Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

“Congratulations to your family,” Devon tells Jimmy, and the jazz club owner pats him on his back in response.

People are waving orange-and-blue flags and cardboard signs with the names of their favorite players all around us. With an enormous orange ribbon in her hair, and looking like a moving, talking Christmas package, a lady hands homemade muffins to everyone around her.

“That’s Tod’s Mom,” Ariana explains to my friends and me. “She always prepares monogrammed treats for her son’s games.”

On the other side of the gridiron, the Defenders’ fans are awfully quiet. Most folks are still sitting. Some are checking their phones, while others engage in discussions about the game, and though their faces are displeased, they don’t raise their voices. It’s good to see that at least at a high school game, the losing side’s fans know how to handle the shock of their children’s team being beaten.

A loud tap-tap-tap noise makes everyone look at the gridiron.

Coach Jenkins, a gray-haired man with a bright-orange basketball cap and a loose, blue shaket—yes, this is the proper term, as I learned from Cora, neither a shirt nor a jacket—stands in the middle of the field.

Behind him, his team is gathered in a neat formation.

Richie, in the second row, keeps his eyes on his coach’s back, looking as if he’s desperately trying to ignore his aunt’s and mother’s pointing fingers. The Defenders are also still on the field, but they’ve moved to the side as if leaving the spotlight to the winners.

Laia winks at me. “The big announcement is coming.”

“The reporters will be happy,” I reply. At the same time, my gaze searches out the first row where the reporters Ariana invited are seated.

To be honest, Jimmy’s wife’s PR skills impress me. She invited at least a dozen journalists. I was even more baffled when I learned from Devon that not all are local sports columnists, and that two represent national sports papers he himself reads.

Another rattling sound floats around us as Coach Jenkins taps the mic once more. “Is this thing on? Can you hear me in the back?”

Jimmy’s face moves into an annoyed grimace. “I’ve explained to the guy that this is no way to test a mic. It’ll send large transients through the system and eventually break the speakers.”

Devon gives the club owner a sympathetic look. “Yeah, the coach is slow on the uptake.”

Ariana turns to my brother and bobs her head, which sends her black hair, streaked with orange hair chalk for the occasion, flying. “Oh, that he is. Despite Richie’s talent, Coach Jenkins keeps telling us that the boy should improve his tackling skills.”

I might have zoomed out for most of the game, but I didn’t miss that, on this point, the coach could be right. I remember what Wyatt explained to the boys in the park about the basics of tackling, and I believe Richie didn’t follow those principles at all.

Jimmy puts a gentle hand on his wife’s arm. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Next year Richie will train with Wy—”

My brother whacks Jimmy on the back. “Look! Coach Jenkins is about to start the announcement.”

I stare at Jimmy, slack-jawed for a second, then shake my head.

Jimmy wasn’t about to say Wyatt. I just heard it because I’m such a dork and can’t control my mind. I keep thinking of Wyatt, despite knowing that it’s unhealthy and counterproductive.

And even seeing him, apparently, because I could swear the guy in those blue jeans and white shirt, who’d just walked onto the field totally looks like Wyatt…

He has the same leisurely stroll, like the world is at his feet, and he doesn’t need to show to anyone what he’s made of.

My throat closes up.

I really need to consider enrolling in some kind of therapy myself. My hallucinations are too vivid. Even the guy’s dirty blonde hair and his casually long tresses remind me of Wyatt.

The man, along with the lanky blonde assistant, is headed over to Coach Jenkins. The rows behind us swell with murmurs.

“Have you seen him?”

I snap my head and see a redhead adjust her blouse’s steep neckline while asking her friend, “Is it him? Really him?”

Wait a second…

I whip back and narrow my eyes, leaning forward. My breath catches and a gasp leaves my throat. “No, that man doesn’t just look like Wyatt. He is Wyatt!” I exclaim.

Cora, Hope, Laia, and Devon all turn to me.

Their faces should have the same bewildered expression that must be carved into my features—after all, Wyatt should be already in Georgia—but they’re staring at me with a strange expectancy.

Almost as if…

Oh, sweet heavens. They all knew he’d be here. 

I bring my hand to my chest and mumble, “What’s Wyatt doing here?”

Devon pushes his way past Ariana and her sister and comes to stand beside Laia. He squeezes my arm, giving me an encouraging smile. “All your questions will be answered, sis, I promise. Just listen.”

Coach Jenkins’s potent contrabasso fills the air. “As many of you know, I’ll be leaving the Cougars after this coming season. I’ve had the time of my life coaching in this school. Still, I’m not sad that I’m leaving. Do you want to know why?”

The crowd yells “Yes!” and Coach Jenkins makes a theatrical bow.

“Very well, I tell you why. I’m not sad because I know that I’m leaving the Cougars in the best hands possible.” He puts a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder as Wyatt scans the audience.

As his eyes reach me, they stop.

We stare at each other while Coach Jenkins continues.

“You all know Wyatt Harrison, our region’s native and the Kites’ famous quarterback.”

“We do!” the people scream, and many break out in applause.

There are even a few “We love you, Wyatt!” hoots from the back of the stadium. I flick my eyes there and see the group of high school cheerleaders who made the intro dance before the game started.

I turn back, and Wyatt’s still watching me.

“…but there’s something else you don’t know about Wyatt,” Coach Jenkins teases. “Want to know what it is?”

A resounding “Yes!” reverberates all around