From the Start (2 page)

“It doesn’t make any sense. You took home an Emmy. I’m as shocked as you.”

Except, if she was honest, Kate wasn’t that shocked. It’d been four, almost five years since the Emmy win. And her screenplays had felt forced and dry for a long time now. Which was probably why that scene she’d just watched being filmed had detoured from her original script. Then all those rejections . . .

The warning signs had practically stood in front of her belting out an ominous concerto. But she’d plugged her ears and looked the other way.

Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees and concern spelled out in his furrowed brow. “I know this isn’t the news you wanted to hear. It’s been a hard year.”

She pictured little Breydan then. Propped up in a hospital bed. Pale and thin, but with a heart-melting smile powerful enough to reach past all the disappointment in the world. No, she wouldn’t pout about this. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”

And the truth was, once she got past the whole blow-to-her-pride thing, maybe it really would be. Okay, that is. Because
hadn’t she been telling herself for years now how wonderful it’d feel to someday write something meaningful? Full of impact. Strong.

To feel as if her words had weight and her characters, depth.

Cottony, tentative hope tiptoed in. What if this was her chance? What if this latest rejection was the nudge she needed to finally branch out and . . .

And what exactly? She’d been trying to define her blurry dream for so long, but it never quite came into view. Which is probably why she was still floundering around, writing stories that felt less and less true with every year that passed. Because she didn’t have a clue what came next. What was a girl supposed to do after her heart dried up and took her creative spark with it?

I just need an open window, God.
Just a sliver of sunlight to remind her He had a plan even if she didn’t.

“This is a temporary setback, Kate. You’ll write another script, and it’ll get snatched up, just like that.”

“But what if I—”

The buzz of her cell phone interrupted her. And maybe it was rude, but the temptation to escape this discomfiting conversation got the better of her. She pulled it from her bag and checked the display. New York?

She stood, mouthing a
Sorry
to Marcus. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Frederick Langston. Is this Katharine Walker?”

Frederick Langston. A name she had seen so many times in Mom’s handwriting. A name she had written out herself only weeks ago.

Dear Mr. Langston, I know this letter is out of the blue and I hope you don’t find it too strange, but . . .

“That’s me.”

“I got your letter, Ms. Walker. We need to talk.”

An expectant buzz hovered over the gaggle of reporters and photographers gathered for the press conference Colton Greene never should’ve had to give.

One stupid decision.

And now here he was, six-foot-three frame constricted by a suit and tie and folded into a metal chair, facing off with the media, who would most likely forget about him after today. Manager on one side. Coach on the other.

Make that former coach.

“It’s not a death sentence, Greene.”

If his manager meant the statement as a dose of encouragement, Colton wasn’t swallowing. He closed one palm over the microphone in front of him. “Easy for you to say. I heard Caulfield’s moving up the roster this year. You’ll be repping another starter this season.”

Used to be Colton was Ian Muller’s biggest client. Sure, Colton had spent the bulk of his eight years in the NFL as a backup, bouncing from team to team as if caught in a never-ending game of career hopscotch. But finally—
finally
—he’d hit his stride three seasons ago. Like magic, he’d led the team two wins deep into the play-offs. First time in a decade they’d made it that far. Then two seasons ago, conference champions.

What he wouldn’t give for the story to end there. Colton fingered the collar jabbing into his neck as Ian stood.

Okay. Show on the road.

Except not quite, because instead of moving behind the tabletop podium, Ian looked down at Colton. “We’ve had this discussion a thousand times already. There’s announcing, speaking gigs, your book contract. After the year you’ve had, a memoir will land you on the bestseller list just like that.”

Ian palmed Colton’s shoulder, leaning over. “You turned your life around once. You can do it again. Which is why we’re here
today. You’re going to show the sports world—
your
world—you may be off the field, but you’re not out of the game.”

“Cute, Muller. Someone should put that on a motivational poster.”

Ian straightened, pinched grin in place for the cameras, but not enough to mask the irritation underneath. And he probably had every right to be annoyed. Colton had been sulking for months. Maybe he
should
buck up, see this press conference as the start of something new rather than the end of a dream.

Easier said than done, though. Like throwing a pass into triple coverage. You could tell yourself it’d work out all you wanted, but that didn’t stop the doubts ready to tackle the last of your confidence.

Don’t think football. Think about Lilah.
His one ray of hope in all of this. Hadn’t she said, all those months ago, his career was the reason their relationship wasn’t working? Well, after today, he no longer had a career. Which paved the way for the plan he’d dreamt up last night, when dread over today’s announcement demolished any chance at sleep.

He slid his hand into one pocket, felt the velvet of the jewelry box that’d been mocking him from his bedside stand for eight months now. No longer. He’d do what he had to this morning, and tonight he’d talk to Lilah. Make everything right.

“Afternoon, everyone. Thanks for coming out today.” Ian spoke into the mic extending from the podium. “We’ll make this brief with time for a few questions afterward. Colton?”

Colton stood, far too tall for the wimpy podium, and as he took his place behind the mic, the flash of cameras whited out the already stark walls. Nerves, the kind he was way too seasoned to be experiencing, dashed through him.

“Hey, everyone. I’m sure you can guess why we’re here today. I wish it was for a better reason.” Glimpses of familiar faces
poked through the haze of camera flashes. His gaze landed on a writer from
Sports World
, the one who’d been so sure all last season Colton would lead the Tigers to the Super Bowl. “I saw that column you wrote a couple months back predicting I’d be ready to play again by training camp, Crosby. Wish I could prove you right.”

