Chicago hospital. That she would meet him on the cancer floor.
Gil now pushed a perspiring red glass toward where she stood at the edge of the table in the cafeteria. “Diet Coke. Still your drink of choice?”
They hadn’t spoken for more than two minutes when they’d met in the corridor outside of Breydan’s room—had that really been five days ago?
Gil hadn’t said it, but she’d known as soon as she’d seen him—his thin frame, the purple under his eyes, the tufts of silvery black where a full head of hair used to be—he wasn’t at the hospital as a visitor. He was a patient.
She slid into the vinyl seat across from him now. “Diet Coke, yes.” He’d even remembered the slice of lemon.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet. The most I was ever hoping for was a reply to my email. Never thought I’d actually run into you. And here of all places.”
The smell of food—or maybe plain old nerves—had her stomach churning, and an unwelcome choir in her head belted out its disapproval. Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.
But she hadn’t been able to tell him no when she’d encountered him in the hospital hallway. Not with such relief playing across his face. “I can’t believe you’re here. You don’t even know what an answer to prayer this is. I only have a few minutes now, but can we meet sometime? Please?”
For a minute there, she hadn’t seen the man who broke her heart but the teacher who’d fueled her creativity and pulled from her a love for storytelling she’d never known she had.
No, Gil hadn’t always been a bad memory.
And so she’d agreed to meet today. She’d managed to put it out of her mind for most of the week, busy as she was running errands for Marcus and Hailey and entertaining Breydan, writing chapters of Colton’s book in between. And talking to Colton on the phone, texting, whenever she wasn’t writing about him.
“Definitely a surprise,” she said now. There, she’d pushed words out. It was
a start.
Gil smiled. Despite his obviously waning health, he still had those mesmerizing ash-colored eyes behind stylish thick-rimmed glasses. Still dressed like the fashionable college professor he was—black oxford, metallic gray vest.
“I thought you were a chemo-induced mirage when I first saw you. But no, it was really you.”
Chemo.
He must’ve noticed her flinch at the word. Because his grin dulled. “I got the diagnosis seven months ago. It’s . . . grim. Only reason I’m even doing treatment is for my wife. She needs something to hold on to.”
Kate swallowed a drink of Coke, carbonation burning her throat. Maybe the mention of Gil’s wife should sting. Maybe she should feel the same anger she used to when she played and replayed the night he’d told her their relationship wasn’t working and—oh, by the way—he already had a wife.
And she’d wondered how in the world she could’ve been so stupid.
But looking at him now, all that just faded away. Because the man had just told her he was dying.
“Gil, I’m so . . . I’m so sorry.”
“You know what’s weird? When I tell people, I almost feel more sorry for them than myself. I’ve come to grips with it. Or maybe I’m just in denial.” He shrugged, an uncanny nonchalance in the movement. “I mean, it’s huge realizing you don’t have much time left. But it gives a person a pretty sudden and intense dose of focus.” He took a sip from his own glass—probably Sprite if his tastes, too, hadn’t changed. “And that’s why I’ve been trying to get ahold of you.”
“I don’t understand. Your email mentioned a script.” Why would he care about an old script now?
“I want to finish it. Katie, that was some of my best writing, the writing I did with you. We were good together.”
She had to focus not to wince. “Good together.” She could still remember the first time he’d said those same words.
She’d felt so special, the way he’d singled her out at the beginning of her senior year at Iowa State. Truthfully, every female student in her class had developed a crush on their young teacher. They’d even made a game of it, taking turns leaving cans of Orange Crush on the podium each class.
Kate was the only one he’d ever caught in the act. She’d waited until he was deep into a conversation on literary versus commercial fiction with another student to reach into her messenger bag, wrap her fingers around the can . . .
And then he’d turned just as she pulled it out. His glance hooked on the can before traveling to her face, smile stretching enough to convince her maybe being caught wasn’t such a bad thing. And soon she was completely under his spell.
Just before she graduated, he’d told her he’d taken a job at Northwestern University. He’d also just been contracted for his first Heartline script and begged her to move to Chicago so they could write together. With hardly a thought she had followed him, and soon they were brainstorming together at what would eventually become their favorite coffee shop.
Her fingers now closed around her ice-cold glass.
“Kate.” Gil’s voice was quiet and strained, as if he’d followed the trail of her memories. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. It was a thousand kinds of inappropriate, the way I acted. My marriage was in a bad place. I was pretty sure it was over. But even so, I was wrong to lead you on the way I did.” He reached up to lower his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose.
“You told me not to take the internship.”
His forehead wrinkled.
“That internship in DC. The one at the nonprofit. You told me not to take it, to move to Chicago so we could write together. Who knows where I’d be now—” She cut herself off. Stop it. Stop playing the accuser. You’re in a hospital, for goodness’ sake. It was years ago.
