mantra her daddy always preached meandered into her mind. She crumpled the note and slam-dunked it into the trash can.
The rest of the day was uneventful if you disregarded the personal ad she rewrote for a certain woman who posted weekly, with an ever-changing profile. Loves to cuddle in front of the TV, loves to two-step, loves children, single and loving it.
Please. How desperate could someone get?
At five fifteen, she finally shut down her computer, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. Halfway there, she turned back and scrambled to her desk, hoping no one noticed her retrieving the phone message from the trash.
Apparently that’s how desperate one could get.
Jordan sat in the bleachers, her eye on the quarterback as the Grayson County Cougars worked out without pads. She missed this, thinking back to when she and Brett used to go to every athletic event on the Texas campus. Remembering how writing the inside stories together had always ended with beer and Cheetos and a raucous roll in the hay to see who could turn the other the most orange. She’d lost every time on purpose.
She turned her attention back to the young men on the field. Grayson County College, she’d learned, had a large percentage of out-of-state students and was considered one of the finest liberal arts schools in the area, with an equally lauded business program. The football team consisted of players recruited from all over the United States. Despite the fact that entry into the program required above-average SAT scores, the team consistently turned out winning seasons with postseason playoff runs.
She’d done her homework last night and had discovered that Derrick Young had been lured away from some big-name Division I schools offering more lucrative scholarships. This after he’d led his hometown school to three state titles with the best quarterback rating in San Antonio’s history.
So why had he rebuffed the scholarship offers and settled on this Division II school? An article from the San Antonio Gazette noted the kid had offers from the University of Texas, A&M, and even from the University of Oklahoma, Texas’s biggest rival.
She pulled out her notebook and jotted a reminder to double-check that fact. What could have coerced a talent like that to kiss off the big-name schools and head to Connor, Texas?
“Can I help you?”
Jordan nearly dropped her notepad, gasping as the voice caught her deep in thought. She glanced up to find the coach beside her in the bleachers.
“I’m just watching the team work out,” she stammered. “I’m a fan.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “I’m glad to hear that, but it’s hard on the concentration with a woman who looks like you in the bleachers. I need my boys focusing on me when they’re out there.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Spare me!
“First off, if all it takes for you to lose control over your practice is a girl in the stands, I’d seriously think about changing the workout routines. And second, last time I checked, this was a free country.”
She sized him up, guessing he was in his early thirties and had played some form of athletics before joining the establishment. When he reached down and rubbed his left knee absently, she mentally high-fived herself for being right. An old knee injury had probably sidelined him and was responsible for the extra forty pounds he carried, along with the large beer belly protruding over the waistband of his black soccer-style shorts.
That and one too many cheese fries.
His furrowed brow eased back into place, and he pointed at her notebook. “You a reporter?”
“You could say that.”
“And what would you say?” He sat down beside her, giving her an up-close look at his tanned left hand with the white circle around his fourth finger. Either this guy was divorced—like yesterday—or he’d taken the ring off for practice. Or he was a sleaze.
She’d reserve judgment on that for later.
“I’m a
The rest of the day was uneventful if you disregarded the personal ad she rewrote for a certain woman who posted weekly, with an ever-changing profile. Loves to cuddle in front of the TV, loves to two-step, loves children, single and loving it.
Please. How desperate could someone get?
At five fifteen, she finally shut down her computer, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. Halfway there, she turned back and scrambled to her desk, hoping no one noticed her retrieving the phone message from the trash.
Apparently that’s how desperate one could get.
Jordan sat in the bleachers, her eye on the quarterback as the Grayson County Cougars worked out without pads. She missed this, thinking back to when she and Brett used to go to every athletic event on the Texas campus. Remembering how writing the inside stories together had always ended with beer and Cheetos and a raucous roll in the hay to see who could turn the other the most orange. She’d lost every time on purpose.
She turned her attention back to the young men on the field. Grayson County College, she’d learned, had a large percentage of out-of-state students and was considered one of the finest liberal arts schools in the area, with an equally lauded business program. The football team consisted of players recruited from all over the United States. Despite the fact that entry into the program required above-average SAT scores, the team consistently turned out winning seasons with postseason playoff runs.
She’d done her homework last night and had discovered that Derrick Young had been lured away from some big-name Division I schools offering more lucrative scholarships. This after he’d led his hometown school to three state titles with the best quarterback rating in San Antonio’s history.
So why had he rebuffed the scholarship offers and settled on this Division II school? An article from the San Antonio Gazette noted the kid had offers from the University of Texas, A&M, and even from the University of Oklahoma, Texas’s biggest rival.
She pulled out her notebook and jotted a reminder to double-check that fact. What could have coerced a talent like that to kiss off the big-name schools and head to Connor, Texas?
“Can I help you?”
Jordan nearly dropped her notepad, gasping as the voice caught her deep in thought. She glanced up to find the coach beside her in the bleachers.
“I’m just watching the team work out,” she stammered. “I’m a fan.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “I’m glad to hear that, but it’s hard on the concentration with a woman who looks like you in the bleachers. I need my boys focusing on me when they’re out there.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Spare me!
“First off, if all it takes for you to lose control over your practice is a girl in the stands, I’d seriously think about changing the workout routines. And second, last time I checked, this was a free country.”
She sized him up, guessing he was in his early thirties and had played some form of athletics before joining the establishment. When he reached down and rubbed his left knee absently, she mentally high-fived herself for being right. An old knee injury had probably sidelined him and was responsible for the extra forty pounds he carried, along with the large beer belly protruding over the waistband of his black soccer-style shorts.
That and one too many cheese fries.
His furrowed brow eased back into place, and he pointed at her notebook. “You a reporter?”
“You could say that.”
“And what would you say?” He sat down beside her, giving her an up-close look at his tanned left hand with the white circle around his fourth finger. Either this guy was divorced—like yesterday—or he’d taken the ring off for practice. Or he was a sleaze.
She’d reserve judgment on that for later.
“I’m a
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