From the Start (11 page)

Still there.

“Sorry. Is there something I can do for you?” He dropped
the roller into the pan. “Besides help you prove a point to your sports reporter?”

She smirked. “Goodness, that was something close to a smile.”

“Who
are
you?”

“Amelia Bentley. I’m actually here to talk to Case about an article on the railroad. We always do one this time of year right on the cusp of fall—which is when the railroad gets the most business. But when I saw you . . .” She shrugged, jade eyes glinting in the midafternoon sunlight. “Well, can you blame me for asking if you’d ever consider gracing the local newspaper girl with an interview?”

“Can’t blame you. But can’t do an interview either.”

Because he’d promised Ian.
Lay low. Stay out of
the spotlight.
’Course, did a local paper even count as the spotlight?

And speaking of Ian, it was probably about time he returned one of his manager’s half-dozen calls ever since Colton’s stilted text Monday night.

Good news. Snagged a writer. Name’s Kate Walker, sister of a friend. Staying in Iowa while we write the book. Draft by October.

He still wasn’t entirely sure what’d swayed Kate’s decision about the project. Most likely the money. Regardless, it was kind of great, really, how it’d all worked out. Like God had known Colton and Kate were the answers to each other’s problems, said
voilà,
and parked them both in Iowa.

What had that pastor at Case Walker’s church said Sunday? Something about keeping your eyes open and trusting God to show up. Maybe that’s what’d happened.

His gaze drifted now to the railroad tracks ribboning over gravel. How long had it been since he’d asked God to show up? Not to grant a request or get him off a hook or heal an injury but to simply show up in his life?

He looked back at Amelia, her attention moving from his half-completed paint job to the sign that welcomed visitors to the depot. Case had told him the Maple Valley Scenic Railway offered afternoon rides, dinner car rides in the evenings, morning runs on Saturdays. “Well, at least I tried.” She tipped her sunglasses over her eyes.

“And don’t forget, you’ve got a picture.” He grasped for a tinge of friendliness, made himself smile again. She wasn’t pushy, he’d give her that.

“Ah, Amelia, you’re here.” The now-familiar polish of Case’s voice sounded in sync with the clapping of his footsteps on the boardwalk as he came around the depot.

“Sorry I’m early. But I thought I’d get a few photos before our interview.”

“No apology necessary. Take all the photos you want. The 2-8-2 Mikado steam locomotive just got a washing down—she’s all pretty if you want to start there. Meet you in the office in ten minutes?”

Amelia nodded, shot Colton one more look of curiosity, and stepped from the boardwalk, moving toward the orange-and-black locomotive Case had pointed to.

Case gave an exaggerated wink. “She’s single, Greene. And a looker.”

“Only I’m not looking.” And if he was, he wouldn’t look here. Because Maple Valley was a pit stop on the way to whatever came next. A new life.

Which meant he had to get better about tempering the piece of him still yearning for his old life. The one where he got to play the game he loved for a living, be a part of a team, something big. And, yeah, the life where spectators and their admiration filled him with pride and purpose. Maybe that was wrong to admit, but there it was.

Besides, when it came to women, he obviously had a thing or two to learn. Twice now he’d completely misread Lilah—counted on a future together she clearly didn’t. Back in January when he’d first planned to propose, only to have her break up with him before he got the chance. Then just last week, when he’d been so sure her months of checking in on him as he recovered from injuries and surgeries meant her feelings were still alive.

Obviously he couldn’t have been more wrong.

He started to reach for his paint roller again, but Case’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Son, I know Logan asked you to stay. Worried about his old man.”

“Oh, but no—”

“Don’t try to deny it.” Case’s eyes narrowed even as his lips pressed into a grin. “My kids are helpful and considerate, yes. Subtle, not so much. But I’d hate to think you’re stuck here if you’d rather not be. My arm may be in a sling, but I’m not helpless.”

Few days ago,
stuck
might’ve been exactly how he felt. But something had changed the other night in Logan’s bedroom. When Kate said yes. Like knotted rope shaken loose and finally usable.

“I’m glad to be here, sir.” He couldn’t help the show of respect tacked on to the end of his statement. Ever since he’d first met Case Walker, back in college, when Logan’s parents had come to the college for Parents’ Weekend, he’d felt an instinctive sense of respect for the man.

“In that case, glad to have you.”

Colton picked up the paint roller. “Plus, it worked out pretty well—meeting Kate right when I needed her.” He said the words nonchalantly, but Case’s sudden quiet, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, stole Colton’s ease. “Not needed
her
so much as needed a writer. And if you’re worried about . . . I mean, if you think I . . .” Discomfort crawled up his spine. “It’s like I already told Logan. Strictly business.”

Case’s surprise chuckle echoed in the open space behind the depot. “Ha, that’s not at all where I was going. I was going to congratulate you on convincing the girl who went to no more than two football games her entire high school career to write your book.” He slapped Colton on the shoulder, sending dots of paint from the roller in his hand to the wall. “But as long as we’re on the subject . . .” He took the paint roller from Colton and set it down once more.

“I promise, strictly—”

“Ease up, kid. Truth is, my elder daughter could use just the opposite of business. She’d kill me for saying so, and Lord knows I’d wallop anyone who intentionally hurt her. But if you could manage to get
her
to treat your working together as anything but business, I’d have to be impressed.”

“Sir, are you saying—”

“I’m saying have fun with the book project. Kate could use a change of pace, and clearly, so could you. Now where’s that reporter?”

He stepped away, leaving Colton to let out a breath. Talk about a surprising turn in conversation. Didn’t matter what Case said, though—whether he was joking or not. Colton had promised Logan.

And he’d promised himself. No more distractions. He’d write this book. He’d follow through on his plans to stay in town long enough to see the depot reopen.

