Page 58 of Relationship Goals

“Am I his girlfriend?” I mutter, glancing down at myself like the answer is written somewhere on the jersey he gave me.

“Maybe.” She’s looking up at me now, eyes crinkled in both amusement and something else I can’t quite place. “If he’s given you his jersey…I don’t know. It’s like a thing.”

“A thing?”

“A thing,” she agrees, as if that answers everything.

“A good thing?” I press.

“Yeah…if you want to be his girlfriend. It’s kind of soon, if you ask me. But you seem into it, and he seems into it, so why not? It’s not like you’re getting married next week.”

I’m silent, trying to process everything she’s just said, when I realize she’s staring at me.

“You’re not getting married next week, are you?”

“What?! No.” I laugh nervously.

“Good. Remember that football player that got married in Vegas to his team’s cheerleader? That was something. Great for publicity, though.”

“Oh. Yeah, I do remember hearing that.”

“There are a lot more press here than usual,” she continues, clearly in work mode. It makes me a little sad for her, that she’s unable to relax even here, in her own box. The Michelle that had lunch with me yesterday is not quite the same woman sitting here scanning through the menu filled with cheese fries and tater tots and overlarge hot dogs.

“Hot dogs?” she asks just as I think it.

I have a craving for a different type of sausage, but I make myself nod at her before that thought can make it out of my mouth. Michelle might be friendly and I like her, but I don’t think she wants to hear aboutthat.

Look at me. I do have boundaries. Who knew?

“Sure,” I say easily. “Cheese fries?”

“And beer?” she responds.

“Yes, definitely beer.”

“Awesome.”

She puts in the order, and I turn my attention back to the field. My Pilates instructor, Lauren, is going to kick my ass tomorrow, and beer won’t help, but I’ll deal with that when I sweat it out with her.

As soon as I turn back to the glass, I see them.

Not the players on the field, but the freaking paparazzi. They’rein the stands below us, their cameras not on the green stretch of turf but swiveled on me, the lenses glittering in the late-afternoon sunlight.

I swallow hard and put my glasses back on the bridge of my nose, my palms immediately going sweaty despite the chill of the AC.

“What’s wrong?” Michelle’s standing next to me, shaking out her long dark brown hair from her severe bun. It settles in waves around her shoulders.

“Just saw the paparazzi.”

“You don’t like them.”

“Nope.”

Her cheeks puff as she blows out a breath. “Fuck ’em.”

“I think that would be frowned upon.”

“Shut up,” she says with a laugh. “You know what I mean. Fuck ’em. Forget they’re here. So they snap a few pictures of you having fun in the box. It’s not like you’re going to strip naked and jump down into the stands to crowd surf, right?”

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