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“If a player doesn’t have fans, he might as well hang it up,” he replied, grinning. “Fans equal ticket sales equal merchandise equal my paycheck being paid.”
“So how’s your head doing? Any headaches?”
He stared off into space for a moment. “I get them. But I got them in high school and in college, too. They might be a little worse now.”
“You played football for all those years?”
“From junior varsity through junior year of college,” he replied.
“A lot of head banging?”
“I hate to admit it now, but yes, probably,” Oliver said, looking at the ground.
“Well, I hope you’ll be smart about it,” she said, knowing he probably wouldn’t be. “Statistics show that it only takes a few good smacks to the head for a player to end up with a brain injury that could have lifetime consequences.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, looking over at her. “So, will you come to the next home game?”
“When is it?”
“In a couple of weeks.” He got out his phone. “What’s your number, and I’ll send you the schedule.”
Smiling, she looked at him sidelong. “Are you just trying to get my number?”
“Maybe,” he replied, really looking at her for the first time.
With her blond hair pulled into a ponytail, she reminded him of a California girl on a surfboard, not in this gray, damp atmosphere. He thought the hair must be her natural color, but he was no expert. Light eyebrows and baby-fine hair, almost white blond around her face, made him think it wasn’t out of a bottle. Not that he cared, but it intrigued him.
“Your hair—”
Self-consciously, she smoothed it back from her forehead. “What’s wrong with it? Do I have a caterpillar crawling on me? They’re dropping out of the trees here.”
“No, nothing like that. It’s beautiful.”
“You think so? It’s sun-bleached from my trip. I should probably wear a hat next time. I wear sunblock but forget about my head.”
“Do you want to walk Sadie? It’s about time for her to go,” he said, wanting to delay Wendy Adams’s departure for as long as possible.
“Where do you take her?” she asked, looking around.
“There’s a green space for pooches around that corner,” he said, pointing. “I even have a bag.” He pulled a poop bag out of his jeans pocket. She noticed his slim hips, the zipper of his jeans straining when he reached in for that bag, giving her a little shiver.
“You’re ready for everything,” she commented, laughing, forcing herself to look away from those hips.
They walked toward the park, side by side, the tension building between them. Oliver was twice her size. Tall, brawny and younger than Wendy, Oliver Saint was devoid of any cocky self-confidence that a successful athlete might have. He was just a nice, humble young man, and she was intrigued.
“I guess when you saw Sadie, you knew she was the dog for you,” Wendy stated when the silence got to be obvious.
“She’s so beautiful,” Oliver said, bending down to pet her. “And she was timid. You could see she didn’t like being there. A lot of the other dogs were right at the gate, begging for attention. But Sadie here, you could see she was scared.”
“Oh, poor Sadie,” Wendy cried, bending over to hug her. Sadie rewarded her with a wet kiss. Oliver looked away when her sweater rode up Wendy’s narrow back, exposing skin that he longed to touch. “Oh, yuck. I mean, thanks, Sadie, but now I need to wash my face.”
“Ha! She’s a lover all right. She slept in Jim’s bed last night. I was jealous.”
“Oh, great,” Wendy replied, laughing. “Now I’ll be the bad guy when I make her sleep in her own bed tonight.”
He looked down at his phone and sent her the schedule of home games, and when she received it, her phone beeped.
“Let me know when you can come, and I’ll see what I can do. My family is in San Diego, but they try to get here for my home games and any in California.”
