First Step Forward (Volume 1) (The Grand Valley Series, Band 1) - Softcover

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Liora Blake is a contemporary romance author living in Colorado. She writes because it’s what she’s always wanted to do, she writes novels because she likes to tell the whole story, and she writes romance because a happily ever after is the best kind of story to tell.

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First Step Forward

1

(Cooper Lowry)

There are two types of hits you take in pro football: the kind you see coming and the kind you don’t. And after eight years in the game, given the choice, I would take a surprise hit every time. Why? Because thousands of hits later, I’ve learned that the rag-doll effect will be to my advantage. If I see that human freight train coming, I will tense up; it’s only human nature. When I do, that hit will sing through every nerve ending, every joint, even the smallest bones in my toes.

Five minutes ago, that’s exactly what happened—I had a front-row seat to my own impending pile-up and ended up taking the wrong kind of hit. So hard that I felt compelled to check and see if any of my teeth were knocked loose before trying to stand up. Once I’d determined that all my pearly whites were still intact, I jogged over to the sidelines and tried to appear unfazed.

My eyes stay fixed on the field, that lush green expanse surrounded by everything I’ve ever wanted. A full stadium, a jersey with my last name on the back, and a fourth-quarter clock ticking down to a win. We’re in the red zone, and my last catch got us there. Unfortunately, getting there also involved a strong safety known as “Stinger” bulldozing my ass to the ground. The nickname? It suits him. I ended up looking like a Slinky gone haywire in midair and hit the ground in a pile.

“Lowry. Over here, kid. We gotta do this.”

When Hunt snaps his fingers in front of my face, I tilt my head and give him my best don’t worry, doc expression. A team trainer is either your best friend or your worst enemy, depending on what you need. Trainers have the good stuff: the pain meds, the sleeping pills, and the sideline syringe that keeps you in the game. They also deftly ignore your bullshit, refuse to believe that don’t worry smile, and with one signature, they can have you on the sidelines in a suit and tie instead of a uniform.

“What month is it, Lowry?”

“October.”

“What day of the week is it?”

“Sunday.”

“Who scored last?”

A grin slips on my face. “Us. Me, specifically.”

Hunt shakes his head and grins back. At the end of the third quarter, I caught a wide-open pass and sauntered into the end zone like a king. That put us up by fourteen points and now, with less than a minute on the clock, it’s nearly guaranteed we’ll leave the field with a win.

But nothing in this world is a sure thing. I don’t care how close a victory feels or looks; shit happens. Guys fumble. Lightning strikes. A naked nut job parachutes onto the field. Zombies storm the stadium. Live television and pro sports mean anything goes, so there are no assurances that all four couldn’t happen at the same damn time.

My eyes dart back to the field—on the lookout for those pesky zombies—and Hunt gives my arm a thump with his tablet.

“Jesus Christ, Lowry. You aren’t going to miss anything; it’s in the bag. Let’s finish this thing.”

He refrains from grabbing the face mask on my helmet and giving it a jerk until I pay attention, because under the scrutiny of the league’s mandatory concussion protocols, that sort of shit is a thing of the past. These days, after a rough hit, instead of a whack to the back of the head and a command to shake it off, we end up on the sidelines answering inane questions about how we feel and standing on one leg like a flamingo to show we won’t fall over, all just to prove our brains aren’t entirely scrambled.

I tip my chin down and paste on an earnest expression.

“Hunt, just give me this. The last few seconds. Then you can ask me every stupid question you need to. I won’t even threaten your life when you point that annoying little light in my eyes.”

Giving up with a sigh, Hunt tucks his tablet under his arm and flops down on the bench, knowing it’s easier to give in on this one. Leaning back, he puts his hands on top of his head, clasping his fingers together, and tries to relax.

If I’m not on the field and in the middle of it all, savoring the last few minutes of a game is my favorite time. Always has been, because when I was a kid, my first coach told us those were the seconds that mattered. In those moments, he said, we would understand the truth about success, failure, and teamwork. In my eight-year-old mind, everything he said was already the gospel, so I believed every word.

When the clock hits zero, the crowd noise surges—seventy thousand half-drunk people in the Rocky Mountain altitude who don’t give a shit about anything but us right now. Our win, their win—in this city, no one can tell the difference.

Hunt stands again and cocks his head in my direction, silently asking if we can get this over with now. With a single nod from me, he’s back on task, asking me to repeat words back to him, recite a series of numbers, and stand still for his inspection. When we get to the part where I have to lift one foot off the ground, a twitch in my knee nearly sets me off balance.

But I’ve done this all before. I know how to answer the questions and command my body to do what it should. You don’t survive eight years playing pro ball without learning the right answers.

“Scale of one to six. Zero means none present. Six means severe. Head pain?”

“Zero.”

Lie. The pain brewing at the base of my skull, where the occipital nerve meets my spine, feels like it might snap into a hundred sharp shards of glass if I turn my head too far to one side.

“Dizziness?”

“One.”

Lie. It’s more like a five, but I never answer zero to everything. It’s more believable that way.

“Blurred vision?”

“Zero.”

Lie. There are fuzzy little bright white stars passing in front of my eyes, and if I blink for too long, they multiply.

Hunt scribbles on his clipboard, and then signs the bottom of the page.

“You know what to do, right? No aspirin, no liquor. Go home and take it easy.”

“Yup.”

We both know I’m lying.



In the locker room, I attempt to look as whipped as possible. Feigning complete exhaustion keeps the media at bay a bit, leaving only the bravest and most foolhardy of them to step near my locker. A swan dive to the ground like the one I executed earlier means that the broadcasters spent the entire time-out saying things like “hope he’s OK” and “that was quite a hit.” All while showing the same clip on a loop for amusement and ratings.

But that’s what makes the show, doesn’t it? Watching a guy like me, who, if I’m on my game, is the idiot carrying the ball downfield with a target on his back. Depending on whose side you’re on, you’re either hoping I make it or hoping one of those three-hundred-pound guys tackles me to the turf.

When I hit the ground tonight, it felt like it always does: heavy, unforgiving, and crushing. Then everything went silent in my head. Those seconds, when you can’t figure out where you are, what your middle name is, or why the sky looks so shimmery, are scary as fuck....