Breaking Tackles: A Taking Flight Novel (9 page)

“He’s a friendly one, huh?” Melissa says to me. I’m not quite past the fact that I’m sharing the same space as her and it takes me a second before I realize that she’s speaking to me. I’m completely intimidated by and in awe of her.

“He’s definitely a hugger,” I finally say.

Melissa grins at me in a way that makes me feel like we have a shared secret and she says, “Adam, the guys are in the backyard around the grill.”

“Okay,” he says as he takes my hand. I take a breath and prepare to go meet the New Orleans Saints.

“Courtney,” Melissa says before we head through the French doors to the backyard. “Why don’t you come with me to the sunroom? Let the boys have their bonding time grilling up the meat.”

Adam squeezes my hand and I say, “Sure.”

“Wonderful,” Melissa says, looking at me expectantly.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Adam says, quickly kissing my cheek.

“How sweet is he?” Melissa says as she moves through the house. There’s a farmhouse kitchen that looks straight out of an interior design magazine and the house is decorated with lots and lots of pictures. Though everything is clean and tidy, this is clearly a house that is lived in. It’s comfortable and inviting.

“Your home is lovely,” I say to Melissa, who has stopped briefly in the kitchen to grab a plate of petite fours out of the refrigerator. “Do you need help with anything?”

“Absolutely not. And thanks! The house is cozy, which we like. Jax keeps trying to talk me into buying something bigger. He swears that in a few years, when the kids are older, I’ll thank him.”

“He’s probably right,” I say. “I grew up in a house about this size with four older brothers. Even when we were all in our own rooms, it felt too small.”

“Four older brothers,” she says, her eyes wide.

“It was basically seven, if you include the Kistlers.”

“You’ve known the Kistlers that long?”

“I grew up with them. Our dads were friends—they met coaching Pop Warner football.”

“That’s fun,” Melissa says. “So were you and Adam childhood sweethearts?”

“Not by a long shot,” I say, and she laughs at that. “I never thought of
him
as my brother, obviously. But I think my brothers made it abundantly clear when I was growing up that I was off-limits—not just to Adam, but to all other guys. Dating was hard for me.”

“So how did you and Adam end up together?”

“We ran into each other at Mizzou and one thing lead to another.”

“Right,” she says. “I now remember the photo of you two that came out last fall.”

“Yeah, that photo ended up with many more views than we ever thought possible.”

She laughs lightly and says, “I hope you’re used to it by now. Because the attention isn’t going to stop anytime soon.”

Before I can respond with, “I hope it does,” she makes her way through the kitchen and motions for me to follow her. I hear the tinny chatter of women and then see that
everyone
is in sundresses. I feel my blood pressure rise.

I don’t have social anxiety or anything, but I’ve never been all that comfortable around groups of women. I guess that happens when you’ve spent most of your formative years around guys.

“Oh, Melissa, let me get that tray from you,” a tall, thin woman says.

“Ladies,” Melissa says authoritatively after the tray has been placed on a table. The conversations stop and every pair of eyes turns to her.

“I’d like to introduce you all to Courtney Narducci. She’s the fiancée of Adam Kistler, the newest addition to the New Orleans Saints!”

I’m swarmed by women, all of whom look vaguely the same—thin, coiffed, and polished—welcoming me to the team and congratulating me on something I didn’t earn.

“So, Courtney,” says a gorgeous African American woman whose name I think is Brandi. “Are you just loving wedding planning?”

I hate this question. It comes up in nearly every conversation I have and though I should expect it and have a perfectly rehearsed answer for it, I don’t. It throws me off every time.

I guess I should just lie. But I never do.

“I haven’t quite gotten there yet,” I say as demurely as possible. Still, there’s an audible gasp from everyone around me, and then silence.

Finally, Melissa says, “There’s nothing wrong with a long engagement. Besides, Courtney is still in college. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” I say. “I start back next week, actually.”

“Which school?” someone asks.

“University of Missouri.”

There’s another gasp and Brandi says, “You must trust your man to be doing long distance like that.”

“Of course I do,” I say, and I get looks back that range from pity to confusion to
really?

Suddenly I feel very young and very naïve.

“Sunny,” Melissa says. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I remember you mentioning going vegan?”

