Page 2 of Fumbled Into Love

My nerves rocket as questions begin to fly. I won’t settle until I’m at home, finishing the puzzle I’ve spent the last week working on. All of the pieces are the same color, which offers an extra challenge. If Gordito would stop knocking them off the table, I would be finished by now.

Questions are tossed my way about Tampa’s defense and I answer with as few words as possible. Curt and direct.

The kernel of anxiety lodged in my chest loosens as the questions dwindle. I can taste the freedom. My bed calls to me and Gordito is probably starving which sends a tremor through my body. I make a mental note to order more toys when a reporter asks Henry about his wedding. He lights up, describing in vivid detail how radiant his wife, Sawyer, looked as she walked down the aisle.

He doesn’t mention he sobbed so aggressively that he needed thirty seconds to calm down before the officiant could beginthe ceremony. I refrain from snickering, but a glance at Declan’s smirk tells me he’s replaying the same moment.

As Henry finishes his story, my gaze connects with a reporter, whose smile tilts up into something serpentine. My stomach plummets as his hand rises and Vicky points him out.

“Deon, first of all, you played great last week against Detroit.” I nod, fear rushing through me. Not a good start. This is where he fattens me up on compliments before the slaughter. “Henry mentioned you were a groomsman in his wedding.”

“That’s right.”

“You were also at Jack Walters’ wedding this past weekend?”

“Uh…” He shouldn’t know about the wedding. Maren, Jack’s wife, threw the whole event together in a few weeks, asked him to marry her in the morning, and by sundown, they were married. My knee shakes and I pick at the wrapper on my drink. If he knows about Jack’s wedding, what else has he discovered?

Declan jumps in. “If you have questions about Jack’s personal life, take it up with him.”

“Understood.” The man nods, scanning his notepad, before continuing his inquisition. The tension in my shoulders is stronger than the tension during the Council of Elrond. “Just a few more questions for you, Deon.” No. No more questions. My gut is telling me this iswrong. “You got engaged a few years ago, right?”

The water bottle in my hand slips, banging against the table. Henry’s head jerks in my peripheral vision, but all I see is the smarmy smile on the reporter’s face. He knows the truth and he wants me to confirm it.

“Huh?” I choke out.

Instead of moving on, he elaborates.

“You’re engaged to Savannah Lear, correct? Are you two planning on finally tying the knot like your teammates?”

My heart stops beating.This can’t be happening. My brain scrambles for about four seconds before uncensored words tumble from my lips. “T-That didn’t work out but I am in a happy, committed relationship now. That was my past.”

“That’s all for questions,” Vicky booms from the back of the room, and I dart into the hallway, desperate for fresh air and a time machine so I can take my words back.

Relationship? Happy, committed relationship!?

You need a girlfriend for a relationship. I haven’t had one in five years. Longer, if you count the time I had a fiancée instead of a girlfriend.

I bolt into the offensive locker room with Henry and Declan hot on my heels, both screaming my name as I slide to a stop in front of my locker.

In a few words, I confirmed I was engaged to Savannah and now I’m dating someone new.

How did he learn Savannah’s name?

Fuck, this is bad.

My phone dings in my bag, undoubtedly with notifications about my dating life and speculations about who I’m dating.

The problem with avoiding the media spotlight like it’s a plague—because it is—is the mystery around my life draws people in like a moth to a flame. They demand more because I offer them so little. They create conspiracies and obsess over the inner workings of your life and relationships until it becomes theirs and it’s no longer yours.

I don’t date. I haven’t dated since I ended my engagement and left for Seattle, and I have no intentions to date, ever again.

You can’t have your heart shredded to pieces if you don’t give it away.

I shove my things in my bag to prepare for my breakaway. I need to get out of here and figure out how to fix the shitstorm I created.

I make the horrible mistake of looking at my phone. Holy shit, things move quickly. The screen is full of messages from my mother, my sister, and the scariest of all: Maren.

Maren: Pretzel privileges are revoked until you explain why I got an alert that you were engaged and are now in a DIFFERENT relationship.

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