He looked at the camera. He smiled his golden smile. “God. My family. And all the fans who never gave up on me.”
Dallas didn’t become a saint. He still loved the roar of the crowd. He got drafted in the fourth round—lower than projected, because of the knee. And when he moved to a new city, he didn’t take a supermodel or an agent. He took a girl who knew how to tape an ankle and how to see a soul.
He dropped to his good knee on the wet asphalt. It was dramatic, ridiculous, and utterly sincere. HDSidelined- The QB and Me
He leaned down—slowly, because his knee still ached—and kissed me. It was clumsy, desperate, and tasted like the cheap coffee from the press box. It was the most real thing I’d ever felt.
That was the night everything changed. The diagnosis was a season-ending ACL tear. The golden boy was sidelined. He looked at the camera
They say you can’t go home again, and you can’t change a person. But you can grow with them.
At Aldridge University, there were two kinds of people: those who worshipped Dallas Hart, and those who pretended they didn’t. I fell into a third, far lonelier category. I was the one who had to tape his ankle at six in the morning. My family
It stung because I’d thought the same thing a hundred times. I wasn’t his type. I wore sneakers to formal events. My idea of a good time was a documentary about rare bone diseases. He was Dallas Hart—the man who once chartered a private jet for a weekend in Cabo.
“You’re always going to go to the script, Dallas,” I said. “I’m not in your script. I’m in the fine print.”