“Yes,” Sunny says, and the conversation shifts, thank God, to her new vegan diet.

But then the conversation remains on dieting and nutrition and fitness. It turns out that nearly none of the women here eat red meat, gluten, or refined sugars. Why Melissa even brought out petite fours, I don’t know, because no one has touched them.

And I keep staring at them as if they’re the Ark of the Covenant.

“So what’s your workout routine, Courtney?” someone—maybe Sunny—asks.

“I go to spin class every now and then,” I say. “I’ve done some kettle ball workouts here and there.”

I don’t add that I only really go to the gym during the school year, and haven’t don’t a real workout once this summer.

“Oh,” Sunny says. “That’s all?”

“Mhmm,” I say, plastering a smile on my face. This is not going well. “Do you have a routine that you stick to?”

“Well,” she says, “I do early morning ashtanga yoga every day. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I have an afternoon personal training session, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays I run and kickbox.”

“Wow,” I say, feeling like an idiot.

“Not all of us are that intense,” Brandi says. “I mostly stick to running and yoga, with training sessions only twice a week.”

“How’s that new trainer working out for you?”

The women all begin chatting about their trainers and comparing how satisfied they are with various qualities of trainers, from the actual results to their demeanor to their attractiveness—it seems most of these women prefer male trainers—and I am completely out of my depth. Other than having lady parts and being romantically involved with a Saints player, I have nothing in common with these women.

My attention goes back to the petite fours.

Then, like my own personal savior, Jax Montgomery himself knocks on the sunroom door and says, “Time to eat!”

Adam

As I grab drinks for Courtney, Deeks, and his date, Hilary, I watch as my fiancée charms my teammates from across the backyard, and can’t help but be stunned by her.

I was a little concerned when she made her way to the backyard after meeting the other ladies because she was being so quiet, but when I began introducing her around to the guys, she warmed up and was her usual self again.

Hell, I think she’s talked more to them than I have in the entire time I’ve been here.

“Kistler,” I hear someone say and I turn and look to see Jax walking over to me. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“This is great. Thank you again for the invite.”

“It’s my pleasure. I’m so glad you and Courtney could make it.”

“Me, too.”

“She’s a real catch,” he says, smiling broadly. “Melissa has been singing her praises all night.”

“Courtney will be glad to hear that. I think she was a little starstruck earlier when Melissa answered the door.”

“Melissa can do that to people,” Jax says. “Even I still feel that way around her sometimes.”

I smile and he says, “I’ll let you get those drinks to their owners before they sweat to death in this heat. Make sure you say good-bye before y’all head out.”

“Will do.”

I make my way across the yard where Deeks, Hilary, and several other teammates are nearly in tears they’re laughing so hard, and hear Courtney say, “I swear to you, Adam was shaving his legs in the swimming pool because he’d heard Michael Phelps say something about how having no body hair made you more aerodynamic. He was convinced that he needed to be more aerodynamic to be a good football player.”

What she probably hasn’t told them is that I was twelve at the time and didn’t know the definition of
aerodynamic
.

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up,” I say, handing the drinks to their recipients. “We’ve all done stupid shit.”

“I never shaved my legs,” Deeks says, still laughing.

“Is that the only story you told them?” I ask Courtney, who smiles in response.

Which means it isn’t.

“What else? The dance class?”

“I actually didn’t tell that one.”

“Tell us the story!” Hilary demands.

This is my own fault, so I say, “My high school football coach made us take ballet.”

That isn’t a radical idea. Lots of athletes have taken dance in order to become more flexible and agile. I’d be willing to bet most of the guys here have done ballet or yoga before.

“What he’s leaving out is that the football coach made them take ballet on the football field, and that when the town found out about it, nearly everyone showed up to watch.”

“Yeah,” I say, laughing at the memory. “At the game after that, our opponents’ mascot was carrying around a tutu. But we won the game, so I guess the joke was on them.”

Everyone laughs again and then some of the other guys jump in, regaling us with ridiculous stories from their high school days.

As the evening winds down, I can tell Courtney is getting tired, so I start saying my good-byes, and Courtney goes to find Melissa to thank her for her hospitality.

“Good party?” I ask Courtney once we’re in my Jeep.

“Yeah,” she says. “A little rocky at first, but it got infinitely better when there was co-mingling among the genders.”