Crosby returned his nod, a mix of sympathy and resignation in the movement.

“But the truth is, I’m not ready to play. And unfortunately, according to my doctor, knee and shoulder specialists, surgeons, and probably every patient at St. Luke’s who ever heard me groaning my way through physical therapy, I’m not gonna be ready. Not for this or any season.”

And then came the pitying hush he’d known was coming. Lasted barely a second before more camera snaps, only long enough to blink. But it was enough to tighten his jaw and set to twitching muscles that had already been tested to their limits during months of therapy.
Just finish the speech.

“This has been an amazing journey, one for which I’m incredibly grateful. I’m thankful to Coach Johnson, coaches Peterson and Dreck, my teammates . . .” The list spilled out just like he’d rehearsed, his navy tie batting the skinny mic, knuckles turning white as he gripped the podium.

“It’s been a great privilege playing for this team and this city. And though it’s ended much sooner than I would’ve liked, I’m carrying good memories into my future.”

My future.
Ian had instructed him to add extra verbal punch to those last words.

Instead they’d come out sounding slight and unconvincing. Ian was probably itching to kick him. Guess he just wasn’t any good at faking it.

And that was the real reason he was here, wasn’t it?

Because he hadn’t been smart enough to leave his emotions on the sideline and focus on the game.

“You’ve got to ask
yourself what Greene was thinking, going in for that tackle.”

“Never a good idea for a QB to try
and play hero after an interception like that, not unless the game is on the line. Which it wasn’t
up to that point.”

“He’s always had an
impulsive streak. Saw that in his days playing college ball
at the University of Iowa. But today? That was pure
recklessness.”

He could still hear the drone of voices from the TV in his hospital room. The sports analysts dissecting the fourth-quarter mess of what would turn out to be his last game.

Good memories? Sure, they were there somewhere. Just hard to find under the one that nagged him day in and day out, reminding him that the only one he had to blame for his future without football was himself.

He reached under the podium, fingers closing around a bottle of water. Almost done. He unscrewed the water bottle.

“So today I . . . I . . .” Water sloshed over the edge of the bottle and puddled on the table.
Say it.
“I’m regretfully retiring from the game of football.” Almost before the words escaped, he lifted the bottle and gulped down a drink, thankful for the distraction as he mentally grasped for composure.

And then Ian was standing, acknowledging Coach Johnson, who replaced Colton at the podium and said something about Colton’s contributions to the team and how they’d miss him and
blah, blah, blah
.

And Colton was back in his metal chair, shoulder aching and the sharp pang in his knee he’d almost gotten used to taunting him under the table.

Then came the questions.

Did his injuries require future surgery?

How long had he known his career had come to an end?

Had he still been hoping to make a comeback while in PT all these months?

Eyes to the clock at the back of the room. Ian had promised they’d cut this off at the thirty-minute mark. Only five minutes to go. At least no one had asked about—

“About the play that caused your injury—”

The last swallow from his now-empty water bottle slid down his throat, his gaze riffling through the room until it landed on the source of the question. Blond hair in a high ponytail, gray pantsuit, youngish, standing in the middle of the pack. Didn’t recognize her.

“I believe that’s been fairly well covered by you all. Many times.” Uneasy chuckles fanned through the room. “Listen, it was a bad pass. Great interception by Fallon. I saw him take the ball down the field and my instincts kicked in. Yeah, maybe I should have let him go, but it’s football, folks. The point is to not let the other team score.”

A few grins peppered the crowd, and for the first time since that brutal game, he almost felt . . . heroic. Or at least justified.

But the feeling died in an instant as the glaring memory of that failed pass pressed in, along with the reminder that it wasn’t his first intercepted throw of the game—but his third. The result of going into the evening game unfocused and ticked off. When the Eagles’ corner had picked off the pass, he’d simply lost his mind. Anger took over, and he’d gone after the defender in a desperate flying leap that ended with him at the bottom of a pile.

Cocky, stupid, and, worse—as he’d realized when his throwing shoulder hit the turf—dangerous.

The reporter cocked one eyebrow. “Yes, well, you probably
saw some of the headlines—the ones speculating that your on-field actions were the result of your off-field turmoil.”

Oh, now that was a craftily worded sentence if he ever heard one. What outlet was this reporter with anyway? “Was there a question in there somewhere?”

Another round of tense laughter, but to her credit, the reporter held his gaze. “I suppose if there was, you’re not answering.”

The challenge in her voice was unmistakable—as was the warning in the look Ian shot his direction.
Don’t engage. Stay on topic. And whatever you do, don’t mention . . .

“Look, if you’re talking about Lilah Moore, it’s true. We went through a bumpy patch right before that play-off game.”
Oh man.
Ian’s expression was shooting bullets. Colton would probably find himself without a manager after this.

But what did he have to lose? Lilah—former actress turned political activist—had already walked out of his life, turned him down before he even had a chance to propose that January day. Annoying thing was, he couldn’t even hate her for it. If there was a chance of getting her back, he’d rush at it like so many defensive linemen had rushed him over the years.

And that’s when the idea took hold. Crazy, impulsive . . . scattered pieces of his once-shattered hope slowly forming into a whole picture.

The ring box in his pocket felt suddenly weighty with significance. Maybe there was a reason he’d brought it this morning. Some kind of divine foreshadowing. Not that he’d been much good at praying lately, not since all the prayers about his injuries seemed to go unanswered. But what if God was opening a door?