“My daddy says you should always give a hundred percent.” Anna shrugged.
Emmy had to smile at that. “Always,” she agreed.
“Sounds like your daddy and my daddy would get along.” He shook his head, winked at Anna, and ran across the field.
Between RJ acting like one of the young kids was throwing too hard and Gene’s acrobatics on the field, the kids were having a great time. Emmy, too. She snapped a few pics on her phone and laughed as five little boys tried to tackle Brock.
But then Ricky Ames came onto the field and headed straight for her, his eager smile a little too eager. “I was hoping you’d show up again, Miss Emmy Lou King. Looking even prettier than last time I saw you.” He smiled. “Been playing my heart out, just for you.”
Emmy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Really?” Was he for real?
“Yes, really.” He stepped closer, closer than he needed to. “You need to know now, when I set my sights on a woman, I’m all in. Just like I am on the field.”
“Ricky.” She paused, making sure he was paying attention so there was no misunderstanding her when she told him it was never ever going to happen.
He wasn’t listening. He was so focused on her boobs that he jumped when the whistle blew. “Kiss for good luck?” he asked, sticking his cheek out.
“No.” She walked past him, following the kids and Shalene back to the sidelines. They waited as the parents came, one by one, to escort their children back to their seats.
By then, the players where back on the field, helmets on, in the zone and ready to go. The air was charged, expectant—kind of like it was for the Three Kings before a show. She blinked, a movement catching her eye. It was so fast she wasn’t sure what it was… Something small, moving quickly. But then the ball of black fluff stopped, midfield, tiny ears poking up and fluffy tail barely visible. No. It couldn’t be. A kitten?
It was so small. Too small. Would the players see it? The refs? Someone?
Move. Please move.
It didn’t. The tiny, black puffball hunkered down in the middle of the twenty-yard line. Terrified and frozen and in harm’s way. She looked around for someone, anyone, but no one could hear h
er over the pure chaos on the sideline. Standing here doing nothing wasn’t an option.
“This is a bad idea.” Then she took off, running as fast as she could. Everything was a blur. The crowd roared. A solid thunk and crack echoed behind her. Then another—louder. Closer? Her speed picked up, her lungs bursting, her ankle throbbing…but she was so close. All that mattered was getting the tiny thing away from thundering cleats, two-hundred-pound-plus players, and missile-force footballs flying through the air. The kitten took one look at her and mewed. It mewed again when she scooped it up and held it close. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
That was when she noticed the cheers. The stands were going wild, some booing, some cheering—the overall noise was deafening. And when she turned around, she saw why. Two Dallas Bronco players, on their butts, staring back and forth between her and Brock in disbelief.
Brock, who was breathing hard, the human wall standing between her and them.
“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing back and forth between the players and Brock, the enormity of what she’d just done sinking in. “I am so…so sorry.” She cradled the kitten close and limped/ran off the field, mumbling apologies to the wide-eyed staff along the sideline. But they weren’t looking at her. They were looking up.
At the jumbotron. The instant replay… It wasn’t pretty.
There she was, racing across the field. And Brock jumping up, putting on his helmet as he charged after her onto the field. He flattened the two unsuspecting Dallas Bronco players headed down the field to score—all while Emmy was scooping up the kitten. Finally, Brock, breathing hard and nodding at the shower of yellow flags flying onto the field before he helped the two Bronco players back on their feet.
This was bad.
“Miss King.” A referee was headed her way, two uniformed security guards with him. “We need you to leave the playing area.”
One of the security guards stepped forward. “We’ll escort you to your seats.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” This was so much more than bad.
“Actually, it is, ma’am.” The security guard cleared his throat. “Normally, we’d escort you from the building, but you being you…”
“Oh.” She nodded. “Yes. Of course.” But guilt made her stop. “This is all my fault. If there’s a penalty for disrupting a game… What can I do?”
“Miss King.” The referee sighed, tapping his watch. “We will discuss this after the game.”
“Right.” She nodded, glancing beyond the referee, beyond the players laughing over the slow-motion replay of her kitten rescue, searching for Brock. He was getting an earful from their coach. And it was her fault. The last thing he needed was trouble with his team. He’d been benched for his injury. His leg. She stopped again, but one look from her security-guard escorts got her moving.
He hadn’t been cleared to play. He shouldn’t have been chasing after her—protecting her.