2. Sloane

CHAPTER 2

SLOANE

I can’t believe Cam Crawford’s standing on the front porch right now, all six-foot-five of him. And he’s gorgeous as ever, an artfully broken-in gray T-shirt stretched taut across his broad chest, barely containing his biceps. Several days’ worth of scruff frames a chiseled jawline, and his dark hair’s floppy and ruffled, as if he’s just run his hands through the slight waves. His eyes are still the deepest, most vibrant blue I’ve ever seen. Rimmed with dark circles, he’s giving off a broody air. Less high school hotshot, more sexy pro baller.

“Cam?” I repeat his name again, trying to figure out if this is a dream or my new Karmic reality.

I typed the words and sent them out into the universe late last night, but I never actually believed Cam Crawford would materialize on my front porch after all these years.

“Hey, Trouble.”

His voice is deeper than I remember, the gravelly tone sending hot pulses straight to my core as my old nickname rolls off his full lips .

The sweetest sound in the world, falling from that mouth.

I can’t freaking believe it.

He got my email and instead of just hitting Reply like the average Joe, he flew back home to surprise me. He’s here to sweep me off my feet like a modern-day small-town Cinderella and I’m wearing a ratty Thunder Creek Mustangs football T-shirt and a cheap string bikini from the Walmart.

Still, May 12 th is a fucking magical day.

My stomach goes all fluttery and adrenaline surges through me as he locks his serious gaze on mine.

Yes! After a craptastic start to the year, things are finally looking up.

I lick my bottom lip, holding my breath in anticipation of what’s about to happen. His in-person response to my love note. Possibly our very first kiss.

“Um—sorry to bother you like this—” He runs a hand through his dark hair, shuffling from foot to foot. “But is your dad home?”

I blink, my mind whirring, trying to process the words. “My dad?”

“Yeah. Coach Carter. Is he here?”

Cam shoves a hand in his jeans pocket as crushing disappointment settles like a 200-pound barbell on my chest.

Of course he’s here for my dad. He always came looking for my dad.

The winningest football coach in town history. The man, the myth, the legend. Everybody’s hero.

Dammit. Good to see nothing’s changed.

Feigning neutrality, I hold back a sigh.

“He’s still at school.” I glance at my watch. “But he should be home soon, usually around three-thirty. You’re welcome to come in and wait.”

I tip my head back toward the dim living room, stepping aside so he can enter. He brushes past me, our arms touching for the briefest of moments, and I catch the faint scent of him. The same masculine-smelling cologne, like he’s come straight out of the forest, mixed with the slightest hint of salty sweat from the south Georgia heat.

The screen door slams shut, the bang echoing loudly through the quiet space. Kicking the main door closed behind me to preserve the precious AC, I turn on my heels and head to the kitchen. Cam trails behind and I wonder if he’s checking out my ass, peeking from beneath the hem of my T-shirt. Just in case, I add in a little extra shimmy.

“Want something to drink while you wait? Water? Lemonade?” I offer, already reaching for a glass from the cabinet.

He shrugs. “Sure. Lemonade’s good.”

I set about fixing drinks, plunking ice cubes into glasses, then pouring a healthy serving of lemonade for both of us from the plastic jug.

“Thanks.”

Taking the drink from me, the tips of our fingers brush, and I work hard to ignore the electric zing shooting up my arm.

“Coach still gets his lemonade from Ingles, huh? They always had the best lemonade.”

“Yep. My dad sticks to the tried-and-true. ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ is his motto.”

I gesture at the table and he takes the hint, sliding out a chair and maneuvering his massive body into it. He leans back and the old chair creaks under his weight. Cam looks to be solid muscle now and I silently pray this isn’t the moment that chair finally cracks under pressure.

Lifting the glass to his lips, he takes a long gulp, and I fervently try not to stare. I haven’t seen Cam Crawford in years—not since he left for college—and now he’s sitting at my kitchen table.

Did he read the message I sent?

He’s not acting like someone who read the World’s Most Embarrassing Email. But I can’t be sure—maybe he’s playing it cool?

