Sidelines (Wounded Hearts #1) (3 page)

“I do.” He gives me a satisfied smile before handing me a small stack of papers. “I need you to read through this and sign it. Let me know if you have any questions.”

I take the stack of papers and recognize it as a contract that outlines the terms of the article as well as the exciting new position I will be offered once said article has been completed and feel my insides start to do some serious gymnastics. This is really happening. I don’t even know what to say to Mac, who just beams proudly at me, as I exit his office. I practically float through the studio as I make my way back toward the green room to grab my stuff. It isn’t until I hear the smarmy voice of Mr. Inman that I’m pulled from daydreams of my fantasy job and stopped short of the doorway.

“This is important, Logan. We know your dedication to the Rattlers has been exemplary, but if you want to continue wearing that purple jersey, you’ll cooperate much more so than you did yesterday. Am I making myself clear?”

So he doesn’t particularly want to do this article, either. Clearly his incentive to do this article is a lot less satisfying than mine.

“Yep.” Logan’s nonchalant voice reminds me of how cool he typically stays under the pressure of a three-hundred-pound linebacker gunning for him.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’ve made yourself clear. Sir.”

“Good. That young woman made you look like a freaking nitwit and I don’t have nitwits playing on my team. Do you understand?”

It takes everything within me to not stomp my way into the room and set Mr. Inman straight on who made whom to look like what. Pain shoots up the heels of my feet as I grind my stiletto into the carpet to keep myself from moving though.

“I said you’ve made yourself clear. I’ll cooperate to the best of my ability.” I hear movement but don’t fully register it in time to move away from the door before Logan comes barreling out, knocking into my shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes. His eyes wide in mortification. “I…I—” He doesn’t continue his thought as he shakes his head and turns down the hall.

Watching him walk away, I send up silent prayers to whoever will listen that our next encounter will go much smoother than these last two have gone.

Chapter Three

Ten or more balding heads turn and eye me as the little bell over the coffee shop door announces my arrival. Several bushy eyebrows climb wrinkly foreheads as a few of them watch me suspiciously. I’m almost afraid I’ve walked into some geriatric Boys-Only club until a tiny little girl with bright yellow hair pulled back into a slick ponytail that bounces as she walks comes out of a door from the back with a half-full coffee carafe in hand.

“Alright fellas, that storm is a comin’ and I know that all your little ladies will be needing some strapping young men to keep ‘em safe.” The cute blondie gives a few of the gentlemen some pointed looks and as if on cue, wallets appear and dollar bills are thrown on tables. I step up to the counter, smiling appreciatively at the girl’s very obvious southern accent. “I’ll be right with ya, Miss Allie.”

I don’t know why her use of my name catches me off guard, but when the whispers start, my cheeks redden and I suddenly find all the dusty cowboy boots wildly fascinating.

“I’m so sorry for being so casual, Miss Mooreland. But if I hadn’t been those old coots would have rumors flying within the hour.” The bouncing blond swiftly rounds the corner to the kitchen, a tower of coffee mugs in each hand and her carafe dangling by her little finger. I don’t hear a crashing of cups, so I assume she found someplace safe to set all the ceramic down when she comes back to the counter wiping her hands on a white dishtowel hanging from one of her apron pockets.

“It’s okay. I wasn’t sure if anyone would recognize me.”

“Wouldn’t recognize ya? Oh, golly. I’m sure everyone in the country knows who you are! You’re the best sportscaster out there. Ain’t nobody knows more about the goin’s on of football better than you. I mean, I wouldn’t even know what a blog is if it weren’t for yours.”

I knew I’d like her. “You’re too kind, but thank you.”

“I’m serious. That piece you wrote on the top ten rookies last summer helped me beat half the high school team in fantasy last year. And don’t get me wrong, Mr. Logan is a real gentleman, but—” she blows a breath through her pouty lips and shakes her head, “—I cannot believe the way he just totally blew off your questions. I’ve never seen him like that.”

Somehow, that was comforting to know.  “So you know Mr. Lassiter?”

“Not really. I mean he comes in for coffee once in a while. And he goes to church with my memaw, so.” She shrugs, as if that explains it all. “I take it you’re here for that article in
The Report
then?”

“You know about the report?” I ask, completely shocked.

“Oh, yeah. Lucy’s been braggin’ about it ever since she found out. It’s kind of a big deal, being in
The Report.
” She shakes her head as she mocks this Lucy.

