The Final Catch Read online

  The Final Catch

  Cate Faircloth

  Contents

  Important!

  Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  More great books by Cate Faircloth

  Connect with us!

  About the Author

  COPYRIGHT 2018 PRISM HEART PRESS

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN © Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs

  EDITING: Booktique Editing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume and responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.

  E-books are not transferrable. They cannot be sold, given away, or shared. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in Federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr).

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Important!

  If you did not obtain this book via Amazon or Kindle Unlimited, it has been stolen. Downloading this book without paying for it is against the law, and often times those files have been corrupted with viruses and malware that can damage your eReader or computer or steal your passwords and banking information. Always obtain my books via Amazon and Amazon only.

  Thank you for your support and for helping to combat piracy.

  Description

  Ask anyone—mostly women—and they will tell you that I'm the perfect man.

  As Lowell Blake, the quarterback superstar, I have the perfect life—fame, fortune, and respect. For a long time, that was all that mattered. It was all I wanted or needed.

  Until my only mistake waltzed back into my life rearing her pretty little head—Charlotte Belmont. More than my college sweetheart and no less than the love of my life, I didn’t see or realize it when it mattered.

  And now, I have to convince her, despite her secrets and my own, that we belong together.

  1

  Lowell

  Homecoming Game, Senior Year

  If we don’t win this game, no one will be surprised. But if we do win, everyone will be talking about it. We are six points down in the last quarter with two minutes left on the clock. The play starts, and in a blinding fast moment, I decide to run it into the end zone, and we win. Since then, everyone has been talking about me.

  “You just couldn’t give anyone else the glory.” Jacob is messing around when he grabs me in a headlock on the way to the locker room. I know he is joking because he has been my best friend since freshman year, and like everyone else, he knows it was my only choice when both receivers were blocked, and the offense left it wide open for me. The opposing team had a bad defense, and that’s why we were able to get ahead.

  “Nope. Couldn’t bear it.”

  We don’t have much time to talk since the field is rushed soon after. It’s a homecoming tradition where all the students rush the field, and those of us on the team either try to get away from them or join in. Jacob and I are sandwiched in, so we don’t have a choice. He’s the wide receiver, so both of us were in the same place when the play ended, and the kicker set it off. I spot Coach Briggs by one of the news circuits going around. Usually, it is one or two networks, but this game had seven different ones plus the school’s broadcast network.

  Jacob and I pull through the crowd and onto the fifty-yard line. I finish shaking hands with the other team, thinking to myself it’s the last homecoming game of my college career, and soon it will be the last game of my college career, period. Scouts are already lined up in talks with the agent I got only because my name has been in the front of the Big Twelve since my sophomore year.

  “Jacob, can you answer a few questions for us?”

  We pass by the student broadcast network, and Jacob ignores the voice asking him for an interview. He never liked doing them even for the Big Twelve networks and All-Star reps.

  “No, thanks.” He brushes by me, his shoulder pads hitting mine when I turn to see who it is. I’ve seen every one of them because I don’t mind the interviews, but this person is new.

  “Lowell Blake, can you please answer a few questions for The Student Chronicle?”

  “Yeah, right, like the quarterback will answer your questions.” Someone wearing a shirt from the other student paper follows her question, and the irritation in this girl’s voice makes me pay attention to the other.

  Standing under one of the floodlights on the sidelines, I can barely see her under its brightness until I sidestep Jacob and get around to her. I ignore what he says—something along the lines of ‘leave her alone.’ I glance at the other girl. I’m pretty sure they’re called journalists even though they haven’t graduated, and she’s staring the other girl down when she sees that I am paying attention to her.

  “I’ll answer your questions.” I smile, and she blinks me the prettiest brown eyes I have ever seen, but if I tell her that, I have a thought that it will piss her off.

  When I get close enough to get a good look at her, I notice she is much shorter than me— most everyone is—and she bites her lip like she is nervous. Maybe it is her first rodeo.

  “Really?” she stutters. She glances off to the side, and I find it cute how she wants the other girl to eat dust but doesn’t want to make it obvious before she looks back at me.

