Beauty and the Baller

“It’s Blue Belle, and no, I don’t have any.”

“Pity. How’s the high school gig? Heard you won your first game. Your quarterback looks good. How old is he?”

Leave it to Reggie to be on top of the news, scouting.

“That would be Toby. He’s seventeen. What’s going on with you?” I ask.

“I got a lead on a possible college job. How do you feel about Stanford?”

“California. I love the sun. What job?”

“Quarterback coach. Half a mill is what Dunbar is pulling in there, but rumor is he got caught by someone on staff doing coke. He was arrested last year on a drug charge, and the team looked beyond it, but this is the second time, and I feel like he’ll go into rehab, then maybe resign. William Hite is head coach—you know him—and he’s incredible. I threw your name up in a call, and there was some tentative interest, but we have to play it close to the vest.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s a prestigious school with a long tradition in football. You’d look great in white and red.”

I grimace. It’s not about the money. I pulled in twenty-five million a year with the Pythons. My financial situation is set for life. And Hite is a great coach—the kind I want to be. I want to be in charge, have control of a team, mold it, and make it mine. I want his job. A long exhale comes from me. I don’t expect the offers to come pouring in—not when I haven’t proved myself on the college level—but my name does carry clout, and I can always hope.

He continues in a rush. “I know it’s not what you’re looking for. You want to be in charge, and someone is going to snatch you up, but we need to do this one step at a time. How do you feel about Stanford if Hite calls me?”

“I need to think on it. I can’t leave my team midseason.” I scuff my feet on the porch. “Keep your feelers out. Get back to me if you hear any more chatter.”

I hang up and turn back around. Nova stands a foot away.

“So Mrs. Meadows was right,” she says. “The rumors are true. You’re looking to leave. That woman truly does know everything.”

“You like to eavesdrop?”

“It’s a lesson all southern women learn early.” She shrugs an elegant shoulder. “We don’t care if we get caught.”

My jaw pops, frustration rising. I do want to move up the ladder. Once I set a goal, I give it my entire focus. I almost won state last year, and this year’s goal is to get that trophy, then elevate to a higher level, either college or professional. I never planned on coaching high school the rest of my career.

But I’m not discussing that with her.

I huff and raise my arms. “Fine. I’m going to check out your flowers, maybe replace them. It’s why I came over here—besides delivering your cat! Then I’ll leave you in peace.”

She takes a step closer until we’re nearly toe to toe. The smell of green apples wafts around her as she pushes a finger into my chest. “No, you’re not, Fancy Pants. I am. You wouldn’t know what to do with them.” She deflates, her shoulders dipping. “Plus, they can’t be replaced. Not the roses anyway. They mean something to me.” Her eyes shine with emotion as she takes a step back.

Shit. My frustration ebbs as I whip my hat off and run my hands through my hair, then clutch my cap. I know grief, that feeling of grappling with death, when you want to cling to any reminder. I wore Whitney’s ring around my neck for a year.

I search for the right words. “I’ve hurt your feelings. I said the wrong thing. Of course they can’t be replaced and you’d want to keep them. I’m sorry.”

She gives me a surprised glance, then chews on her bottom lip. “Right. You understand.”

“Yes. I’ve lost someone.” My wreck made the news for weeks; plus if she dated Zane, I’m assuming she knows.

Something catches her attention across the street, and her eyes flare as a groan comes from her. “Uh-oh. Mrs. Meadows has us in her sights.”

Lois stands on her front porch, purse in hand as she walks down to her car wearing a blue flowered dress, heels, and her Stetson.

“Hey, y’all! Glad you two are getting along!” she calls. “Don’t mind me. Y’all keep talking! Get to know each other! I’m headed to church if you want to come!”

“Maybe next time, Mrs. Meadows!” Nova says brightly.

Lois gets in her silver Mercedes and backs out, then pulls away slowly with a satisfied smile on her face.

“Great. She’ll be pushing you on me now,” I mutter.

“Good thing I’m not interested,” she snaps.

“Same,” I say, slamming my hat back on.

A female voice calls Nova’s name from inside the house; then Sabine comes to the door, dressed in shorts and a baggy T-shirt. There’s a spatula in her hand, and a purple boa is around her neck. She gives me an unsurprised look. “Oh, hey, Coach Smith. Are you here for pancakes? I can make a few more. They’re gluten-free.”