Free Between Sundays by Karen Kingsbury

“More marketable. A relationship will threaten your role as America’s heartthrob.” And always he would add, “Whatever you do, Hill, don’t get someone pregnant. It’d be a death knell to your image.”
    His agent doled out advice almost daily, and always it was intended to help Aaron some way. Bill looked out for him, and when he had an idea—the way he often did—he talked about Aaron as if the two of them were a team. “We should think about that…” or “We would never consider such an offer.” That sort of thing.
    Now Aaron watched as Bill made a few quick phone calls, the tips to the media he’d promised. Bill would lay down his life for Aaron, no question. If he thought Aaron needed to spend a Friday night with Derrick Anderson and a gym full of foster kids, so be it.
    Aaron stood and motioned to Bill that he had things to do. Before he left, he needed to check his locker. He was missing a pair of running shoes, and he had a feeling they were mixed with the junk at the bottom of his space.
    The locker room was empty, everyone else enjoying the day off. Aaron hurried down the long aisle to his spot and opened the door. As he rummaged around, he felt the envelope—the letter from the foster kid. He pushed it toward the back. No time for fan mail today. He wanted to spend an hour in his pool and get his Hummer cleaned up. He had a date tonight with a French bikini model, the sort of girl he could picture himself settling down with. For a few months, anyway. Or maybe forever. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing. Because maybe settling down would do the one thing seven years and a string of women had never quite been able to do.
    Make him forget about Amy Briggs.
    F IVE
    M egan had been up since just after four that morning, but she wasn’t tired. Today was Monday, and she had a shift at the youth center that afternoon. These were the best days of the week, the days she felt closest to God. On occasion, she read her worn-out Bible, the one that used to belong to her grandmother. From what she could gather, Jesus wanted people to serve. More than that, maybe the entire reason people were created was to serve. So the world would get a better picture of Jesus, the way He had worked when He was on earth.
    Megan had known church kids when she was in high school. Mostly the kind that spent Wednesday nights at youth group and Friday nights slamming back a six-pack of Budweiser. Popular kids from the right families, kids who had convinced their teachers and parents that being part of a church meant they were the good kids. They stayed away from Megan because she didn’t have the right clothes or the right home life. Not one ever tried to be her friend.
    No, Jesus wouldn’t have hung out in stuffy wooden pews with mostly hypocrites, reciting an hour’s worth of songs and prayers once every Sunday. He would’ve been at the youth center, shooting hoops with the kids who didn’t have anyone.
    She finished her paper route and put in her time at the diner. Then she hurried home and ran up two flights of stairs to her apartment. She had thirty minutes to be at the youth center, where Cory had gone after school, just enough time to grab a yogurt and an apple. She rushed through the door and when she finished eating, she made a quick cup of coffee, poured it into her travel mug, and changed out of her uniform.
    Cory hadn’t stopped talking about the pizza party, of course. When he was home, he checked the answering machine three times an hour in case he might’ve missed a call from Aaron Hill. Megan almost wished the guy would call. Then, for all time, Cory could put aside the fantasy that the quarterback was his father.
    She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ears and ran down the stairs. She was five minutes later than usual, and she wanted to make up the time. Which she would. She was used to making up time. Her jobs kept her running, and today was no exception. She hurried out onto the street, and five