  “Yeah.” I try not to laugh. I pass my helmet off to one of the players walking by, and he takes it. Not because I’m above everyone else or anything…

  “Okay, um.” She waves to the person behind her with her hand, and the guy fumbles to turn on a small recorder and hold it my way. She clears her throat before she flips through a notebook and starts, “This is, um, Charlotte Belmont, reporting for The Student Chronicle Sports Edition…” She goes on, but I don’t process most of it.

  Charlotte Belmont is as pretty as I am an amazing football player. She’s not like the other girls I’ve come to know in college and even some outside of college and nothing like the vapid exteriors I see every day, probably the crowd I hang with. But enough of that, I stare at her like I’ve lost my mind.

  Maybe I have.

  She is smiling, and even though it’s a nervous one, it’s still gorgeous. Her eyes still twinkle, and I struggle to listen to what she is saying. Her russet skin shines under the
lights which are usually unflattering but not with her, she’s gorgeous.

  “Sorry, what?” When she pauses long enough, I find my brain and stop practically drooling over this woman.

  “I said what have you learned in your past four years as the only freshman to ever be a starting quarterback for this team?”

  “Oh. Well, first of all, I didn’t know I was the only freshman to do that back then. But now I feel like I learned how to be a better team player because I wouldn’t be able to do anything without my team.”

  “Seriously? Um, I mean… that’s amazing.” She gathers herself, and I find it hard not to laugh but not at her expense. I watch her every movement like it’s the only thing I know how to do, and I find it funny because I have never been that person.

  “Thanks.” I move closer to her, trying to ignore the chaos going on behind us. A photographer runs by and takes a photo of me talking to Charlotte, and I notice the other girl has left with some of the other reps. There are other players they can beg for an interview.

  “If you could change one thing not only in your collegiate football career but in your college career itself, what would it be?”

  “First of all, I would major in something more expensive since the NCAA was paying for it,” I joke, glad she gets it when she starts laughing. The other guy doesn’t, but I’m not paying attention to him.

  “For football, I would probably work on following directions better,” I start, knowing the coaches don’t like when I don’t listen to them, and all the drama that has surfaced probably prompted that question, “… and I wouldn’t have been so vapid as a student sometimes. I would have tried to take better classes. But it’s a ‘what-if’ question, so I can’t do anything about it now.” I chuckle, and she finds it in herself to giggle back. I was a history major. People say I did it because it was easy, which is a lie. I did it because I always wanted to be the cool history teacher in high school who also coaches the football team.

  “That’s great, Lowell. Um, one more question.”

  I would otherwise be getting antsy, but this is one interview I didn’t mind. Charlotte tries not to look at me, and I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t like me, or if she feels as struck by this meeting as I do.

  “What are your plans after graduation?”

  I smirk. “Is there a time limit?” She smiles and shakes her head.

  “I’ll play in the NFL for a while, and when I get old or injured, I’ll retire and become a teacher. I also want to give back to the community, too, and do some charity work and such. I don’t know… Who knows what will happen? I’m along for the ride of my life.” I grin, and she freezes, stopping her nervous blinking and lip chewing to stare back at me.

  And I think I knew then that Charlotte would be the only woman I could ever look at like that.

  I spent the rest of my senior year proving that true. And no matter how many tries it took, from our first date to our last, I tried to be as serious with her as possible. Somewhere along the way, my future got in the way. I don’t know why I never tried hard enough, why the fun we had together, and the memories we made, didn’t make me turn around when I decided to walk away.

  * * *

  “Lowell Blake, can we ask you a few questions?”

  “Press tour is tomorrow.” My agent is behind me when I leave the locker room like he always is.

  But every once in a while, these games remind me of the one best interview I have ever had. The professional ones are worse.

  “Sure.” I annoy my agent and make the young reporter happy. A woman with auburn hair and eager eyes asks me every question in the book, which I understand since this was the last game of the regular season, and since we won, we are headed to the playoffs. And we haven’t been there for over ten years. It’s different now being the quarterback of such a high-profile team in a record-breaking era—all eyes are on me—but they have been since I took the field professionally five years ago.

  My football life hasn’t been the same since college except for Jacob, who has been on my coattail since freshman year as a wide receiver. We come as a package deal, and the media eats it up. I go over it while I half listen to the interview, and my agent, Donnie, trying to hurry it along.

