Page 47 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
Suddenly, cheers erupt from the field, pulling me out of my thoughts. A fresh round of applause ripples through the crowd as another match kicks off—players mixing in with the kids, everyone grinning ear to ear.
Justice Trager, the current team captain—grizzled, grinning, and beloved—is out there too. He’ll be retiring soon, but today, he’s moving like a man ten years younger. He taps the ball upfield with easy control, passing it between two kids before flipping it back to one of the younger players.
The pace picks up—quick passes, shouts of encouragement—when one tiny player with pigtails and a determined gleam in her eye darts forward. In a blink, she slides the ball right between the legs of one of the players.
The kids on the sidelines lose their minds.
“WHOAAAH NUTMEG!” They shout in unison, little voices cracking with excitement, laughter and cheers bouncing across the field.
I smile, soaking it all in—actually feeling proud of this moment—just as something shifts in the air.
I turn and see Grant walking my way, wearing that smile—thatdamn smile—that instantly makes my panties feel like they’ve vanished into thin air.
I smile back.
And then—lights out.
Blinding impact. Athudthat echoes in my skull. Pain blooms sharp and hot across the side of my head.
Someone gasps. Someone else yells.
I’ve been hit.
A soccer ball—launched hard and fast—straight to my damn head.
Great.
One minute I’m looking fly and unbothered—cool as hell in my dressed-down chic, looking unphased and unmoved by Grantmake me screamMills.
The next?
My head is nearly taken off by an eight-year-old with a lead foot.
What the hell are they feeding these kids?
Now, all the cameras are on me, and the guys from the team are rushing over, yelling, “Coach Saunders!”
A new nickname they’ve got everyone calling me.
And then Grant is there. On me before I can even blink.
My head is pounding so hard that if I close my eyes for more than a few seconds, I’m definitely going to pass out.
Fantastic. Really nailing that whole professional, put-together team therapist vibe right now.
Grant is at my side, steady hands on my shoulders, his voice low and firm.
“Eslin. You’re hurt. Just sit still a second. You could have a concussion.”
“I’m fine,” I grit out, already trying to push myself up.
My head is spinning, the pounding in my skull only getting worse, but damned if I’m going to fall apart in front of him. In front of everyone.
“Eslin—”
“I said I’m fine!”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t let up. One brow arches in that maddening way that says he’s not buying a word of it.
