by Alexa Martin
“Is this suite yours?” I don’t know how any of this works and I find the logistics super interesting.
I rode with Vonnie because . . . well . . . because she offered and she gets free parking. We came in through a side entrance reserved for family and friends of Mustangs players and coaches only. Then, inside, we didn’t go into the main corridor at all. I followed the boys in their “That’s my dad!” jerseys as they skipped down the carpeted hallway lined with pictures of the Mustangs dating back to the midsixties until we reached an elevator. At the elevator, we were met by attendants on both the outside and inside, like our delicate fingers couldn’t handle the burden of pushing a button.
When we got off on our level, we followed the boys again as they raced and tackled each other in the hallway. “This is why we get here early,” Vonnie said as her boys dog piled on top of Jax.
But the box seats twenty people and there are only five of us.
“We share with the Kranzes. We could probably fit another group in here, but we like the extra space.”
I try to put a face to the name, but I cannot picture anyone with the name Kranz for the life of me. “Kranz? I don’t think I’ve met her.”
“You haven’t,” Vonnie says very matter-of-factly. “She’s part of the Lady Mustangs because her husband is a Mustang, but she’s never been to a meeting and only volunteers if I beg her.”
“I didn’t know that was an option.”
“It’s not like we go to everyone’s houses and hold them at gunpoint.” She laughs. “It’s not a requirement to participate, and some of us just like it more than others. Lucy is more of a . . . well, you’ll see. She hates attention, so the idea of doing a fashion show or auction causes her to go faint.”
“Mom!” Jett bursts through the door and grabs Vonnie’s hand, pulling her to the outside seats. “They’re starting to come out!”
“I swear.” Vonnie looks over her shoulder to me, gracefully gliding across the tiles like she’s not being dragged by a mini human while wearing five-inch heels. “Every game, it’s like they’ve never seen this before.” She doesn’t sound annoyed. She sounds grateful. Grateful that her kids get this experience and that her husband is still out there living his dream.
I thought I understood loud considering I live ninety percent of my life around drunk women. I now know that HERS doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of loud. The ground beneath my feet rattles as the screams begin to crescendo. Cheerleaders and horses file out of the tunnel before fireworks shoot out from the top of the stadium.
I wonder how much a pyrotechnics guy would charge to get some fire at HERS.
Eh. Never mind.
I’ll just buy some sparklers.
A deep voice rumbles from the speakers. “Mustangs fans, get on your feet and make some noise for YOUR DENVER MUSTANGS!”
I get that it’s his job, but considering everyone is already on their feet and I could barely hear him over the noise, his instructions felt a bit redundant and unnecessary.
“Look for Daddy,” Vonnie tells Jagger, Jett, and Jax as the players filter out of the tunnel, jumping around and pointing to the fans engulfing them.
While they do that, I look for Maxwell.
I thought it would be easier.
Whenever the game is on at the bar, my friends can find their men like they are holding neon signs above their heads. I know Maxwell is number 29, but everyone matches and my eyes aren’t what they used to be.
“Did you tell Maxwell you were sitting with us?” Vonnie asks curiously.
“No, I didn’t have time to talk to him, why?”
She points to a Mustangs player standing by the bench, looking into the crowd. “Because he’s staring at his empty seats like someone kicked his puppy.”
“Oh shit.” I tug my bottom lip between my teeth. “I didn’t even think about that.”
“Damn, girl. Are you trying to chew a hole through your lip?” She turns away from me and starts waving her arms above her head, matching the frantic motions of her kids.
I follow her line of sight until I see Justin turning our way. I’m not really sure why they’re waving. If Maxwell can find his two seats in a crowd of what? Seventy thousand? Then I’m pretty sure Justin can locate his box without their help. Holding his helmet with one hand, he waves up to his family with the other.
“No!” Vonnie yells like there’s a chance in hell that he could even remotely hear her. “Tell Maxwell . . .” She points wildly at Maxwell. “That Brynn . . .” She grabs my hand and starts waving it with her. “Is sitting with us!”