She isn’t kidding.
The Red Zone Report
only highlights four players a year and most of the time the editors want to cover the greats that are either long retired or at the peak of their game. In my opinion, Logan hasn’t peaked and is a long way away from walking off that field for good. It says a lot that they want him on their cover so early in his career.

“Yes it is.” I smile. “And yes, I am. I just got into town and have an appointment to meet him at his ranch. Do you know where it is?”

She shakes her head and her lips turn down into the slightest frown as she glances out the front windows. “I do, but I don’t think you have enough time to get there. That storm is gonna hit real soon and it’s probably best if you just sit tight.”

I wish I could afford to heed her warning, but I’ve been so anxious to get this started so I can get back home and have the whole experience behind me. To say I’ve been dreading this time in Texas—specifically with interviewing Logan—would be a huge understatement.

“I really need to get going. But I could really use a coffee to go.”

Blondie gives me a doubtful look but nods anyway. “Sure. Give me just a sec.”

She turns and pulls a foam cup off a stack on a counter behind her and picks up a full carafe from a warming tray. “Just black?” she asks, peeking over her shoulder at me.

“Do you have cream and sugar out here?” I’d kill for a caramel mocha at this point, but judging by the foreboding look on her face, I don’t have time for her to fire up the espresso machine. Her blond curls whip around as she faces the counter in front of her again, picking up bottles and pouring various condiments into my cup. As she turns to face me, she places a lid over the mug and hands me a sleeve for the cup.

“Here. I added some caramel syrup too.” She hands me the cup and gives me a grin the size of her home state.

“Thanks. How did you—”

“Your Instagram bio says that you love your caramel mochas about as much as you love standing on the sidelines.” She shrugs as if it isn’t a big deal, but it kind of is.

“Thank you. I haven’t even caught your name yet, I’m sorry.”

She beams again. “Kelsey.”

“Well, thank you, Kelsey.” I take a sip and marvel at the fact that she got it almost perfect with what resources she had.  Grinning, I go to reach for my wallet but she waves me off.

“It’s on the house. Just do us all a favor and if Mr. Logan gets all grumpy like he did before, feel free to throw him a dose of his own medicine.”

I am just about to lose a mouthful of coffee when she finishes her statement. Oh how I would love to do just that.

“I can’t make any promises about that, but I can promise you I’ll be back for more of this.”

She grins again, her eyes shining as brightly as the braced teeth she flashes. “I’ll be here. It was nice meetin’ you, Miss Mooreland.”

Grinning over my shoulder I thank her again. “And please, call me Allie.”

***

I’d probably enjoy the smooth ride of the brand new Ford Mustang Mr. Inman had reserved for me if one, it hadn’t come from him with a personal note telling me how excited he is to be working with me, and two, if it wasn’t so ridiculously windy. I nearly spill my coveted coffee all over my pants when the car starts to veer into the left lane of the tiny county road and I pray over and over that the turn to Double L Ranch would appear any second now. My phone beeps the last of its battery power just as my maps app tells me to turn onto the long drive. I try to keep the wheel steady as I set the coffee into the console and try to juggle my phone, but when a small branch full of green leaves flies across the driveway and makes me slam on my brakes, I abandon the phone to the passenger seat and firmly place both hands on the wheel.

My eyes widen as I finally take in my surroundings. Even with the threatening gray clouds as a backdrop, the ranch is breathtakingly beautiful. The modern, yet rustic looking house is expansive, with antique white siding, grand wooden pillars holding the porch roof in place, and smooth, gray river rock framing a few of the windows and the corners of the house. Tufts of monkey grass and lovely, purple-leafed shrubs that sit in the middle of a loop in the driveway blow around frantically in the wild wind, but even with all their movement, the landscaping is pristine. I start to park the car in front of the wide, walnut front door, but a small group of figures running toward a stable set about fifty yards off from the house makes me follow the path around to the back of the house. Half a dozen farm trucks line the fence like spectators at a rodeo. I pull up next to one of the massive trucks, the stark white of my rental catching the attention of a couple of guys securing the shutters on the barn.

The moment I step out of the car, I inhale a mouthful of my blond hair and end up in a coughing fit trying to keep myself from suffocating. Because of the ferocious the wind, it’s hard to catch my breath, so I’m still hacking up a lung when Logan jogs toward my car.

