Four Years Later, July
“Gentleman, pick up the pace. Sampson, you are six point eight seconds behind your average. If you’re not careful, Gibbons is going to steal your starting spot.”
“Coach, I don’t know what these fools are complaining about, I could run another ten miles,” Tim Clarke, my kicker, bellowed racing by me running backwards.
Scott Miller, my starting fullback followed steps behind Clarke. “Come on, boys, run until you fly!”
“Come on, Coach, it’s July. Do you have to make us run on the hottest day of the summer?” Brandt Davis groaned as he jogged by my position on the track. He was probably going to be my first string QB this season.
Brodie Walker, one of my wide receivers, sailed by me. “Yeah, Coach Hamilton, it’s hot A F out here.”
“Well, you signed up for training camp, and I don’t control the weather, Walker.”
Hot A F. I laughed to myself. Would Sydney be saying shit like that? She would be eight now, definitely not. I took a deep breath and stared up at the blue sky allowing myself to think about the two of them for a moment. The wind kicked up rustling through the tall grasses and purple flowers planted at the side of the track.
It had taken me almost two years to pull myself from beneath the darkness that cloaked my life since Kate and Sydney died. Since I wasn’t going back to the NFL, I decided to put my college degree to use taking a job as a high school history teacher. Coaching and teaching had given me a purpose—something to be proud of and take back control of my life.
My father had begged me to move to Florida to be near him and Mom, but I preferred the solitude of mountain life to the beach life. Not to mention the fact that Florida was downright miserable in the summer. My brother, Chase, suggested Montana, saying it was just what I’d needed. He wasn’t wrong.
“Let’s push it on the last laps, guys. I want to see some hustle.”
Groans and claps filtered through the pack as they whizzed by me.
“Excuse me, Coach Hamilton,” a raspy, feminine voice called out from behind me. I debated on whether or not to turn around. That voice dripping with sex appeal probably belonged to the mother of one of my players. And the way my heart pumped a bit faster at the sound of my name rolling off her tongue, I knew that was not a good sign. I even considered running across the track to finish the laps with my guys.
I refocused. Standing in front of me was a gorgeous beauty with wild, light brown hair that looked as if the strands were kissed by the sun. Her cotton shirt clung to her breasts, and her white denim shorts showed off her tanned legs. She had ink and a lot of it. Tiny black, geometric shapes and swirling scripts decorated both of her arms. Tattoos weren’t my thing, but I’d never seen a woman inked like this and it was giving me some seriously dirty thoughts.
Okay, snap out of it dickhead, there are kids in the vicinity.
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“My son, Luke, told me this morning that he forgot to turn in his registration form for your training camp even though I gave him the money and signed the paperwork weeks ago. Apparently, he had . . . well, that’s not important. Anyway, Luke is here now.” The wind whipped her hair across her face as she jutted her chin towards a kid leaning against the fence that surrounded the stadium. “Where can I turn in the money and the paperwork?”
“Missus . . .” I glanced at her hands as they gripped the strap of her purse. No wedding ring.
“It’s Richman, and . . . Miss is fine.” There was a hint of hesitation in her voice as if she had to think about it.
“Miss Richman, the camp is full. I’m sorry that Luke was unable to register by the fifteenth.”
“Full? I don’t even see an entire team on the field,” she protested. “There are only ten players out there.”
“There are thirteen players,” I corrected.
“Okay, surely you have room for one more kid. Besides, thirteen is an unlucky number.” She shifted, kicking a small rock with the heel of her black boots. “I was out of town last week, or I would have made sure Luke dropped off the paperwork personally.”
Thirteen was my number when I played in the NFL. I was amused, irritated, and intrigued, staring at her beautiful flushed face. “Miss Richman, I don’t make the rules so that they can be broken. If Luke wanted to attend the camp, he would have been registered on time.” I waved my stopwatch in the air signaling the final lap.
“I’m going to speak to the athletic director—this is ridiculous.”
This woman is a fighter. Persistent.
“Fine, you do that. I’m sure that Mister Jones will see things from my side.” After a deep breath, I added, “Perhaps Luke should have spoken with me about the situation instead of sending his mother. That would have shown me more determination and probably convinced me that he really wanted to be here.”
Narrowing her blue eyes, she stepped closer to me, every step sending fire through my veins. She paused as my guys crossed the finish line. I instructed them to take a water break and cool down.
“If this is a football camp, why are they running laps around the track? Shouldn’t they be running passing and rushing drills and working out plays instead? Perhaps, my son knew this camp would be a waste of his time.”
Wow, that was a ballsy move on her part. I hadn’t had a woman challenge me in quite some time. Insulting me on my field and within earshot of my players wasn’t going to fly.
“Miss Richman, you should work on your social skills. You’ll find that you’ll catch more flies with honey,” I spoke calmly but firmly. “I need to run my camp and, quite frankly, you’re wasting my time. Have a good day.”