Holy shit.
And I thought the cheers were loud. My ears are going to be ringing for a month.
“Vonnie.” I plug and unplug my ears. “He can’t hear you and now I can’t hear anything.”
“Look.” She points to the field.
I watch in shock as Justin jogs over to the sideline, taps Maxwell on the shoulder, and then points to us.
My jaw falls to the floor and I wave like an idiot to Maxwell, who, now that I know it’s him, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to look away from. “Do you guys have ESP or something? That was impressive.”
“Once you’ve been with someone as long as we’ve been together, it’s more of a surprise not knowing what the other person is thinking.” She sits down, unfolding the cushy seat and putting her glass on the built-in table in front of us. “It’s a blessing and a curse. Sometimes I want no part in the craziness going on in that man’s head.”
“We’re here!” a frazzled woman with a topknot bun and a baby strapped onto her chest shouts. “And we didn’t miss kickoff! Suck it, Ethan!”
I follow her pointing finger to a huge . . . and I mean huge . . . man in a 96 jersey with shaggy red hair falling around his face aiming his helmet toward our seats, his broad smile apparent even from here.
“Oh, shoot.” She brushes a loose piece of hair out of her eye before extending a hand to me. “Sorry about that. I’m Lucy, you must be Brynn.”
“I am, nice to meet you.” I shake her hand, slightly taken aback.
I know that Vonnie told me she wasn’t big on attention and wasn’t a card-carrying member of the Lady Mustangs, but I still assumed she’d be decked out with hair, makeup, heels, and crystals.
Instead, Lucy is wearing a pair of brown riding boots that have the scuffs of being well-loved, black leggings, and a plaid tunic I’d kill for. There is not one speck of makeup on her gorgeous, caramel complexion, and her tight curls are trying their hardest to escape from the elastic band holding them on top of her head.
“What was with the entrance?” Vonnie asks, not bothering to stand up.
“Ethan bet me five nights of midnight feedings that I wouldn’t make it to the game before kickoff.” She wiggles her hips, holding the tiny little head against her chest. “Never underestimate the determination of a sleep-deprived mother.”
“Sounds like a good deal to me,” I say.
One of the many reasons I don’t think I’m mom material is my dire need of sleep. When I don’t have it, I fear that I will end up being an episode of Dateline called “Why She Snapped.” It will show a close-up of me in a padded room, rocking back and forth chanting, “Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.”
“Eh. Olly doesn’t really take a bottle, so I don’t think it’s going to actually happen, but it doesn’t mean I can’t hope.” Lucy shrugs the enormous diaper bag off of her shoulder and tosses it carelessly onto the seat next to her. “Ruth and Clara, no candy before you eat some real food,” she yells back without looking.
I turn around just in time to see two little redheaded girls’ shoulders slump as they put the gummy bears back in the bowl.
I’m really starting to believe that moms do actually have another set of eyes in the back of their heads. “How do you guys do that?” I ask like a little kid at a
magic show.
“Do what?” Vonnie asks.
“Know what your kids are doing without looking,” I clarify.
Lucy smiles and I swear her eyes sparkle. “Kids are creatures of habit. Everywhere we go, every single time, they do the same thing and I repeat myself a million times. I’m always talking, but I only say the same ten phrases.”
“Mommy, can you help me and Clara?” the taller of the redheaded girls asks from the doorway. She’s painfully adorable with loose, messy curls framing her round face. She has a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and her green eyes pop against her tan skin. She’s in a polka-dot dress paired with striped tights and sparkling ruby-red Mary Janes. I might not want kids, but my ovaries ache looking at her.
“Of course, darling,” Lucy says, rising from her seat. “Do you want anything while I’m in there?” she asks me and Vonnie.
“No, thank you,” I say.
Vonnie points to the half-full glass in front of her. “I have everything I need right here.”
