Steven Womack: By Blood Written

Taylor smiled. “I appreciate your understanding of the separate rooms thing,” she said. “I wanted to see you and meet your daughter, but I’m just not sure I’m ready for anything else yet.”

“I’m not trying to put any pressure on you,” he said. “We’ll just see where it goes.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Let’s just see where it all goes.”

He took her arm again and pulled her along as he walked briskly. “We’ve got to hustle,” he said. “The game starts in a few minutes.”

They crossed the central part of campus, to a broad ex-panse of area that held the sports fields and the gymnasium.

The gym was old, almost run-down, but behind it was a state-of-the-art track surrounding a well-groomed soccer field. They climbed a slight rise and there it was, the girls from Butler uniformed in green gathered at one end of the field, stretching and loosening up, and their opponents in red down by the other goal. A crowd of perhaps two hundred partially filled the bleachers.

“Jackie!” Hank called out, waving his arms.

Taylor watched as a tall, slim girl with long brown hair and an athletic frame turned, spotted Hank, and began running toward him. She ran with a finely tuned athletic ease, a loping, relaxed grace that suddenly made Taylor feel quite old.

“Daddy!” she squealed as Hank took her in his arms and lifted her off her feet. Taylor stood off to the side, smiling at the obvious joy the girl took in seeing her father.

Hank settled her back down on the ground and turned her to face Taylor. “Jackie, this is the friend I was telling you about, Taylor Robinson. And Taylor, this is my daughter and the captain of the Butler School’s varsity soccer team, Jackie Powell.”

Hank’s daughter grinned shyly. “Don’t, Daddy, I’m just co-captain.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Taylor said, offering her hand. The girl took it, shook it warmly.

“She’s pretty, Dads. You did well.”

This time, Taylor blushed shyly. “Yes, she is,” Hank said,

“but we are just friends and I don’t want you to make anything else out of it.”

“Right, that’s why you brought her up here on parents’

weekend,” Jackie said. Behind them, a whistle blew loudly.

“Oops, gotta run! You’re staying for the game?”

“Of course,” Hank called as she trotted away. “And dinner afterward!”

The players gathered in the center of the field, lined up against each other. Another whistle blew and the game started. Hank’s daughter was on the line, the right side, and she took a pass cleanly and expertly from the center and began moving it downfield.

As the game began, Taylor entwined her arm through his, holding on to him as they stood on the sidelines next to the bleachers.

“She’s beautiful,” Taylor said. “She looks like that picture you showed me of Anne.”

“Yes,” Hank said. “She’s just like her mother. In a lot of ways …”

“You must be very proud of her.”

Hank pulled his arm loose from hers, then draped it across her shoulder and pulled him to her. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”