Page 9 of A Game Plan for Love

“How are you? Any more dates you need rescuing from?” he teases, then tugs at his wagon. “I have your getaway wheels right here.”

“I’ve sworn off dating.”

“Oh?”

I nod erratically. “Yup. Clearly I’m doing something wrong.”

“Or they suck,” he deadpans, which pulls a small laugh from my chest. That could be it. “You shouldn’t give up. Never know when the right person will walk into your life.”

Butterflies flutter around my lower stomach, so I scramble for a safe topic.

“How was your break?”

“Uneventful…Besides our little picnic. That wasveryfun. How was yours?”

“Well, I still worked.” I make a face, and he laughs. It warms my chest like soup on a cold evening. “But I found a small record shop and I bought an old ABBA album on vinyl.”

I don’t share that I cried for forty-five minutes after “Slipping Through My Fingers” played because I thought of Nora growing up, or that I also found an old Justin Bieber CD that I screamed to this morning on my way to the hotel.

“You like vinyl records?”

“Love them.” I think of the collection in our living room, the one I’ve spent years building. Some are old, others are new, but each is well-loved. “I like to put a new one on every morning while I get ready.”

He smiles softly, but our conversation is cut off by his friends barrelling toward us with varying levels of excitement on their faces.

“Declan, give us our boxes!” Henry Parker screams, launching for the red canvas wagon. The wide receiver wastes no time digging through the boxes, but huffs at the nondescript cardboard. “Which one is mine?”

It’s more of a demand than a question.

Jack Walters, an offensive lineman, and Deon Adams, the starting quarterback, stand on either side of Henry. All three wait impatiently. Deon waves quickly, a smile flashing across his face for me, before he returns to glaring at Declan.

“I am the decider of when you get your boxes, and I havedecidedI don’t like this attitude,” Declan says, staring them down. His hands land on his hips, and if he wore calf-high socks, he would have the exact energy of a middle-aged man in a hardware store surveying the lawn mowers.

I stifle a laugh with my fist when Henry’s eye twitches.

“You will give me my box,” Deon threatens, stepping forward and pressing a finger on Declan’s chest, “or you will never get to see Gordie again.”

“That’s not the threat you think it is,” Jack mumbles. “Can I please have my box, Declan?”

“Why,of course.”

Declan lifts one of the cardboard boxes from the trolley. I shouldn’t linger—I do have a job, after all—but I’m morbidly curious about the boxes and why Henry and Deon’s panties are in a twist over it.

He extends the box to Jack, who wears a goofy, excited smile as he rips open the cardboard and pulls out a massive bag of beef jerky.

“I love that girl,” he whispers to himself, but my focus is locked on Declan, whose face falls. Only for a millisecond, but it happens.

Jack sits at the closest table and unpacks the box, organizing his snacks into piles. It reminds me of Nora on Halloween, categorizing her candy into piles. Deon gasps when Jack pulls out a large bag of pretzels, then spins to Declan.

“Please, please,please.”

Deon receives a box after his begging and wastes no time ripping it to shreds. He whoops when he has an even larger bag of pretzels. Henry is the last to cave on the pleading, but he wears a pleased smile, face covered in cookie crumbs, as he works through his box.

My staring has become weird, so I return to the buffet of food, and instead, stare from a respectable distance. They begin trading items, fruit snacks for Gatorades, and protein bars for Cheez-its. There is a heated debate between Deon and Jack about a third bag of pretzels, but they’re excited and having fun.

Well, everyone except for Declan, who sits at the table, but couldn’t be farther away from the joy. It’s obvious from here—his lowered head and forced smiles when one of them laughs.

He’s putting on a face. The same mask I’ve seen slide on when he talks to a fan or a reporter.

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