Beauty and the Baller(10)

I have the insane urge to laugh but stifle it as I dash out the french doors to the open pool area, my head tumbling with thorny thoughts. Oh my God, I never would have come if I’d known it was him. Should have listened to Mrs. Meadows! I rub my forehead in disgust. Mrs. Meadows never said his first name, and since I haven’t kept up with the local gossip, I came in clueless. Brought a knife to a gunfight, as Mama used to say. Of course, she never told me about the new coach. She knew I was wary about our hometown team and the memories it brought.

I heave out a deep, weighted sigh. Holy . . . he’s been here for a year! Sure, I came home periodically to see Mama and Sabine, but things were usually hectic . . . and he was just next door. At Christmas I noticed that someone had renovated the house, and when I asked Mama about it, her reply was A Mr. Smith from out of town. Such a common name.

You’d think someone might have mentioned the coach while I’ve been here, and maybe they did, but my mind has been a hazy cloud. Yesterday, I stared at a can of green beans for ten minutes at the Piggly Wiggly.

I make for a group of chaise lounges under a pergola where I see the end of Sparky’s leash. I bend down and scoop him up and tap him on the nose, a reprimand for hissing. His eyes say, Miss Texas is a bitch, and I tell him that we don’t call women those names and that we’ll discuss it later.

“Hey, Nova!” calls a male voice, and I glance over my shoulder. I’d know that handsome square face and wavy auburn hair anywhere. Wearing jeans and a maroon Bobcats polo is Bruce Hamilton, a.k.a. Skeeter because he moved like a mosquito on the field. Relief rolls over me.

“Heard you were in town,” he says in a slow drawl.

“Yep.” I glance behind me. Ronan hasn’t come out. Maybe he’s organizing a cleanup of chips and guac in the kitchen. Maybe Mrs. Meadows is running interference. I ease back into a slice of a shadow created by the purple wisteria vines that drape from the top of the pergola.

Skeeter follows. “How are you?”

“Great!” I say brightly. Terrible! I really want to get out of here!

“I heard you came back. I can’t believe you’re staying.”

I nod. This is the same conversation I’ve been having since I arrived. Everyone expects me to pack up Sabine and move her to New York.

“How are you?” I ask him.

“Still single and living with my mom. Happy as a pig. For real.” He smirks, shrugging broad shoulders. “She cooks me breakfast every morning, packs my lunch for work, and doesn’t complain when I leave my underwear on the floor.”

“Basically, it’s Club Med,” I say with a smile. It is good to see him. And he hasn’t changed a bit since we went to school together.

“I knew you’d be a coach someday,” I say as he fills me in on his position as a coach for the Bobcats. He’s in the middle of giving me a play-by-play from last night’s game when I sense someone walking up.

“Nova, right?” comes Ronan’s voice from behind me, unmistakable, rich, and husky.

“I met your mom,” he says. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I turn slowly. “Hmm. Yes. I’m your new neighbor. Thank you. Mom never mentioned you were a coach.” I mentally shake my fist at her in heaven.

He’s grabbed a white T-shirt, and it sticks to his damp chest. The towel is still in his grip and hangs next to his leg. He clutches it with strong hands and long talented fingers. I can still see him on TV, catching the hike, jogging back to throw the football, and then letting a perfect pass fly. He took Michigan State to a national championship, won the Heisman, was drafted as the number-one pick in the draft, and then brought home three Super Bowl trophies to the Pythons. He was Peyton Manning and Tom Brady on crack.

After working at the preschool, I bartended at night at the Baller. The bar was a private club, with a clientele of mostly professional athletes, yet he was never one of our customers. I never gave up hope that he’d walk in one day. My fascination wasn’t with how hot he looked in football pants—which he did—no, it was about the masterful way he played the game. You’d think that after my heart was broken in college by my first love, Andrew, I’d be jaded about the game, but when you grow up in a Texas small town, football is ingrained in your soul.

“Ah, I see,” he says in a distant tone as he glances around at the party. “Nice to meet you.”

Wait . . .

Really?

We’ve “met.”

I frown, and he notices, a quizzical look appearing on his face as our eyes cling . . . and oh my God . . . not a hint of recognition is there. Nada.

Did I misinterpret in the kitchen?

I step out of the shadows, and his face doesn’t change. Not a flicker of I know you.

I should say, Nice to meet you too—it’s the proper southern thing to do before I bring up the roses—but . . .

He doesn’t recognize me. For real. Okay, okay, maybe I have put on a few (ten) pounds, have a few lines around my eyes, and am not dressed like some stupid princess from a galaxy far, far away, but obviously he’s the kind of guy who’s slept with so many women he can’t recall one—even the girl he called by the wrong name.

Bitterness rises. I’ve replayed the Awful One-Night Stand a million times in my head, berating myself for going to his hotel room, for believing we shared a connection.