Page 87 of The Americana Playbook

I take another ball from him he’s about to drop. “Dead serious.”

“I won’t be complicit in something that will get me on a government watch list, Fitzy. I take enough hits for you during the season.”

“You’d be my best man,” I offer.

There’s a twitch in Josh’s eye. “Not good enough.”

“Best man isn’t good enough?” My eyes widen. “Do you want to be the groom?”

Josh raises his chin. “I want to officiate.”

“Officiate?”

“Yeah.” Josh folds his arms over his chest. “I’ll get one of those certificates online.”

“Josh, we’re going to Vegas,” I say. “That’s what Elvis is for.”

He narrows his eyes. “You don’t think I can take on the King, Fitzy?”

I really have no good response to that so I’m thankful when my phone dings from the bench by my water bottle.

PARKER

I’m the youngest person here by at least three decades.

After Parker learned I skipped out on a day of camp with the rookie receivers to join her at the charter school, she insisted I don’t miss anything else—mandatory or not. Unfortunately, she made me swear to that just before Madeline informed her she’d be traveling with Candice for a series of campaign events in Florida over a three-day period.

Given the location, this made Parker’s policy of driving herself a bit difficult. The best plan we could draw up involved only riding in a vehicle where Agent Samuels was present, and calling me—whether I could talk or not—every time she was on the go. I don’t even know the guy—neither does Parker—but the familiarity certainly puts her at ease, and thankfully, given that the schedule Madeline shared was down to theminute, we could plan accordingly.

PARKER

You’re lucky you missed out.

The only thing I’m missing is you.

You doing okay?

I push send quickly before I get another message notification from my housekeeper.

By the way, your stuff from Atlanta got here. I put it all in your closet.

I drag my eyes away from the screen when my name is called.

“Fitzy!” my offensive coordinator calls. “They’re looking for you upstairs.”

Josh lets out a low whistle. “Hope you crossed yourt’s and dotted youri’s on that contract, so at least you’ll get some payout,” he jokes.

I slam the ball against his chest. “Shut up. And remember what I said—keep quiet about Vegas. Don’t even tell Lo until she needs to pack.”

“I know I was kidding about being put on a watch list, but I’m more afraid of my wife.”

That’s about to make two of us.

“And,” Josh continues, “she usually needs three to four business days to pack for a weekend trip.”

Five minutes later, I’m making my way through the Rebels training facility and up the large, open staircase to the second floor, where the real work is done. After all, football is more than a game. It’s a business.

I wave to Heath’s secretary, who tells me to go right in, even though I hear him on the phone. When I walk into his office, he motions at a chair across from his desk, and I only have to wait a few seconds before he hangs up his call.

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