  “Just one last question, Mr. Blake. Looking at your career since college and until now, how would you change things not just professionally but personally as well?”

  A bit shocked and lost for words, I stare until I feel myself looking stupid. But there isn’t much else I can do, not when I feel this disillusioned.

  Because there is no way I can tell her or the national press that I would have never left the girl I loved behind.

  2

  Charlotte

  I usually don’t care much about going to these events, especially on a weekend when I could be home relaxing. But it’s been so long since I have done a press event, I am some parts excited too. I don’t think I’m out of practice, but I do think I will have to work hard to get a leg up. Lucky for me, the channel I correspond for already has all the connections in the sports world.

  My only real job before I go is to make sure I look nice enough to be spoken to, a part of the job I came to accept a long time ago. Even as a freelance sports correspondent, I have to live by the same rules.

  “You look amazing.” Catherine, my older sister by three years, is in the living room when I walk out.

  “I tried.” I sigh, looking down at my black heels that already hurt, and the purple chiffon dress with thin straps and shaped material that stops at my knees. I even did something with my hair other than a high bun—down and curly, shaped by mousse.

  “Well, good job.” She twists her face laughing at me in her head—I know her very well. She looks just like me except she always wears her natural hair straightened, and her skin is a shade darker than my russet color. She is shapelier too. Over the years, it has come from her working out less and working more, which makes sense since she is a therapist, and people here in Santa Clara always have problems.

  “Right. I should be back by… pretty late. I don’t know.” I laugh at myself as I cross the platform to the kitchen where I always exit out the back door. My house is oddly shaped, perched on a hill, and mostly hidden from my neighbors. I attribute my nice living to the high fee I charge for these events as an independent freelancer and owning my salon in the city.

  “I know the drill. She’s taking her nap now,” she tells me.

  It’s only five, but I don’t question it because I am used to it, and even after all these years, I still hate leaving her sometimes.

  “Okay, thanks.” I wave over my shoulder to Catherine and am out the door in seconds. My car is dangerously parked on the curve, the hill sloping so far, I get in the car awkwardly. Since it’s an SUV, the park brake is always on. I never feel like it will go sliding down the hill, but if it isn’t just me, I always park in the garage.

  I suddenly feel like I shouldn’t have declined the offer from the network to send me a car. Using the navigation so I don’t get lost reminds me of the old days when I would trek out to small locations to build up my network. Now I get the calls, and sometimes I decide whether or not to take the job. I only did this one because it is the start of playoffs, and everyone will be there—anyone important, at least. And for my business at the salon, I get so many referrals to send women to me there. The generalizations about football as a sport and most of the women associated with it are true since my salon is mostly for styles catered to my community.

  And I don’t know why I still go back to the events that remind me of a time in my life when it was both the happiest and the saddest, or even the most regretful. I think it keeps the memory alive, and that’s why I chase it. Football stopped being only a sport to me when I was a junior in college, and it wasn’t because I got my first gig with the student paper and the one interview everyone wanted—even the real news channels could never get the all-star, record-breaking quarterback—to give them an interview. Ba
ck then I wanted to be mad that my looks arguably got me the interview, or that he saw me and only then wanted to talk to me. But Lowell Blake proved me wrong, and then he reminded me always to trust my instincts after I didn’t. And it cost me so much.

  I arrive at the venue and find the valet who will probably park my car a mile away. Things are still getting set up outside the stadium, so it’s mostly the bustle of crews moving around doing their jobs. All the information I need is on my phone, so I go to the right place and wait for the rest of my crew to arrive from the network—a camera person, recorder, and assistant.

  “Charlotte!”

  I turn to whoever is calling my name even though I already recognize the voice—Stacy Brown, one of the assistants I am lucky to work with each time I do this. I wouldn’t say we are best friends, but every once in a while, when I correspond for the network, we spend hours together and have to entertain ourselves somehow.

  “Hey, Stacy.” I smile back at her. We hug and look each other over dramatically. She looks amazing in her simple black dress, blonde hair in a sleek, high ponytail, and makeup better than mine. But she utilized the network’s stylist, and I declined.