But instead of shrinking under her words, Gil sat straighter now, firm set to his jaw. “I have a lot to apologize for—I know this. But I’m not sorry I told you to skip the internship. I introduced you to the editor who eventually acquired and published your book, Kate. And co-writing that first script with me—that kicked off your career. If it’s not the career you wanted, you could’ve switched direction anytime. But a six-month internship in DC was never going to be the thing that set you up for a glorious future. If you’re still asking what-if about that . . . then I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Gil . . . ” She tried to find words to respond, but they were lost under the sharp truth. He’s right.
It stung to admit, but she had made her own choices. It had simply been easier blaming the man who hurt her.
He shook his head now, a sigh tailing the movement. “Look, I didn’t want to dredge any of this stuff up. I just wanted to apologize and to ask your permission to continue with that last script we started. It was your story as much as mine, so I won’t move forward if—”
“Go ahead.” She pulled a napkin from the holder and wiped away the puddle around her glass. “Do whatever you want with it. I don’t mind.”
“At least fifty percent of that writing is yours.”
“I’m not going to sue you or anything. Promise.”
He folded his hands on the tabletop. “I think it could be a great story. And I need to do something great before . . .”
She could only nod, emotions too snarled to separate.
Not long later, they were standing and saying good-bye. She walked Gil as far as the elevator, stopping with him as he pressed the Down button.
“Gil, I . . .”
Understanding rested in his eyes. “Thank you for meeting with me, Katie. And for giving me the freedom to move forward with that story.”
The elevator opened, and he stepped inside. The doors began to close.
Kate jumped to block them. “Thank you, Gil.”
Surprise landed in his expression.
“You inspired me. You made me a better writer.” Something freeing washed over her. “And everything you said back at the table . . . You were right.”
Gil held out his hand, and she placed her palm in his. “Bye, Katie Walker.”
Somehow the handshake was filled with warmth. “Bye, Gil.”
And then she stepped out of the elevator and watched its doors close.
“Whoa, is that who I think it was?” Hailey’s mystified voice sounded behind her.
Kate turned. Hailey stared at the closed elevator, bag of M&M’s in hand.
“Yep, that was Gil. Long story.” She held out her hand for Hailey to pour in a few M&M’s. “Actually, it’s not. He wants to finish a script we started years ago. I said okay.” No need to tell Hailey the rest—not with her son battling the same disease as Gil.
“Tell me you laughed in his face.”
“Uh, no. I said yes, and that’s that.”
Hailey popped a handful of M&M’s in her mouth, studying gaze never leaving Kate’s face. “You’ve changed.”
“Not really.”
“You have. A few weeks ago, just talking about Gil would’ve had you stress eating your way to a stomachache.”
She reached for the bag of candy. “Well, I am eating all your M&M’s.”
“It’s Colton.”
Kate choked on chocolate, swallowed. “How’s the weather out there in left field?”
“I’m serious, Walker. He’s the only new element in your life since I saw you last. Thus, he must be the reason you’re suddenly all zen about the Gil thing.”
A nurse’s voice on the intercom called a doctor to a patient’s room. “I don’t think so, Hail.”
“He dropped everything to drive you here. I saw the way he held you when you were crying beside Breydan’s bed—the way he refused to leave the hospital without you that first day. He’s called you every day since he left. Texted constantly.”
“Probably because he’s worried I won’t finish writing his book.”
Hailey stiffened. “Don’t do it, Kate.”
“Do what?”
“Lock up before you even consider that maybe, just maybe,
this guy back in Iowa means something to you.” Hailey sighed. “Would it be so bad to admit there might be a little spark there? To try?”
“You think I don’t try?”
“I think sometimes you close doors before you know what’s on the other side . . . because it’s easier or safer.” She shook her head.
Kate’s gaze traced the pattern of the gold flecks in the hard floor. “Even if there is a . . . a spark, like you said, how do you know I’m not just some rebound girl? There was another girl not that long ago. And he’s still getting over not being able to play. So how do I know—”
“You don’t.”
Her focus snapped up.
“It’s called taking a risk, Kate. Think about the characters in your movies. When they finally realize how they really feel—usually at the end—they act on it. The hero goes after the girl, or vice versa. Stop letting your characters be braver than you are. Be the girl who takes a risk.” She paused before speaking once more. “It’s okay to admit what you want. When you do, you might finally get brave enough to go after it.”
Silence stretched between them, only the hum of the vending machines in the corner and the dinging of the elevator filling the silence, until finally, Kate looked up.
“You know, tonight’s the homecoming game back in Maple Valley.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “If I left now . . .”
Hailey grinned. “Go. Now.” She reached for her M&M’s. “But not with my candy.”
You walked out on the Sports Circle interview.
A gust of cold air that felt more like November than the last day of September whooshed over Colton as he read the text message on his phone. He didn’t have to hear Ian’s voice to pick up on his manager’s ire. He’d probably done it for good this time.
No “probably” about it.
The only thing that didn’t make sense is why it’d taken Ian this many days to confront him. Almost a full workweek since he’d blown the interview in Chicago. And while he felt bad for letting down Ian, he couldn’t bring himself to feel much remorse over the job itself.
He wouldn’t have been any good at it—he just knew it.