Page 84 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Ready?” I ask.

“Lead the way.” She hops up and we walk together to the cafeteria—a large room with long tables and a food line on one side. Stations for various specialty items are set up throughout the space. Chefs gather behind glass food guards, serving fresh-made pasta, sushi and stir fry. Food service staff man the carving station.

The sounds of conversation, forks on plates and chairs scraping the floors echo off the concrete walls.

Winona’s eyes are wide as she scans the room. “These guys are giants.”

I look around. I’m over six foot four and two hundred forty-two pounds. I’m one of the larger guys on the team, though only a few of us are under six feet and the majority weigh in at two hundred or more.

She’s standing stock-still, staring at our defensive tackle, Aaron Hayward, as he loads the second plate on his tray with food. Last I knew, he weighed three hundred and four.

“What does a man do to get that big?” Winona asks.

I chuckle. “He eats a lot of lunch, for starters.”

My stomach growls as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Before last week, I hadn’t worked out in three weeks. My appetite is coming back with a vengeance now that I’m back in the gym.

“What sounds good?” I ask Winona.

“I can have anything?”

“Help yourself. You just grab a plate and load up on whatever looks good. We can sit over there.” I point the tip of my crutch toward a table where Keller, Linc and Hendricks are sitting.

“Let’s get you a tray first,” she suggests. “I’ll carry it for you. Then I can get mine.”

I relent and lead Winona to where the trays are stacked. We tour the cafeteria. I fill my plate with roast beef and fish, veggies, sweet potato, brown rice and a green drink.

Winona teases me that I’m eating for two. “Nah,” I tell her. “That guy you were watching, Hayward, he eats for two.”

“He’s a tank,” she says.

“He’s a defensive tackle,” I tell her.

“His whole job is tackling people?” Her face scrunches up.

“His whole job is getting the ball back to the Thunder by stopping progress on the opposing team.”

“By tackling.”

“By blocking and tackling. Yes.”

She laughs and deepens her voice. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Then she answers herself, changing her voice with each answer. “I’m going to be a teacher. I’m going to be a lawyer. I’m going to eat two lunches and tackle people.”

I crack up.

This should be the most depressing season of my career. I should be moping around, despondent, worried about my future.

I pivot and maneuver to the table.

She follows me, and all the guys glance up. I’m not saying they check her out. But they basically check her out. She sets my tray on the table and meets the eyes of every man, giving each one a pleasant smile. Her hair is down, blonde waves falling over her shoulders. Her cheeks have a natural flush to them, and her bright blue, expressive eyes move from one player to the next.

My heart is in my throat.

I swallow and say, “Guys, this is Winona. She’s my home health aide.”

“But you ain’t at home,” Hendricks says. Then he turns on the charm and greets Winona. “If he gives you trouble, you call us, okay?”

“Declan?” she says. “He never causes trouble.”