Page 36 of Hometown Halftime

I huff out a breath and drop onto the barstool, and I don’t argue. Because they’re not wrong. Kissing Kinsey definitely wrecked me.

Chapter sixteen

Kinsey

It’s Monday afternoon, and I’m one hundred percent convinced that Saturday night was just a fever dream. That I didn’t really kiss Riley, and it was all a fabrication of my imagination. And I repress the fact I didn’t spend all day Sunday replaying the weight of his hand on my hip and the way he’d said my name.

Denial: it’s a lifestyle and I’m thriving.

The team gathers on the field in their usual clusters. They threw their backpacks on the grass, and now they are tossing balls around. It’s loud and familiar and grounding. It’s exactly what I need.

Riley’s standing on the sideline, clipboard tucked under his arm, hair pushed back from his forehead with that unconscious sweep that still gets under my skin.

I straighten my shoulders and walk toward the girls, blowing my whistle to get their attention.

“Alright, gather up! Warm-up jog around the field, then form three lines, and we’ll start with passing drills.”

The group spreads out and starts moving.

I step back from the sideline to grab the cones, but the moment I pivot, something sharp fires down my left leg. It’s not a whisper this time or a warning. It’s an overwhelming, hot jolt of pain that punches the breath from my lungs.

My knees buckle enough that I stumble.

Brooke gasps. “Coach—whoa!”

“I’m fine,” I say as I straighten, ignoring the way the ground tilts underneath my feet. “Just stepped wrong.”

Riley is already moving toward me. He takes one look at my face, and the concern hits his eyes.

“Coach,” he says quietly, trying not to cause a scene, “what happened?”

“Nothing.” My voice snaps harder than I intend. “Just mis-stepped.”

The girls slow their jog, watching. I force myself upright and wave them on.

“Keep moving! Full lap around the athletic complex. Go!” I shout.

They take off again, reluctant but obedient. Riley doesn’t move. His eyes stay on me, and the scrutiny of his inspection burns.

“Kinsey,” he says under his breath, “that wasn’t nothing.”

“I said I’m fine.” I grit out.

He steps closer. “You were limping when you walked in.”

“I was not—”

“You were,” he says, firm but quiet.

The irritation spikes—fast and defensive. I hate that he can read me already. I hate that he sees things I’m not ready to admit.

“I don’t need your help,” I say.

“Put the claws away, Kitten. Tell me what’s going on.”

The pain sparks again. It’s sharp, deep, radiating from my right hip, shooting down my leg like someone twisting something too tight. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste iron.

“I’m just sore,” I say, lying.