by Alexa Martin
The crowd stays on their feet as they get their first peek at Gavin Pope leading their Mustang offense. Even though Chris is on the field too, I can’t look anywhere but the superfine, super tall quarterback yelling out instructions to his offense.
“Let’s get this fuckin’ shit done, Pope! Show them why the fuck you play this fuckin’ game!” yells a man in the row in front of us, drawing the angry eyes of parents with their young children. Even the woman next to him, who is crazy beautiful, turns to glare.
But whether the language is offensive or not, or if Gavin can even hear him, when Gavin calls for the ball to be snapped, he gets the fuckin’ shit done. One of the linemen miss their block, allowing a huge Raiders player to charge straight at Gavin. But Gavin isn’t fazed. He spins left with such grace, it’s almost as if I’m watching a ballet instead of this brutal and barbaric sport. His long legs guide him with ease to the side of the field where TK is running, and he launches the ball.
I forget how to breathe. The entire crowd goes silent as we watch the football floating into the air, soaring above the defensive line. TK jockeys with the Raiders defender, knocking and dodging, racing to get to the ball when it starts to come down. TK insults gravity and jumps high above the defender, snatching the ball out of the air and securing it tightly against his chest. His pads protect him as he falls back to the field. The crowd goes insane. The ground beneath me starts to shake as everyone loses their minds, jumping up and down, punching the air and hugging their neighbors. I high-five the foulmouthed man in front of me while I’m still screaming, and I laugh when he yells, “Fuck yeah! That’s my fuckin’ boy!”
One play and Gavin Pope has shown all of Denver he’s the player they’ve been waiting for.
Four
The Mustangs annihilated the Raiders, beating them by more than thirty points. I almost felt bad for them, but then I remembered soldier Marlee shows no mercy. #ThugLife
After games, family and friends of players funnel downstairs and wait for their player to come out of the locker room. After a game like today, the energy buzzes throughout the room. Conversations and laughter fill every nook and cranny . . . except the ones where bitter wives, mad their husbands lost their starting positions, hide.
Old friends discuss plans to celebrate, mothers gush over their son’s tackle, kids run around pretending to be big and tough like their daddies. And as the guys come out of the locker room one by one ready to go home and celebrate with their loved ones, the noise dies down, but the energy lingers.
Dre changes faster than Superman and is always one of the first players out of the locker room, which is a bummer for me, because Chris is always last. And because we’re buried under 70,000 seats, cell phone coverage is nonexistent. There’s one spot in the far corner where, if you balance just right, you can maybe get a bar or two. But otherwise, you’re screwed. Do you know how hard it is to avoid conversations when you can’t pretend to be checking an important email? Every week, Naomi and Dre offer to wait with me until Chris comes out, but I’ve never taken them up on the offer. I’m pretty sure some of these women can smell fear—the last thing I need to do is show it to them by calling in the cavalry.
Everyone has left, except for the woman who was sitting in front of us and next to my filthy-mouthed high-five partner. He was down here earlier, but after a few minutes of telling anyone who would listen about the “shitty fuckin’ cell coverage,” he took off. I’m assuming they’re with one of the rookies because I’ve met a lot of established players over the years, and they don’t usually keep people around who attempt at stealing their shine. And whoever these two are? They’re the definition of scene stealers. The woman might be quiet, but she’s stunning—all pale skin, thick black hair, and legs for days. With a low cut blouse and killer pointy-toe stilettos, she looks like a naughty Snow White. #WhistleWhileYouTwerk
“Dammit,” Sexy Snow mutters. She’s looking at her phone, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out she lost her call.
“You have to wedge yourself all the way into the corner, and if you do calf raises while you’re on the phone, it helps a lot.” I must’ve been in super stealth mode because what was meant to be a gesture of goodwill causes her to jump back, hit her head, and drop her phone. Oops.
“What?” She doesn’t even look at me when she speaks, like I’m not worthy of her attention.
“You’re trying to get service, right?” I’ve been dealing with rude bitches for so many years, her attitude doesn’t faze me.
“Oh. Yeah.” She almost looks more annoyed now, knowing I’m trying to help her, than she did after she dropped her phone.
“To get service down here, you have to get as close to the wall as you can. Bouncing up and down sometimes helps too.”
“How irritating. I’m not bouncing in Louboutins.”
Well, excuse me.
“If you go upstairs, service is better there.” And you’ll be out of my corner so I can use my phone.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll wait.” It doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s fine. But hey, if she likes it? I love it.
“I’m Marlee, by the way.” I extend my hand. If she’s new here, we’re going to have to get to know each other eventually—might as well get a jump start.
She eyes my hand as if I offered her an old, snotty tissue. She stares at it while, I’m assuming, contemplating if she wants to risk contaminating herself with the millions of germs she seems to think I’m harboring.
That’s it. No more Sexy Snow. From now on she’s Snobby the Snow Bitch.
I’m about to take my hand away and walk my sparkly ass back to the table when she places her limp hand on mine. “Madison.”
I shake her hand, and she lets it flop like a dead fish when I do.
Snobby is a special snowflake.
