style="font-size:15px;"> “You really think so?”
He nodded fervently. “Terrence is one of the greatest running backs to ever play the game. Right up there with Deion Sanders, Emmitt Smith and...”
She sipped her coffee. A season ticket holder of the Atlanta Falcons for years, Kyra, and her two younger brothers had braved traffic, freaky weather and long lines every Sunday afternoon to cheer on the home team. They were there when Terrence scored his first touchdown in a Dallas Cowboys uniform. Saw him twist and spin out of tackles and shoot into the end zone like a human cannonball. And hollered feverishly when he shattered another decade-old record.
Kyra’s mind returned to that chilly afternoon ten years ago at the Georgia Dome when the Cowboys were playing the Falcons. Over the deafening roar of the crowd, she’d actually heard the thunderous beat of her heart. After celebrating with his teammates, Terrence stopped in the middle of the field, and lifted his eyes to the rafters, as if taking everything in. He’d stared up at Section A, and for a panic-stricken moment, she’d feared he would see her. It was a ludicrous thought, of course. He didn’t have extraordinary vision, after all, just lightning-quick speed. But in that moment, it was as real as her raging, out-of-control heartbeat.
“I love this school,” Walter confessed, his eyes filled with pride, “but I’m tired of watching our guys get butchered out there on the field. Attendance is at an all-time low, players are arguing between plays and even the cheerleaders sound depressed.”
Kyra opened her mouth, but he spoke over her.
“It’s up to us to get Terrence here. Without him, the team doesn’t have a chance of winning their division. And building that new stadium would all be for naught.”
She waited patiently for him to run out of steam, but when she glimpsed the time on the clock, she decided to cut in. “We better get going,” she suggested, putting down her empty mug. “We don’t want to keep Wonder Boy waiting, now do we?”
* * *
Down the hall in a bright airy room off the main office, Terrence Franklin sent a text message to his financial adviser. Buying stocks in the auto industry sounded risky. Sure he had the money, but he hadn’t become a millionaire by making impetuous decisions. Maybe later, after his meeting with Kyra, he’d give it some more thought.
An image of Kyra, as he remembered her from their college days surfaced. Had it really been ten years since he’d seen her? It seemed like just yesterday they were walking through the halls of Hollington, hanging out in “the quad” with their friends and sharing their first explosive kiss.
He had been just another college student, juggling school, football and an active social life. Then he’d met Kyra. He knew from speaking to her sorority sister, Tamara Hodges, that she was a sheltered good girl, shielded from the temptations of the world by her minister parents. Before meeting the vibrant management student, he was a boozing, partying misfit who didn’t take his education or his future seriously. But after their first date, he realized he’d have to clean up his image if he wanted to be with a girl as special as Kyra Dixon.
Intent on having her, he’d quit drinking and stopped clubbing with the guys. A year later, he proposed. He’d been the one to break things off, but Terrence knew if it wasn’t for Kyra’s unwavering support, he never would have made it to the NFL.
Terrence turned away from his memories. He wasn’t going there. Not today. It was bad enough he’d had another dream about her. Since returning to Hollington he’d thought of nothing else but Kyra and the love they’d once shared.
Smiling ruefully, he shifted in his chair. Well, that’s a lie. She’d crossed his mind over the years, too. Times when he’d least expected it. The day he’d signed with the Cowboys. The afternoon he’d moved into his beach condo. And every time he smelled exotic fruit.
Footsteps pounded in the hallway. Then, the door swung open and a flabby, silver-haired man, who he guessed was Walter Morrow, burst into the room with more exuberance than Richard Simmons. Terrence stood, hand outstretched, game face on. He took a step forward, but his legs buckled like a folding chair.
Momentarily speechless, his gaze swept over the woman with the familiar scent. Walter welcomed him to Hollington, but Terrence didn’t respond. His eyes were glued to Kyra and the longer he stared, the harder it was to think. She had a fresh, modern look that was sexy but not overdone, and seeing her again after all these years made his heart race a hundred miles an hour. He was known to say, “You’ve seen one pretty face, you’ve seen ’em all!” But today, Terrence was prepared to eat crow. Kyra wasn’t the typical beautiful woman. She was infinitely more. More natural, more graceful, more sophisticated. There was a simplicity about her, something warm and compelling and, though it was hard to believe in this day and age, genteel.
“Terrence Franklin, the pleasure is all mine.”
He felt a sharp pop in his shoulder and snapped out of his daze. Mr. Morrow was pumping his hand so hard, his knuckles cracked.
“It’s good to be back at Hollington.” His decision to return to his alma mater had been twofold. He’d make some plans for the future and reconnect with Kyra. He’d never forgotten the sacrifices she’d made for him, and he was going to make things right with her if it killed him. Staring at her now, he said, “This school holds a lot of special memories for me.”
“That’s right. You rushed for ninety-three yards against the Wildcats in your first game!” Mr. Morrow’s face clouded with nostalgia. “I wasn’t president of Hollington back then, but I was in the bleachers that night. You were incredible and the energy in the stadium was electric!”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Excuse me, but I just have to ask. What’s Terrell Owens really like? He’s a hothead, isn’t he? A real live wire, I bet,” he speculated. “Come on, you’re out of the league now, you can tell me. I promise it won’t leave this room.”
Football had been his life since he picked up his first pigskin at the age of nine, but Terrence didn’t want to discuss his teammates, his endorsement deals or any of the other usual crap fans liked to talk about. Uninterested in the conversation, he stared at Kyra, desperate to make eye contact. Why wouldn’t she look at him?
As if remembering Kyra was standing behind him, Walter turned and gave her a hearty push forward. “This is the little lady I’ve been chatting up over the phone. Terrence Franklin, I’d like you to meet—”
“Kyra Dixon,” he finished smoothly. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
Mr. Morrow’s cheeks sagged when his jaw fell open. “You guys know each other?”
“We took a few classes together,” she was quick to say, “and we knew a lot of the same people on campus.”
Her smile was polite, guarded, filled with manufactured warmth. He’d been haunted by her face for all these years and he knew forced emotion when he saw it. “Welcome back to Hollington, Mr. Franklin. We’re glad to have you.”
Disappointed by her lukewarm greeting, he dug his hands into his pockets and shook off feelings of frustration. He wasn’t doing play drills in the scorching Dallas heat or working out with his trainer, but he needed a moment to catch his breath. This was insane. He’d dated models, dancers and an impressive collection of singers and actresses, but he’d never been more nervous than he was right now.
“I
