Three Little Words Read Free Page B

around to brainstorming names for my restaurant.”
    She turned, holding her dress so it didn’t drag against the ground. Another strand of blond hair slipped from her ponytail. And a smile. “Email me.”

2

    One year and 1,473 emails later
    Ava Kingsley huffed warm air into her cupped hands—oh, how she loved a cool night—and rocked on her heels at the fifty yard line. Eyes to the clock. A minute forty, second and ten on the Raiders’ thirty.
    The stands rumbled behind her with her favorite rally cry. “Defense!” Stomp. Clap . “Defense!”
    “We got this, Coach.” From across the circle of players hunched around her, Tripp Bundy tossed the assurance with the same ease as he would a pigskin. His six-foot-four frame might dwarf hers, but the junior defensive end oozed boyish anticipation from his spot in the huddle. “It’s in the bag.”
    “Oh yeah, like school lunch.” The quip earned her a chuckle but chipped away at their time out. “Men, you know what to do. Look for the punch up the middle—and they’ll be trying the hard count, so stay tight. Secondary, keep an eye out for the pass. On three.”
    Grunts and fist bumps and the circle broke, her boys jogging to their places. Stadium lights blurred out the smudgy pinks and oranges of sunset, washing the field in white.
    “A.J.?”
    Her boys.
    “Ava Jane, you even hear me?”
    Coach.
    Ava blinked. Opened her eyes.
    Daylight instead of dusk.
    Midsummer warmth instead of autumn cool.
    And an empty field, silent and still except for the sticky breeze rattling through the bleachers and skimming over her cheeks, peeling away with it the daydream she never should’ve indulged. Head coach for the Raiders next fall? About as likely as her up and dying her blond hair blue.
    Not gonna happen. No matter how many times Seth Walker goaded her. Him and his silly emails. If by silly she meant highlight of most days .
    Forget Seth. Forget his joking suggestion that she dye her hair. Forget . . .
    Forget her coaching dream.
    Because Coach Mac couldn’t possibly have good news. Not if it was taking him this long to spit out the words. They’d been sitting out on the bleachers for at least ten minutes now. And it was his unnerving quiet that had sent her into the daydream.
    “Sorry, Coach. I’m listening.”
    She watched him now—silver hair and a pair of Raymond Burr shoulders, weathered face, apology spelled out in the downward turn of his mouth. “I can’t hire you, A.J.,” he finally said. “I know you wanted that defensive coordinator position. Lord knows, I wanted to give it to you. But I can’t.”
    Ava rubbed clammy palms over the faded jeans, threadbare with holes at the knees. “I’ve been at every home game for the past five years—most of them down on the sideline with the guys. You’re the one who said I have a strategic eye, that more often than not my read of the opposition is spot-on. I’m good. ” Isn’t that why he’d let a female adjunct instructor help at practices and review game tape after Saturday showdowns?
    She’d always known her hope of snagging a head coaching job for a college team—even a small school like Minnesota Tech—was the stuff of pipe dreams, but she’d been certain Coach Mac intended to offer her the defensive coordinator slot. And finally she’d be more than the team’s sideline good-luck charm.
    Apparently she still hadn’t learned her lesson about sure things.
    “Of course you’re good, A.J. And you love the game, maybe even more than me.” Coach shifted on the bleacher beside Ava so that he faced her. “But I can’t hire you.”
    “Because I’m a girl.”
    “Because Ackerson is qualified and has twelve years of actual coaching experience.”
    “Because I’m a girl.”
    Coach folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “You know that doesn’t matter to me. But be practical for a minute. Think about the team—yeah, they like you, they respect you. But they don’t look to you as an authority