“Yo, Marlee. Let’s hit it,” Chris calls from behind me right as I pull my hand away. I’ve never been so happy to see him in my entire life.
“Nice to meet you.” I wonder if she’s always this miserable or if I’m lucky.
“Mmmh.” Her lips pull up into what I think is her trying to smile but really looks like she smells something putrid. I hope it wasn’t my hand.
I make no effort in hiding that I want to get away from her and sprint across the room to Chris. When I get to him, his brows are knit together in confusion. I shake my head with as much discretion as possible and pray he’ll catch the hint. Thankfully he does and turns on his heel, walking down the long hallway to the elevator.
“Good game, you looked great out there.”
“It was okay.” He’s walking ahead of me, and my short legs in too-high heels are struggling to keep up with his long strides. I knew he was going to be like this. The team won, but he didn’t score, and like Lenny told me earlier, my fella is worried about attention. And when he doesn’t get it, he gets like this, Pouty McPouterson.
He pushes the elevator button and says no more. I hate the silence. I need there to be noise. Maybe I could sing?
As soon as the thought crosses my mind, the quick clicks of high heels hitting the tile echo through the cold hallway. The quiet hum of conversation grows louder as the footsteps get closer. I sneak a quick glance over my shoulder and when I do, I wonder what in the hell I did in a past life to deserve this. Because coming my way, with her hair floating behind her like she’s freaking Beyoncé or something, is Madison the Snow Bitch. And next to her? Gavin. Fuck my life so hard.
I want to start pushing the elevator arrow button over and over again, but before I get the chance, Gavin and Madison stop next to me. I have to do a double take because long gone is the Snow Bitch and in her place is a smiling, giggling supermodel. But I’d probably be smiling and giggling too if Gavin Pope was standing next to me, looking at me like I was the reason the sun rose and set.
Bitch.
I hate her.
The elevator doors open. Because why wouldn’t I get trapped in a small space with them?
“Hey, Marlee. Long time no see! You didn’t tell me you were married to Chris,” Madison says once the doors close behind her.
I look over my shoulder to see if someone else named Marlee got on the elevator without me seeing, because I don’t know what the hell just happened. And Chris? Did I miss something? She won’t shake my hand, but she’s on a first-name basis with my boyfriend? Da fuq?
“Uh . . . yeah. He’s my boyfriend, the bedazzled jersey usually gives it away.”
If I wasn’t so used to seeing it on Courtney, I would’ve missed the way Madison’s eyes narrowed just so and her smile sat frozen. But all’s forgotten the second I hear the deep laughter I’ve been trying to remember for the last four years.
I did not do it justice.
“Marlee, nice to meet you.” Gavin extends a hand toward me. “Chris is always talking about you. And TK won’t shut up about your lasagna, I can’t wait to try it.”
I take his hand and have to fight to keep my eyes from closing and answering him with a moan instead of words. Even with the extra effort, my voice still comes out strained. “TK will eat anything.”
Because after all of these years, he’s here. In front of me. Touching me. But he’s not there. He isn’t looking at me the way he does when I dream of his blue eyes watching me. He isn’t touching me like he did in his bed before. He’s treating me like the stranger I am to him—my only connection to him is being his teammate’s girlfriend. I don’t know what I wanted to happen. I guess I hoped that even if I was one of many, at least I would’ve been memorable.
As if hearing my thoughts, Madison wraps her arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder. “Do you still want to go to dinner, Gavs? Or are you too tired?”
Gavs? Gross. Why doesn’t she pee on him for fuck’s sake?
Before he can answer, the elevator doors slide open and yelling fans waiting for autographs fill the small space.
It’s like I’ve stepped into my nightmares. I can’t hear my thoughts, just the screeching voices calling for both Chris and Gavin. But truth be told, their names being shouted is the only thing going through my brain lately anyways.
I was wrong, God. I’ll take silence over this any day.
Five
“If this stupid son of a bitch doesn’t give you a ring soon, I will,” TK says from across the table.
He’s my favorite. This is his second year in the league, and he’s like the little brother I never had. Chris took him under his wing last year, and he’s spent every holiday with us. I know for a fact he enjoys my cooking more than Chris, and when he started his nonprofit organization, he hired me to set up his website. When Chris had his website done, he went to a big company that had no interest in him or his cause. He paid triple what I charge and it looks like trash. I’m not bitter either, just smug.
I told TK he didn’t have to pay me so long as he recommended me to his friends. The next week I had five new clients and two thousand dollars from “Anonymous” in my PayPal account. He’ll always have a special place in my heart.
But by the looks of this dinner, he might not have one with Chris.
I wasn’t planning on eating with them. For one, carbs are my frenemy. Second, this is supposed to be a players’ bonding dinner and sitting at a table with six football players, listening to them discuss strategy and film, isn’t my idea of a good time. Especially when, out of the six, two are feuding quarterbacks, four are competing wide receivers, two have been in my panties, and only one remembers it. Math has never been my strong point and even I can figure out this word problem.
But hey, how could that possibly go wrong?
“Shut up, asshole. You can’t come into my house and talk to my girl like that.”
