Page 60 of Married to Number 22
Because it’s like the last eighteen hours of perfection have existed on a distant planet, just the two of us?—
Smitty’s interruptions.
Okay, notjustthe two of us.
But luckily, the room service intrusion he orchestrated was much better than him actually showing up with a bottle of champagne.
And it was nice, I guess, sending fuel over so I could continue pleasuring my woman until she completely passed out.
But it was still annoying.
Because it’s Smitty.
And now I’m going to have to thank him for the gesture.
Ugh.
But as I’m eating my hot dog and drinking my Coke, I’m already back to smiling, to feeling like I’m a hundred feet tall.
Because I left Luns passed out in bed—as in,passed out.
So much so that I paid for the room for an extra day and she promised to rest until she my game tonight. She’ll watch me play and then catch a ride to the airport afterward.
I wish I could go back with her, but we have two more stops on this road trip—Utah and Denver.
Then the team will be home for a bit and all will be good.
Or as good as it can be with me returning with a wife my family doesn’t know about and Smitty acting like a dog to a bone wanting to help plan us a party to celebrate.
But that’s a problem for another day.
I’ll break it to my parents—suggest the party…and fucking Smitty as necessary.
Right now, I need to suck back my soda, start in on my dog, and hope that the combination will give my tired ass body enough energy to play well.
Can’t stink it up in front of my wife.
Grinning, I polish off the Coke, toss the empty can in the recycle bin, then feeling the caffeine beginning to hit my blood stream, I reach for another.
Not exactly on the nutrition guidelines, but desperate needs, desperate measures and all that.
Suitably full of sugar after the second can, I turn for the locker room.
“I wouldn’t go in there,” I hear.
Freezing, I glance over my shoulder, not having noticed my teammate—what with my marital bliss and all that. Gray’s wearing one of his fancy, expensive suits and is leaning, arms and ankles crossed, back against the opposite wall from me. “Yeah?” I ask tentatively. “Why not?”
Gray studies me for a long moment.
Then sighs and shakes his head.
Yeah, I don’t like that. Not at all.
“Smitty’s got a bug in his ass,” Gray says. “He’s put streamers and shit up in all the lockers and your stall is currently full of confetti.”
My fingers squeeze on my hot dog, ketchup coating my fingers.
The fucker.
