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Chapter 1
Izzie
“Isn’t it lovely?” Fran asks me as we make our way through the stadium.
I follow her gaze to the emerald green turf and the crisply painted lines. The sight makes my heart flutter in my chest.
I did it! I’m finally here.
Fran heaves a contented sigh, and then continues with the tour while I linger a moment more to admire the view.
“We did it,” I whisper, then hustle down the corridor after Fran’s sleek gray bob.
When the San Antonio Rangers had posted a job opening for a team Sports Nutritionist, there was no question in my mind. It was meant to be.
For a small-town Texas girl with football in the blood, working for the Rangers was the end-all and be-all. I could aspire no higher.
And now, as I follow Fran, the Human Resources director, through the maze of corridors behind the scenes, I truly feel like I’ve arrived.
Fran leads me into the weight room, which is next to the fueling and recovery station.
“Well, here you are, sweetheart,” she says with a smile.
I’m fairly certain the mega-wattage of my answering grin could blind her if she’s not careful. I try to turn it down, but I just can’t—I think my face is frozen like this. I will die with this smile on my face.
At that thought, I’m reminded of all the times my mother admonished me, “Isabella Grace, if you keep making that face, itwill freezethat way!”
My heart squeezes in my chest, and though I feel the dull ache of grief at the memory, I still can’t stop beaming. Because there, on the wall next to my office door—my office! Oh my God—is my name: Isabella Williams, RD, CSSD, LDN.
Isabella Williams, Registered Dietitian, Certified Specialist in Sports Dietetics, and Licensed Dietitian/Nutritionist.
I. Will. Not. Squeal.
Because I’m a professional.
Undoubtedly, my attempts to hold in the shrieks show, because Fran gives me a slightly bemused look and says, “I’ll leave you to get settled in, shall I? And then just come get me when you’re ready for the rest of the tour, okay? Do you remember how to get to my office?”
I merely smile and nod. It seems I have temporarily lost the ability to speak. The kind woman, bless her, just gives me a knowing smile and a motherly pat on the shoulder.
“Like I said, just come get me when you’re ready. I’ve got to run now; we’ve got something big in the works,” she says with a wink, and then she’s off, hustling down the hall and up the stairs to her own office.
My hand shakes as it grips the handle. I still can’t believe I’m here, I still can’t believe this is happening.
I take a deep, steadying breath, and open the door.
The office is by no means large, but it’s not cramped, either. There’s a nice-sized desk with built-in shelves behind it, a shiny new computer, and an ergonomic desk chair.
Though I’ve never had my own office—so my standards are, admittedly, rather low—I still think it’s the most beautiful office that has ever existed. In fact, I’m sure of it. No other office can possibly compare.
The crisp white of the walls is an echo of the beautiful white lines of the field; the carpet has that crunchy spring to it of the freshly-cleaned; and the whole place is perfumed with the scents of industrial lemon cleaner and new paint.
I think I might have died and gone to heaven.
I make my way into the room and bump the door closed with my hip. I want a moment alone to bask in my 180-square foot queendom before I’m bombarded with the dietary needs of two hundred-pound (and then some) sweaty men. I heave another contented sigh, partially out of relief, as I thump my heavy box down on my desk and begin unpacking it.
The absolute necessities come out first, the picture of my parents my older sister snapped on the field on the year my father’s team won the State Championship. Even at a young age, Lucy was talented—she had an innate knack for capturing the heart of a moment.
However, out of all the pictures she took of our parents, this one is my favorite. It was taken post-victory, after the team had doused my father in Gatorade, so he’s soaked through and beaming, my mother at his side.
