Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (ebook and pdf reader .txt) 📕

I withdraw my fingers, realizing that with my touch, I’d not only re-conjured that previously loaded air between us, but I’d multiplied its intensity by a dozen.

A yell echoes around us.

“Did you see that catch? I told you it was him. That’s Wyatt Harrison.”

“Uh oh,” I smile at Wyatt, “your cover is blown.”

He grins back. “I think you’re right. I should’ve worn my baseball cap.” But he doesn’t seem displeased that the kiddos spotted him.

Ten pairs of feet rumble on the thin red bridge leading to the small island we’re on, and in a second, the boys encircle us. They shout excitedly, cutting into each other’s sentences.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Harrison? Are you on holiday?” a boy with slicked-back bangs asks.

Wyatt smiles at them, nodding. “Sort of, yes.”

“Mr. Harrison, can you sign my T-shirt?” A kid with red curls and skin as white as a porcelain doll takes off his polo and shoves in front of Wyatt.

The blond, lanky chap who threw the ball to us taps on this boy’s naked back, and his slap reverberates around us. “You’re stupid, Oliver. Not your lousy shirt. Let’s ask him to sign our ball.”

“Yeah!” the others chime in a chorus.

The blond kid moves his gaze up to Wyatt, and there’s sheer admiration glimmering in his eyes. “Would you do it, sir?”

Wyatt grins. “Of course. I can sign whatever you want. Only I’ve got no pen.”

He blinks at me, but I shake my head.

“Here’s one,” Oliver exclaims triumphantly and pulls out an orange pen with a black tip from his shorts’ back pocket. He hands the pen to Wyatt, then throws a disdaining glance at his blond mate. “Who’s the stupid one now, Max?”

Max rolls his eyes and chuckles. Oliver must accept this as an excuse because he giggles with him.

Wyatt scribbles his signature on the brown leather, and I can’t help but notice that his handwriting hasn’t changed one bit since he left college.

To forget him, I’d convinced myself that Wyatt was bound to become an arrogant superstar blinded by his fame and wealth. However, as far as I’ve seen in these past days, he’s still the same down-to-earth guy I fell for. Very little has changed about the core of his personality.

Maybe that’s why I have such a hard time keeping an emotional distance from him?

“Mr. Harrison,” Oliver, clearly the spokesperson of the group after his success with the pen, says, “would you join us for a quick game? It would be an honor to throw the ball with you.”

Wyatt shakes his head. “Sorry, pals, I can’t. On any other evening, I’d love to, but tonight I have company.” He points at me with a regretful smile.

I can’t bear to watch the disappointment on the children’s faces. They all look like someone announced to them that there won’t be any Christmases and summer holidays for the next ten years.

I place my hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “I’d be thrilled to watch you play with the kids.”

Wyatt’s brows arch as if he doubts my statement. “But you don’t like football…”

“Maybe I’m changing my mind.” I smile.

His lips curl up too. “Okay, then.” He gives the boys a conspiratorial smirk. “One game.”

The boys break out in a hurrah and clap hands with each other.

“You’re my all-time favorite quarterback. How can you release so fast?” Max asks Wyatt as we all march toward the bridge.

“If a quarterback doesn’t have exceptional arm strength—and mine is good but not the best—then he’d better have a quick release.” Wyatt smiles at the boy.

“I find releasing quickly so hard.” Oliver scratches his red curls. “That’s why the others don’t let me play QB ever.”

“Nah,” one of the sturdier boys interjects, “it’s because you can’t take a hit. Quarterbacks need to have the courage to take a hard jab, right, Mr. Harrison?”

Wyatt chuckles. “Just call me Wyatt. And, yes, we cope with constant harassment from the defense. We must hold our grounds in the pocket and keep the ball until the last split second, knowing we’re going to be tackled the instant we release the ball.”

Oliver sucks in a breath, and his bony shoulders drop. “I see.”

Wyatt pats his head. “Don’t worry, Oliver, I’ll show you some tricks about how to resist pressure on the field, ’kay? Also, don’t forget, though great release is an ability you’re born with, your skills can get better if you keep practicing them. Throwing a football isn’t a natural arm movement like slinging your arm to roll a bowling ball, but it can be trained.”

The boy’s face illuminates, which makes my chest warm.

Wyatt has a special gift with kids I’ve never noticed. Though I entertained fantasies in the past about a future with Wyatt, I never really pictured him as a father. Now, for the first time, I realize he could be a terrific dad.

As we reach the clearance where the boys previously played, I settle under a palm tree to watch, while Wyatt and the boys stop in the middle of the grassy area to discuss the rules.

“Since we sum up to an odd number,” Wyatt explains to the kids who are drinking in every word as if he were a god descended on Earth, “I’ll play as the all-time quarterback while y’all can switch positions. I won’t run past the scrimmage line. Because of the field size, we’ll start with a punt-off instead of a kick-off. Let’s stick to the shirts versus skins system to distinguish the teams.”

Wyatt seems utterly at ease while he explains how they can best set up the game. His voice is cheerful, and his eyes glisten with a never-seen awe.

Is this how football makes him feel?

Now, I can understand why he dedicated his life to it.

“Whose team will you be on?” Oliver inquires.

The hopeful edge of his voice must melt Wyatt’s heart as much as mine because he replies with a friendly smile. “I’ll start with yours, then at halftime, I’ll switch sides so I can play with all of you.”

Wyatt detaches his baseball cap