The wall clock ticks loudly behind me, the only other sound the light clink of ice in Cam’s glass. He sets the lemonade down and drums his fingers on the table in an agitated rhythm. I silently shuffle through various conversation starters, my chest tightening as the seconds crawl by.

Damn, this is more awkward than rereading that tequila-drenched missive I typed last night.

I sink into the seat next to him, carefully angling my legs beneath the table to avoid playing footsy. He seems preoccupied—and not with how best to declare his undying love for me.

“So—what brings you back to Thunder Creek?”

There’s a clever line. Good one, Sloane.

Keeping his eyes downcast, he pauses.

Tick, tick, tick.

Several seconds go by before he breaks the silence.

“I got cut.”

I inhale sharply, sputtering on the overly sweet beverage. A few drops of liquid splatter onto my shirt and I swipe them quickly away. Cam says nothing, his jaw tense.

“Shoot. I’m real sorry, Cam. That sucks.”

“Yeah. It does. ”

He sighs, his huge shoulders lifting then sinking, exhaling his despair. A decade ago, I would have reached for his hand, but the gesture feels clunky and awkward now, after all this time.

“Um—so what happens next?” I tuck my leg up under me, biting at my lip. “Do you get picked up by another team or something?”

He resumes the finger drumming. “Maybe. I had a tough season, didn’t make as many plays as I wanted.”

“Oh.”

“The coach said I have an attitude problem coupled with a bad reputation, whatever that’s supposed to mean. I may have told him to fuck off.”

“Wow, okay.”

Rule number one in football—never tell the coach to fuck off. That would get you ten laps, fifty pushups, and at least a one-game suspension from Coach Carter.

Cam lifts his head, staring straight at me. “That coach is kind of a dick. I do not have an attitude problem.”

I nod, noticing he didn’t mention the reputation part. But no need to poke the bear. What do I know, anyway? I wasn’t there and you can’t always trust everything you read in the tabloids.

“So what’s your plan? Do you go to some type of camp or something to get scouted?”

“Nah. My agent’s working on it. But he suggested I take some time off to ‘get back to basics.’”

“And that’s why you’re here, to see my dad.”

“Yep.”

Not to see me.

“So are you staying in town for the summer then?” I run my thumb up and down the smooth surface of my glass, wiping away the condensation and holding my breath for his response.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe? My folks moved to Denver to be closer to my oldest sister and her kids. Everything’s kind of up in the air right now.”

“Right.” I bob my head in sympathy. “I know that feeling.”

“Are you visiting? Didn’t think you’d move back to Thunder Creek after college. I always figured you’d have some fancy corporate job, since you’re so smart.” He locks his eyes on mine and heat creeps up my neck.

Guess it’s my turn in the hot seat.

“Not visiting, exactly. I’m kind of between things at the moment myself—” My voice trails off as I kick around the most positive way to say I’m jobless, homeless, and newly unengaged.

“Guess that makes two of us, huh?” He shoots me a half-hearted smile and I go all gooey inside.

Get it together, Sloane. The guy just lost his career, his passion. Stop mooning over him like a lovesick highschooler.

“Yeah, guess so.” I swallow hard, my throat tight and dry in spite of the lemonade.

The screech of the screen door creaking open shocks me back to reality. Quiet time with Cam is up—Coach is home.

“Sloane! Whose Rover’s in the driveway?” My dad’s big voice booms through the small house and then he’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen in his Thunder Creek High uniform of dark blue polo and khakis, the ever-present orange whistle dangling from his neck.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Is that Cam Crawford, wide receiver for Chicago, sitting at my kitchen table?” My dad squints at us before rushing over and slapping Cam hard on the back, embracing him in a side hug. “You in town for a visit, son?”

Cam shifts awkwardly in the chair. “Not exactly, sir. It’s kind of a long story.”

My dad’s eyes narrow. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve got time. It’s Friday afternoon and I’m staring down the weekend. That means it’s officially happy hour. Let’s grab a beer and catch up out back. Hey, baby.”

My dad drops a kiss to the top of my head on his way to the fridge, pulling out two bottles of beer. Popping the lids from both, he hands one over to Cam and then heads out back. Cam follows, leaving me alone in the kitchen, wondering if he ever read the email.