“Allie!” I turn and pull my hair back with one hand and hold my sunglasses to my face with the other, barely catching sight of him. “Head on inside. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

He points toward the end of the wraparound porch, where a set of short steps lead to a side door. I turn to head that way, remembering at the last minute to grab my phone, bag, and coffee. A gust of wind catches the door to the house just as I open it and I barely step out of the way before it can smack into my face. When I step inside, I have to wrestle the door closed so it isn’t until I heave a sigh of relief and turn that I find I’ve stepped into my dream kitchen.

Black cabinets with white quartz counter tops line the wall along the front of the house. A white apron sink sits with a fancy looking faucet just below a picture window that overlooks the front drive. The range looks professional grade, a wide, gas, stainless steel five-burner sits along the far wall, with a—gasp—a double oven! A matching four-door refrigerator fits right along the cabinets next to where the room opens up to what I assume is a vast living room. The modern style butcher’s table that serves as an island in the middle of the room has to be close to eight feet long. Finally, toward the back of the house, two enormous windows show off the view of the beautiful stables I wasn’t able to get a good look at before, and hosts a quaint four-person breakfast nook.

I try to contain my drool. I may not cook, but I could easily relieve some serious stress in this beaut of a kitchen.

Making myself walk away from the kitchen that is bigger than my entire apartment back in Cali, I step out into the grand living room to find it’s a unique, but open plan that includes a dining area, complete with a long harvest table that could easily seat ten people. The actual seating area for the living room is sunken down, requiring a single step in the wooden floors to reach the dark leather sofas. The biggest flat screen I’ve ever seen sits over a beautiful weathered wood mantel perched atop a rock-faced fireplace. Two sets of dark French doors that appear to lead out to what looks like a state-of-the-art barbecue patio, sit on either side of the upper portion of the living room. The whole room is wooden—beautiful dark wood floors with lighter stained walls. Even the open beamed ceiling gives the whole set up a true cabin feeling, giving me the sensation that I’ve walked into a luxury ski resort.

Doing a full three-sixty, I see the house expands in opposite directions with hallways leading off to more of the first floor as well as a staircase that leads to what I can only assume is a loft. Another opening in the wall shows me where the actual front door is with a very homey looking foyer. A lonely pair of muddy boots sits next to a bench with a horseshoe hat rack attached to the wall above it. A giant cursive L covered in twine and adorned with a couple of yellow and white wildflowers hangs next to a picture mirror on the opposite wall, making me wonder what the story is behind the well done homemade decor.

My initial research found that Logan has never been married, or even engaged for that matter, but that he is close to his family. Aside from details of his parents living nearby with his two younger sisters and a brother who lives in and plays in California, I found nothing that gave way to Logan having any female attachments. Maybe the L is from a crafty sister or a doting mom? Just another piece in the puzzle that is Logan Lassiter.

I’m pulled from my wandering thoughts when an annoying high pitched shrill fills the air. I nearly jump out of my skin, afraid I touched something wrong when the door I came in through bursts open and a booming voice starts calling my name. I step back into the family area to find Logan, stopped a few feet away, searching the branches of the house frantically.

“Come on, we have to get downstairs. Right now.” He reaches for my arm and starts toward a door I missed in my inspection earlier. He pulls it open and flips a switch, illuminating a small platform with stairs that lead to what looks like a basement. He steps inside first and turns an open hand to me. “Watch your step. These stairs are a little steep.”

Pushing aside random fears that Logan is rushing me off to a room where he dismantles bodies, I take a step inside on complete faith that the only reason nobody knows anything about him isn’t because he’s some anonymous serial killer or anything. The earsplitting alarm starts a second round and makes me jump again.

“What is that?” 

“Tornado siren. Come on.”

Tornadoes. I know nothing about tornadoes other than what I’ve seen on the news. Towns destroyed, nothing but broken two-by-fours and crumpled roofs.  What in the world did I get myself into?

“This way.” Just as we finish descending the narrow steps, the lights cut out and then the real fear settles in. A second before I can start hyperventilating, Logan clicks on a flashlight. “It’s alright. Here take this one.”

He hands me the flashlight and I try to get my bearings by shining it around the passageway. When the light bounces off a glassy door, I can’t stop the gasp. I’ve seen too many detective shows to have my mind fabricate the worst possible ideas. Logan finally clicks on his own flashlight and follows my gaze.

“We can’t get any wine right now. With the power out, the cellar locks up. Something about preserving the integrity of the wine or something. Come on. There’s a shelter down here where we can ride this out.”

A wine cellar. Well that’s a reasonable explanation for a random glass door in your basement. Much better than a room full of cryogenic pods with human bodies from the sixties.

I really need to stop watching movies with Walt.