Free Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance by Lauren Landish Page B

tomorrow," April says, and I head out to my car. I drive home, taking my playbook with me and the video memory card that Coach gave to me to study overnight. I've got a lot of work to do.
    I pull out my laptop and put the SD card in the slot, pulling up the videos of last year's offense. I've got a good computer, one of the types that can be both a laptop and a tablet if you remove the screen portion, so I decide that my balls really could use a little more TLC, and I take the whole thing into the bathroom, where I run a warm bath.
    I draw the bath, then slide in, looking forward to the time I can afford a larger place, or at least a place with a better bathtub that's built for six foot two inch athletes. I watch the video while I soak my lower body, the warmth easing the light ache still between my legs.
    When the water goes cool, and the video's finished, I get out and dry off. I decide to just go butt naked, it's summer time, and I can use the breeze.
    Frustrated, I sit back on my sofa for twenty minutes, bored out of my mind. Finally, I give up, and go to my bedroom where I pull on some boxers and shorts, pulling them on. Maybe I'll just read until it's time to go to sleep.

Chapter 8
April
    I 'm sitting at my desk on Tuesday afternoon, still not sure of what I'm going to tell Tyler this afternoon when he gets out of his early meetings. The training camp is going well it seems, at least the coaches are all looking pleased so far. Right now the offensive players, including Tyler, are lifting at while the defensive players are doing their tape reviews. After that, the two groups will switch places and Tyler's going to have tape sessions for three hours before afternoon practice.
    None of that helps me though as I sit at my desk, racking my brain. I can't make a decision — should we go to another restaurant? Should I even go at all?
    Going out with him again can be dangerous, oh so wonderfully, deliciously dangerous. I think it's the danger that part of me likes — the part of me that I’ve always suppressed.
    The door to the main office opens, and in walks Francine Walker, the head cheerleader for the Fighter girls. She's perky and bubbly, all five foot two of her, but she's actually really nice, and one of the few members of the staff that I can consider a friend. She's always patient with me, and she spent six months looking patiently past my shyness before I was able to open up and feel comfortable with her.
    "Hey, April, how's life?"
    "I'm okay, Frannie," I reply, tapping at my desk. "Actually, no, I could use your help."
    Francine, who's got a series of boyfriends as long as Tyler's supposed accomplishments, stops and gives me her full attention. She's the sort of girl that just dates a guy for a few weeks, and moves on. I don't even think she's slept with most of the men she's dated, just had some fun and then grew bored. But, like I said, she knows how to date and have fun. More importantly, she likes me, and I like her.
    "What's up, April? Oh, by the way, is Mr. Larroquette in?"
    I shake my head. "He's got a business meeting downtown until two. As for help . . . well, I've got a date tonight."
    Francine bounces in excitement. "Awesome! Who with?"
    “You see, that's the problem," I say. "It's . . . Tyler."
    "Tyler Paulson?" Francine asks, shocked. "Whoo-wee, you knocked it out of the park this time, honey! That man is grade A, prime number one hunk!"
    “We kind of had a dinner date already, two nights ago," I continue before my nerves get the better of me, or before Francine can ask me any more questions. She doesn't seem to have a filter between her brain and her mouth when she gets excited, both in her telling and her asking. "And he asked me out again, but I don't really know where to go or what to do. I mean, it's a Wednesday night, and he's in training camp. Next Saturday the team has its first game, so it's not like he's got a lot of spare time and energy either."
    "April, let me give you a hint . . . a