I turn my attention back to the field as the crowd who had settled down for a few moments rumbles back to life. The Mustangs players are taking their places on the field. The crowd—impressively so—slow claps in rhythm, speeding up with each step the kicker takes, bursting into maniacal applause as the ball takes flight and sails past the end zone.
“You ready for this?” Vonnie asks.
This question catches me off guard and I tear my eyes away from Maxwell’s ass as he jogs to the far side of the field to stare at her. “It’s a football game that I’m not playing in, how ready do I need to be?”
She purses her lips and aims a wicked side-eye my way. “Just you wait,” she mutters forebodingly. “Charli, Poppy, even Aviana, their guys play offense—there’s a whole other level of stress for defense.”
I kind of feel like an idiot, but I have no idea what she’s talking about. “I’m not following.”
“Don’t worry.” She lifts her glass to her lips. “You will soon.”
Fourteen
“Dear God.” I look at my phone, which has zero reception. “How long can it possibly take for them to get dressed? I’m about to hop on a train and head to HERS. I feel like I need a pitcher of tequila to calm my nerves.”
I’m leaning against a white cinder-block wall, with two large orange-and-blue-painted stripes along them, as if that somehow makes them look less like a prison wall—not that I’ve ever actually been inside a prison, but I have watched movies with them. I’m shoulder to shoulder with Vonnie and Charli, and by the way they’re staring at me with amused eyes, they can feel the anxiety coursing through my system.
My rubber-soled tennis shoe hasn’t stopped bouncing since the first pass attempt to Maxwell’s side of the field. And even though the Mustangs won 21–17, the knots in my stomach haven’t dissipated.
It took me approximately a minute and thirty-two seconds to realize what Vonnie was talking about. Whenever the girls watched the game at HERS, I only really noticed the cheering and happy-go-lucky nature that came with a great catch or a decent run.
I never really paid attention to the other side.
And the other side sucked.
Because you can be the best defensive back in the league, which—according to me—Maxwell is, but you cannot defend a perfectly thrown ball. It didn’t matter how much film Maxwell had poured himself into this past week, he couldn’t intercept every ball thrown his direction. And even though I knew this logically, it didn’t prevent my stomach from dropping or my nails from cutting into my palms every time the New England quarterback looked Maxwell’s way.
“You seem awfully worked up for someone who is ‘just a friend,’” Charli says.
Vonnie snorts. “This is nothing. You should’ve seen her during the game. Best case, she was going to have a bald spot. Worst case, I was going to have to call nine-one-one while Lucy did CPR.”
“I’m right here!” Heat rushes my cheeks when all eyes turn to me.
“Hmmm . . .” Charli taps her chin. “A little testy too.”
“I’d say so,” Vonnie agrees, her teeth bright against her red lips.
“Really, you two.” I roll my eyes, but my heart’s not in it. “Give me a break. That was a nerve-racking game and it was my first time actually attending a game.”
“Oh my god! This was my first game, too!” pipes up a very peppy blonde standing on the other side of Vonnie.
She’s a little taller than me, but without the heels she’s wearing, I bet we’d be the same height. Her long, blond hair made blonder with highlights has waves that rival a mermaid’s. She’s tan without being orange, and her makeup is executed so well, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had it professionally done.
Actually, she reminds me of myself . . . if I actually tried. And had breasts.
“Cool,” I say, my nerves making it impossible to even attempt to mimic her excitement.
“I’m Eloise Withington.” She stretches her hand across Vonnie without acknowledging her whatsoever.
“Um.” I put my hand in hers and she shakes it with the strength of a three-hundred-pound man. “Brynn Sterling,” I say hesitantly, trying not to cringe.
“Brynn Sterling? The owner of HERS?” she asks.
My eyes flicker between Eloise and Vonnie. Then, when I see the expression on Vonnie’s face, I decide to focus all my attention on Eloise.
“One and the same.” I give her a tight smile that doesn’t show my teeth.
