Win Big:A Bad Boy Sports Romance(26)

       
           



       

I could tell from the look on his face as he greeted the kids that he was not pretending to enjoy being here. He wanted to be around them. The smaller ones were climbing into his lap, and the older children hung around nearby. They couldn't get enough of him.

"All right, you guys. I see a few new faces around the room. I'm Evan. It's nice to meet you." He took a minute to get the name of each new kid before starting. "So … what do you want me to read today?" He leaned over to the small cart with a stack of books, flipping through them. At least six kids took their own books over to him, each of them pleading for their story to be read.

"One at a time," he told them. The two kids in his lap slid off and sat on the floor with the others.

He took the colorful green book that the youngest child held out to him. "Oh, this is one of my favorites," he said, holding it up for the others to see. "The Giving Tree. Let's start with this."

As Evan read, he glanced up from time to time to make eye contact with each child, as though they were the only person in the room. Children that age could be fidgety and distracted, but not with him. He held the kids' full attention right up to the last word. By the time he finished, the ones up front reached up with a few other books. He picked an upbeat Dr. Seuss book next.

After an hour of reading, it was time to go. Most of them hugged him warmly, begging him to come back tomorrow. He promised to be back in a couple of weeks.

My mind was blown.

Again.

I stopped short as we were leaving the floor. My father stepped out of one of the intensive care rooms. I didn't think I'd see him at all today. In a way, he didn't see me at all.

"Look at this!" Dad pronounced, running his uninjured hand over his salt and pepper hair as he strode over to us. "Evan Marshall, wide receiver, SEC championship hero, bowl game dominator and NFL hopeful."

"Hello, Dr. Woodward," Evan said to him. "Good to see you again, sir."

"Same here." Dad showed him the cast on his right hand and smiled proudly. "Sorry I can't shake your hand today. Blame it on that horrific Lions' loss."

"Sorry to hear about your arm. That game was a real shit show, wasn't it?"

"It sure was, son. It's a constant reminder of why I prefer the NCAA games a heck of a lot more." Dad cast a side glance my way just then. Even from the side, his deep emerald eyes glinted with curiosity. "Samantha?"

"Hi Dad."

I must have looked out of place standing beside an athlete in a sport he worshipped, after I had repeatedly stated that I detested football. "What are you doing here? You know Evan Marshal?"

"I gave him a ride here, Dad. I'm on the rehab team that's helping him with his injury."

"You are?" He couldn't hide his confusion, but eventually he snapped out of it and lifted his clean-shaven jaw up from the floor to kiss the top of my head. "Well, that's excellent, sweetheart. I'm delighted to hear you've had a change of heart about the sport."

He returned his attention to Evan, and the two made small talk until someone paged my dad over the intercom. We said our goodbyes and got back to my car.

"Your father's pretty cool."

I pursed my lips. I didn't want to lie. "He's a great pediatrician."

"No doubt. You two don't get along too well, do you?"

I didn't see that coming. "It's up and down. Long story … too long to get into right now."

"I get you. It's okay. Hey, feel like getting lunch or something? I'm starving."

"Sure. Me too."



"What made you want to join the athletic training program?"

We ended up going to lunch off campus. He'd found a diner he liked, and we were eating a couple of burgers and fries.

"Well … with my parents in the medical field, I guess my interest in helping people came from them. Plus I love baseball," I told him, taking a bite of my burger.

"Interesting." He pointed at the side of my face. "You, uh, have some mustard, right … " He took his napkin and stretched his hand across the table to dab the side of my mouth. "Right there. All better."

"Thanks. Sorry … I don't usually inhale my food … I didn't realize how famished I was."

"That's okay. I like a girl who could handle a big, juicy burger, and a-"

"There we go."

That impish grin rose up on his face again. "What? I was going to say a man-sized meal."

"I'm sure you were. You missed your calling. I think you'd be a serious contender for … hmmm … I can't think of a career that would quite fit your smart mouth."                       
       
           



       

"Whatever."

"How about stand-up comedy, or becoming a lawyer?" I said, smiling. I was getting used to him. "No, wait! Any job where they tolerate verbally abusive bosses."

"Ha-ha. I'm in stitches," he deadpanned. "Who's got the smart mouth now?"

"I'm just saying … "

"Who knows, maybe comedy is all I'll be fit to try by the time the combine rolls around."

I stopped sipping my soda at that comment. "Why are you worried? You're already on the official invite list."

"I'm more worried about my legs failing under me than anything else. I'll bring my A-game, but … I'm sure you know it's easy for my A-game to look more like it's at the B or C level coming back from this injury."

"You'll get there and you'll ace it," I assured him. "You, Slade, Mo, Chris, all of you. And you'll be more than ready. You're recovering beautifully."

He raised one eyebrow. "You know who else on the team is going to the combine? I thought you didn't care about football?"

"Yeah, well, I did a little research." I laughed and did my best to get over the mild embarrassment.

"Amazing. Your dad must be proud."

My silent objection to his statement must have registered on my face.

"What is it? You hate your old man that much?"

I drummed my fingers on the table, staring out the window. "You asked why I wanted to go into athletic training. It ties into the way I don't like football and why my father and don't see eye to eye on a few things. It's a hot mess of reasons, actually."

He didn't ask for details or counter what I'd said. He just kept eating, studying my face while he waited for me to continue. Or not.

"Does the name Wallace Woodward sound familiar?"

"Not really, no."

"That should be my punch line, but I figured I'd lead with it. It's my dad's younger brother. He was drafted into one of the northern NFL teams when he got out of college in the mid-90s. He was a running back, about four years younger than my father. They're northern boys, from Vermont originally. He would have been a lifetime ball player, like a lot of kids who end up going pro, except he got hit too hard in the first season. My dad always said Uncle Wallace ran faster than a bolt of lightning. Some idiot gave him a dirty hit halfway through a game, took his knee out."

Evan winced and blinked his eyes shut. He could relate.

"Times were different back then. Half-assed physical therapy was nothing unusual. Coaches wanted their good men off the bench and in the field. My uncle was back in the lineup, playing way earlier than he should have been. He blew out his knee in that very same game. His career was over. They sent him packing and barely gave him a decent severance."

"Oh, Jesus. I'm so sorry that happened."

"Thanks. My father never let it go. By the time this happened to my uncle, Dad was already doing his medical internship at a hospital. I'm pretty sure he would have ended up in a different career if this had happened earlier in his education. Dad's addicted to football, but every time he watches, he relives the nightmare of his brother. Dad's a very angry man. Deeply hurt that his brother got the short end of the stick. Yet he keeps watching the sport. It's so frustrating, the way he gets absorbed into the game while it poisons him at the same time. My mom has begged him more times than I can count to quit watching so he can move on, but he won't stop. So he's got a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on. At the hospital and when he's not watching football, he's awesome. Loving, caring, generous, kind. That all stops when a game is on."

Evan seemed alarmed, like he was forming a question I suppose most people would think to ask exactly what he was thinking too.

"In case you're wondering, he's not violent to us. It's him and the TV that have a love-hate relationship-throwing things, cursing at it. I can't tell you how many of them he's broken over the years. But he keeps buying new ones. Isn't that sad? I don't even know how he can be like that and be a pediatrician, you know? You have no idea how happy I am that he doesn't go to many live games. He'd probably end up banned from going."

Evan didn't seem too surprised by that last part.

"I became interested in athletic training to help make sure disasters like that don't happen again. I don't want athletes to get a raw deal after they're injured … and I guess the selfish part of me doesn't want some kid growing up afraid of Sunday afternoons either, but for football … it just hits too close to home, you know?"