“Any day, bro.”
Grant McQuaid did a few ballistic stretches and picked up the football he’d brought along with him, tossing it toward Jackson, knowing his brother wouldn’t turn down a quick game.
“How’s that arm of yours?”
Jackson shrugged. “I guess that depends on your point of reference. I’m no Miles.”
He meant Aaron Miles, the starting quarterback for the Mustangs, and the guy who’d rallied the team, taking them to the playoffs last year. The same game where Grant had sustained his last concussion, the one that might have ended his career. He crushed the thought before it sank in. He was going to play this season, there was no room for doubt.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.” He jogged down field from Jackson, effortlessly catching the ball. Grant had been a decent receiver in high school but his size had made the transition to running back a no-brainer in college.
The two of them played catch for the better part of an hour while Grant tried to ignore the people beginning to crowd under several of the shady trees nearby, watching. It wasn’t unusual to see at training camp but here, in his hometown, he hated being a spectacle. He couldn’t walk down the street without someone pointing, staring or asking for an autograph. Here he just wanted to be Grant, not Grant McQuaid, starting running back for the Memphis Mustangs.
“Last one,” Jackson called, lobbing the ball down the field for a Hail Mary pass.
Grant went long, sprinting to make the catch. He was damned if he was going to look like a fool with this many people watching. It wasn’t until the last second he heard the child’s yell and the woman’s voice calling for him to “Look out!”
“I’ve got it!” the boy yelled as he reached into the sky, a broad grin plastered across his face.
Grant glanced away from the ball in time to see the little boy run directly into his path.
Bethany couldn’t watch. She’d looked away from James for two seconds to find a napkin in her purse to wipe away the ice cream dripping over his hands and the next thing she knew, she was chasing after him as he ran directly into the path of the two men playing catch. She should have known better than to believe James would sit still when someone was playing football.
The man who’d gone out for the pass barely flinched before he leapt over her son’s head as if he was no more than a small hurdle, clearing James’ outstretched hands by at least six inches.
Holy crap!
James might be small for his age but that was incredible, to say the least. A few of the other spectators agreed and began to applaud as the man caught the ball and jogged back toward James, tossing it to him gently as he came close. She watched him go to one knee in front of James and place a massive hand on his shoulder. She tried to fight down the overprotective instinct rising up in her. He obviously wasn’t going to hurt James after he’d just, miraculously, avoided crashing into him. She caught up to where the pair were chatting like old friends.
“I’m so sorry.” She gasped for breath, cursing the sandals she’d worn and her lack of aerobic exercise since moving to town. “I looked away and he’d taken off.” She squatted down to James and grasped his shoulders. “What in the world were you thinking? You could have been hurt, badly. If this man hadn’t seen you—”
“It’s no problem, ma’am. He’s just keeping me on my toes and prepared for anything.” He smiled at James and gave him a wink before turning his deep chocolate brown gaze on her.
He rose slowly, unfolding his tall frame, to tower above her, leaving her eye level with his bared, sweaty chest. Bethany felt her mouth go dry, unable to speak even if she was able to get her brain functioning again, which it didn’t seem inclined to do.