Oooh. TK brought out Possessive Chris and it’s rare that he makes an appearance. I’m thinking he’s regretting inviting all the receivers because this night has backfired on him. He might not agree, but it’s pretty comical when you really think about it. Chris was so sure he was going to win Gavin over with his charm and charisma, he didn’t realize every other person at the table set out to do the same thing.
Well, except me and Marcus—the rookie wide receiver Chris has taken under his wing this season. We sit together discussing what he should buy his girlfriend for her birthday. She’s still finishing her degree back in California. I only met her once, but I’d still wager my gift ideas of an anytime ticket to Denver or a spa day would be better received than his idea of a jersey signed by the Mustangs team.
“All right, guys, while this has been fun, I have a deadline and dishes to do.” I clap my hands. I’m so full from dinner, I’m convinced the carbs have already found a permanent home on my ass as I struggle to stand up.
“And we have poker to play and cigars to smoke.” Chris rises from the table at the same time I do, but doesn’t offer to help clear it like I’d hoped. It’s not like I pushed all my work back until later so I could make him enough lasagna to feed an army or anything. Why would he be considerate enough to help clean?
All of the guys follow him after shouting their thanks and farewells my way.
Everyone except Gavin, that is.
“You comin’?” Chris asks.
“You guys go ahead.” Gavin holds up his phone. “My agent called while we were eating. I’m going to call him back, and then I’ll meet you down there.”
“Not a problem, bro.” Chris sits back down at the table instead of helping me clear the dishes. “We can wait.”
“Please, don’t wait for me,” Gavin says. “I’ll have Marlee show me where you are when I come back in.”
Say what now?
Did I miss the portion of the evening where I became the hired help?
“Yeah, why do we have to change everything to cater to him?” Kevin interrupts my thoughts with his whining. No wonder he’s married to Courtney. Haters, party of two.
“Shut the fuck up, Kevin.” If looks could kill, Kevin would be dead right now. Chris must not have told him this dinner wasn’t for Kevin to knock Gavin, it was to get Chris his number one receiver spot back. “If you’re sure then. We’ll be in the basement. Marlee will show you.”
Wait.
“What?” I ask. But I’m too late because Chris is gone and the front door is closing behind Gavin.
I used our good china tonight so it takes me longer to clear the table. Each step is a little more cautious than normal, and the rattling of dishes I usually ignore sounds like alarms wailing in my head. I know I made lasagna for men who wouldn’t have blinked if I’d served them on paper plates, but if my nonna taught me anything, it’s that presentation matters. Also, I should never leave the house without a little lipstick, but that doesn’t apply here.
One by one, I hand wash each dish, dry it off, and stack it on the counter beside me. Dishes might not be my favorite chore, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to finding a certain peace to it. The constant sound of the water running and the repetitive motions are easy to get lost in. I guess that’s the reason I didn’t hear Gavin walk back in the house until it was too late.
“Want some help?” His deep voice causes me to jump so high I almost fall and break the dish I’m holding. Lucky for me, Gavin’s as good at catching as he is at throwing. He hasn’t given any signs he recognizes me, but it’s clear my body recognizes him. The touch is innocent, but the feel of his strong hands on my waist causes a shiver to shoot up my spine.
“No.” I steady myself on my feet, pull out of his grip, and grab another dish. “Thank you, but I can handle it. Do you want me to show you where the guys are?”
“No. Thank you, but I can handle it.” He mimics my words and actions and grabs a dirty plate off the counter, walks around me to the sink, and sets about washing it. “Let’s go, Marlee. I’ll w
ash and you dry. It’ll be way faster than you doing it alone.”
I take the plate out of his hands and dry it with the towel. “You’re our guest. Chris would flip if he thought I had you stuck up here doing dishes.”
The words come out of my mouth sounding strong and confident, but inside I’m lacking every last morsel of conviction. I don’t want him in the kitchen with me, but at the same time, I think I might pull a play out of the Mustangs’ playbook and tackle him if he tries to leave . . . and not just because I’m getting tired of the dishes.
“After a dinner like that, I don’t mind at all. TK wasn’t lying, your lasagna was amazing.”
“Thanks, it’s my nonna’s recipe. She used to make it for my birthday every year growing up. But now that she’s getting older, I make it for her.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. He makes me nervous and comfortable at the same time.
“You’ll have to let me know when her birthday is so I can get in on the next round of pasta.”
The idea of Gavin showing up to my family home sets the butterflies in my stomach free. I have to remind myself he doesn’t remember me, he’s just being friendly to a teammate’s girlfriend. End of story.
“Don’t you wish. Chris isn’t even promised a seat. Quarterback or not, my family doesn’t share well when it comes to pasta.”
“Well, I’m awesome, and Chris is questionable. Your family would love me.”
“Maybe they could find a seat for you, but I’m not sure the room is big enough for your ego to tag along.” I ignore the jab at Chris, handing Gavin the final plate.
“Damn. You got jokes?” He acts insulted, but there’s a smile on his face when he says it. I shrug it off and give him a hand towel. I tend to forget not everybody knows my sense of humor. Something I should try harder to remember when it concerns my boyfriend’s coworkers.