“How fun is this?” She giggles, her laugh reminiscent of Minnie Mouse. “I work for Pearson, Withington, and Thomas.” She looks to the ceiling and juts out a hip. “I’m a lawyer.”
Is that supposed to mean something to me?
“That’s . . . nice?”
She opens her mouth to speak, but Vonnie beats her to it.
“Wow. You work for your dad?” Vonnie gives her an appraising once-over. “That must’ve been a tough interview.”
The smile never falls off Eloise’s face, but her eyes do narrow a fraction.
“My father’s firm is one of the top law firms in the nation. I wouldn’t work there if I weren’t qualified.” She looks away from Vonnie as if she isn’t deserving of any more of her attention.
She must not know Vonnie.
“Yes”—Vonnie straightens her back—“I know all about PWT. I turned them down to work for Clark Simpson, of Simpson and Associates, you know, the top firm in the nation.”
I ignore the way Charli’s hand clasps my elbow as she doesn’t even try to laugh quietly.
Eloise doesn’t respond, but then again, I’m not sure there is a response to getting your ass handed to you in a cold hallway full of nosy Nellies who will—without a doubt—be relaying this story to their significant others before they even make it to the parking lot.
“Our firm is one of the sponsors for the auction tomorrow night, so I’ll see you there,” Eloise says to me.
But, because Vonnie holds a meaner grudge than I do and instead of the silent treatment, Vonnie makes it her mission in life to let you know where you stand with her, Vonnie responds. “I know, girl!” Vonnie aims a bright, fake smile at Eloise, and rests her hand on her shoulder like they are old friends. “You know Tom . . . wait, sorry, do you call him Mr. Pearson? Well, Tom is still trying to get me to come work there, so I told him I’d consider it if he’d sponsor the event.”
A warm, calloused hand grabs ahold of mine, tearing my attention away from the entertainment that is Vonnie Lamar.
“Hey.” Maxwell’s quiet voice and timid smile silence the world around me. “Can I take you home or did you drive?”
“I rode with Vonnie, so that’d be great.”
“What if I wanted some more Brynn time, Max?” Vonnie asks, no longer worried about Eloise Withington in the least. “You might be sexy as hell, but that doesn
’t mean you can just walk around stealing my friend.”
Under the harsh florescent lights, I swear I see Maxwell’s cheeks turn red. “She’s my friend too.”
“Friend,” Charli repeats. “The only people you two are tricking with this friends nonsense is you two.”
“You guys are ridiculous.” I look to Eloise, who is damn near openmouthed gawking at Maxwell. “Nice to meet you, Eloise. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Close your mouth, girl.” Vonnie nudges Eloise with her shoulder. “I know Max is standing here looking like a chocolate-covered snack, but you’re gonna catch flies. Pull it together.”
Vonnie is not wrong.
Maxwell is undeniably attractive on any given day. But right now? Wearing a suit?
Holy shit.
I know he has a tailor, that much is evident from his slim-cut navy pants. But it’s more than just the fit. It’s his style that he usually hides behind jeans, T-shirts, and Mustangs gear. His pants are cropped so his oxblood and navy patterned socks are visible in the small gap between the hem and his chestnut wing-tip oxfords. He’s wearing a plain white button-up shirt paired with a gray wool tie and has on—again with the perfect tailoring—an oxblood peacoat.
He looks amazing.
Eloise shakes her head, glaring at an unfazed Vonnie, before she aims a weak wave my direction. “Nice to meet you too.”
“Bye, ladies,” Maxwell says before walking away at a pace that seems a few steps faster than his normal speed. Thankfully, I’m wearing sneakers and I can match his pace with only a small amount of struggle.
As soon as Maxwell pushes the button, the elevator doors slide open—something that always makes me feel like the heavens are smiling down on me. The elevator attendant must have packed up and headed home, because we are forced to find the correct level and fill the silence all on our own.
Luckily for us, rambling is kind of my thing.