Then he’d return to his real life, the career that just might hobble back into existence if this book was the success Ian predicted. Speaking of which . . .

He pulled out his phone. Ignored the slew of texts.
Might as well get the argument over with.
He pressed the speed dial for his manager.

Ian picked up on the second ring. “Not a good idea, Colt.”

“Afternoon to you too, Muller.”

“If you’d answered one of the four times I called earlier, I’d be all over the laid-back greetings. But my patience is down to zilch.”

Colton moved away from the depot wall, tall grass brushing underneath his feet. “Fine, then, what’s not a good idea?” As if he had to ask.

“Asking a woman you’ve known all of two seconds to write your book.”

“Almost a week. I’ve known her almost a week. And I’ve known her family a lot longer. They’re good people.”

“Condoleezza Rice. Shirley Temple. Nelson Mandela. My mother. All good people. None of whom should be writing your book.”

“Pretty sure at least two of the people on your list are dead.” Colton paced along the building, swallowed up in its shadow. “Now, if you really could get Condi Rice, I might reconsider this whole thing.”

Not even a hint of amusement in Ian’s grouchy pause or his sighed question.

“Does this woman know anything about football? A single thing?”

Colton rolled his eyes and rubbed one palm over the back of his neck. “I’m sure she can spell the word. That’s a single thing.”

“Greene.”

He paused, softening his tone. “Ian, you’re looking out for me. You always do, and I’m grateful for it—even if I’ve done a lousy job of showing it lately.” He leaned one hand against the wall, then jerked away when he realized he’d stuck it in wet paint. “I know you want what’s best for my career. Thing is, I’m certain . . . this is it.”

“Has she ever even read a sports memoir? How do you know
she’s not just in it for a slice of your fame? Or is this about you? How hot is she?”

His tolerance fizzled. “It’s like this, Ian. This isn’t about me being stubborn or unreasonably unbendable. It’s about being convinced it’s the right thing.” Colton’s fingers closed into a fist, wet paint smudging over his fingers. “You want me to do a book—only way I’m doing it is with Kate Walker.”

“So my mocha is the quarterback and the cinnamon shaker is a wide receiver?” Kate hunched over the coffee shop table, notebook in hand and focus on Ava Kingsley’s makeshift field.

Her cousin’s girlfriend had offered to teach Kate the basics of football the second she’d heard about Colton’s book project. Which was about ten minutes ago when they’d bumped into each other at Coffee Coffee.

Yes, that was really the name of the little storefront coffee shop nestled at the corner of the city block that faced the river. The interior made up for the name’s lack of creativity—one brick wall ornamented with eclectic artwork, tables of varying heights dotting the floor space, colorful mosaic backsplash running the length of the counter.

Ava pushed her blond ponytail over her shoulder and nodded. “Yes, and all these torn-up napkin bits, they’re the opposing team’s defensive line. Their goal is to stop the offense from gaining yardage.”

A coffee machine rattled and hissed in the background. “And the offense needs to gain ten yards within four downs to keep possession.”

“Right.”

“Such a weird sport. Who came up with the idea of downs?
Why’d they decide you only get four? Who thought it was smart to have so many guys on a field at once? It’s so messy.”

And somehow she had to learn to write intelligently about it. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea ever. But it was too late now. She’d called Frederick Langston this morning and agreed to the trip to Africa. After his initial burst of enthusiasm, he’d given her the details.

She would go to New York City soon after Thanksgiving, work with the team heading to Africa for a couple weeks, complete an orientation, and plan the specifics of the project she’d be writing. Then she’d go home for two weeks over the holidays and leave for Africa shortly after the New Year.

So much for easing into it—taking time
to think and pray.
But this wasn’t like her impulsive choice to follow Gil to Chicago. And Africa, the foundation, Colton—all the things pulling her toward this decision—they weren’t like Gil. Besides, what was there to think about? Colton and his crazy idea had plopped into her life right when she’d needed money. If that wasn’t God saying “Go for it,” what was?

Ava shook her head now. “It’s not messy if you know what you’re looking at. It’s like reading music. Someone who doesn’t get notes and scales and clefs looks at sheet music and it’s a bunch of gobbledygook. But for someone who reads music, everything on the page has a purpose. Just like all the guys on a field. They’ve got a position and a specific role to play.”

Like characters in a story.
I don’t have to master the sport.
Just fake it well enough to convince readers. And reviewers and peers
and sports geeks.
She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, chalky worry clouding any earlier confidence.

Kate reached for her drink. Caught Ava’s eyes once more. “What?”

“What are you doing with my quarterback?”

She winced as she swallowed, her too-sweet mocha now lukewarm. “Sorry.” She replaced the cup. “You really like football, don’t you.”

“If by
like
you mean
emphatically adore
, yes. I actually used to help coach a college team. Unofficially, that is. When it didn’t turn into an actual job, I ended up here.”

“With Seth.” Kate grinned. “So . . . you’re going to keep helping him at the restaurant long term?”

“For now. Maybe, um, you know . . . forever.”

“You don’t miss coaching?”

“Oh sure. But it’s kind of fun—refreshing, too—to be part of someone else’s dream for a while, instead of so obsessed with my own. Now, enough about me. ” Ava moved the cup closer to a stir stick.

Hmm, what position had she said the stir stick was? Hiker?

“So the play starts with Stick Guy hiking the ball to the mocha who’s then going to look for the open cinnamon shaker. Or, if he sees an opening in the napkin line, he just might run it himself.” Ava looked up. “Got it?”

Kate stared at the table, now just a clutter. She shouldn’t have agreed to this. If she couldn’t pull off a romantic screenplay—supposedly her area of expertise—what made her think she could write a compelling memoir about a man she hardly knew who played a sport she didn’t understand?