“Why was it rocky?”

“Oh. You know. Women.”

I laugh at her tone, but then ask, “But what do you mean? Was someone rude to you?”

“No. Not really. I just didn’t have much in common with any of them.”

“Oh,” I say.

“It’s okay,” she says, shrugging one shoulder. “Melissa is amazing. She actually gave me her cell number before we left. And Hilary was really cool. I’m glad she and Deeks showed up.”

“Yeah. Apparently she had some sort of fundraiser for the school she works at tonight, so they had to hit that before coming here.”

“Got it.”

As we drive to my apartment complex, I reach over and take her hand in mine. When I look over at it, it really hits me that she’s here. With me. In New Orleans.

And that I’ve missed her so much.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say.

“Me, too,” she says, grinning.

“Even though I took you to a barbecue and left you to fend for yourself with the ladies?”

She laughs and says, “Yes, even though you left me hanging. I know I’ve only really seen the tourist areas, but I really like New Orleans. This could be a really awesome place to live.”

I’m so relieved to hear her say that. Not that I can do much about where I play and live, but it makes it easier to know that Courtney likes it and can see herself living here, too.

Hopefully nothing insane happens with my career and I can stay in this city for a while.

“I’m glad,” I say, squeezing her hand. “If all goes well this year, hopefully we can both live here.”

I feel Courtney go a little bit stiff beside me.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” she says. “I mean, obviously I’d have to move here. At some point.”

“We don’t have to talk about it right now,” I say, knowing how uncomfortable she is about talking about our future.

“Thanks,” she says.

I change the topic, asking her about the dorm move-in plans and what her class schedule is this semester. We’ve talked about all this before, but I know that it’s safe territory. We transition to discussing the Mizzou football team’s chances this year, and once we pull into my apartment’s parking lot, everything is back to normal.

When we’re inside, I throw my keys on the kitchen bar and head into the bedroom to change clothes. As I’m pulling my shirt over my head, I feel Courtney’s arms wrap around my torso from behind.

“Hey,” I say.

She kisses the back of my shoulder and then says, “Hey,” all low and sultry.

I turn around and meet her mouth with mine. Our kisses are immediately hot and hurried. I do my best to bide my time, but I want to feel her skin on mine. I start to edge her shirt up, but she puts her hand on top of mine and pulls away.

“Give me a minute,” she says, looking at me coyly before grabbing her bag and heading into the bathroom.

Weird. But if this keeps going in the direction I think it might be, I’m okay with weird.

When she doesn’t come out after a couple minute, I’m not sure what to do. I go ahead and strip off my pants, throwing them toward the laundry hamper. When they don’t make it all the way in, I decide to go ahead and tidy up. I buzz around my room, picking up clothes and putting them in the hamper, then grabbing empty glasses on my nightstand and taking them to the kitchen where I rinse them out and load them in the dishwasher.

When I’m done with that, Court still isn’t out of the bathroom.

This isn’t like her. I start to worry that something is wrong and knock on the bathroom door. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Courtney says, but she doesn’t sound like everything is okay. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was crying.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” she says through the door. “I’ll be out in a few.”

I furrow my brow in her direction, but decide it’s better that I don’t ask.

I grab the playbook and settle on the bed. I’ve already memorized all of the offensive plays, so I start going through the defensive plays. Even though I don’t play defense, it won’t hurt for me to know the entire playbook.

Finally, the bathroom door opens and Courtney emerges, wearing an oversized T-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

“Sorry about that,” she says.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, shutting the playbook.

“Yeah,” she says, but it’s forced. “Everything’s fine. Just needed a moment.”

I furrow my brow, confused as to why she isn’t telling me what’s really going on. Ever since we got together we haven’t kept anything from each other. The last time she was like this around me was back in high school, when she suddenly stopped talking to me.

That
better not happen again.

But I know that sometimes girls need privacy, and that when they’re ready to talk, they will, so I say, “Okay.”

“Ready for bed?” she asks.

I nod and as Courtney settles into bed, I consider trying to heat things up again.

But as soon as I roll toward her, she turns onto her side so that her back is to me and says, “Night.”

“Good night,” I say, and then plant a kiss on her cheek before returning to my side of the bed, feeling all kinds of confused.