Page 109 of Necessary Roughness
Everything on the suite level was nicer than down below, from the carpet covering the floor to the football-themed wallpaper covering the walls. I found the door to my suite, took a deep breath, and then pushed inside.
Except the handle didn’t turn, so I ran right into the door. It was locked.
Grateful that nobody had seen me, I tried the handle again. Still locked. Finally, I noticed a keypad with a wireless reader. Once I scanned my ticket, the door clicked open, and I hurried inside.
A woman with a glass of wine in her hand was reaching for the door at that exact moment, and wealmostbumped into each other. “Did you figure out the door, dear?” the woman asked.
Chuckling, I said, “Eventually. I’ve never been up here.” Was this Knox’s mother? I stuck out my hand. “Hi! I’m Sloane. Sloane Collins.”
She blinked in surprise, then shook my hand. “I’m Eloise Porter. Mark Porter, the running back, is my son. You must be Brett’s sister!”
“Brett?” I asked dumbly.
“Brett Collins. The kicker. He’s such a nice boy, so polite!” She smiled warmly in a way that made me wonder how many glasses of wine she’d already had, then wandered off into the suite.
I had assumed that Knox’s parents would be the only ones in the suite, but I immediately realized that was wrong. The suite was full of at least a dozen people, men and women of varying ages. I scanned their faces, hoping to catch a glimpse of familiarity, but none of them looked like Knox.
Bryson was right: not only was there a full bar, but a dedicated bartender standing at the ready. I ordered a glass of chardonnay, because that felt classier than a beer, and wandered around the suite. Clusters of conversation were happening here and there, everyone already engrossed in their own discussions.
The windows at the far end of the suite overlooked the stadium, with an open door leading to two rows of private seats just for our suite. A few people were sitting out there, watching the final pre-game preparations down on the field. One woman had hair that waskind ofsimilar to Knox’s, but nothing else about her indicated that she was his mom. And the man next to her definitely bore no resemblance.
Thinking that I might have gotten to the game before them, I sipped my wine and watched the kick-off below. The stadium was abuzz with noise, although it sounded more hushed from up here rather than down in the student section.
“Come on,” I whispered to myself as Knox and his teammates broke the huddle and lined up for the first play of the game. “Finish the season strong.”
The ball was hiked, and Knox dropped back. He looked to his right, then his left, then twisted his body and threw a pass to the right. But a defender reached up and tipped the ball, transforming its perfect spiral into a chaotic wobble.
Another defender caught it, and was immediately tackled.
“Shit!” I cursed, along with most of the other people around me.
I walked back into the suite, where the television on the wall was showing the game with a three-second delay. “Bad break for Maddox there,” the announcer said, “but that’s the exact kind of start Gulf County College needed.”
“Not his fault,” one man in the suite told another. “It was tipped.”
“Still hurts,” the other muttered while drinking a glass of liquor. Was that Knox’s dad?
I finished my wine and got a refill while trying to eavesdrop on five different conversations at once. Where were they? I’d worked up the courage to introduce myself the moment I walked through the door, but I felt that courage fading the longer I was here.
“Westview College needs a defensive stop,” the announcer said.
“They’re going to lean on linebacker Roman Langford,” the other announcer said. “He’s coming off a record-setting game last week, but he has his hand wrapped up in a club today.”
“Must have injured it against Gulf Atlantic Christian College last week,” the first guy said.
To my right, one balding man said, “I heard Langford injured it in a fight.”
“A fight about agirl,” the woman next to him added. “He stole his teammate’s girlfriend.”
“Stop it, Rachel,” another woman said. “You’re always spreading rumors!”
“I happen to know how he injured it,” a tall, broad-shouldered man announced in a voice that was impossiblenotto recognize. He sounded just like Knox. “My son told me Roman was defending a girl at a frat party. Hesavedher from… well, let’s just say it was something bad.”
“Roman’s a hero!” the woman next to him said, with a confident smirk that could have been copied-and-pasted from my boyfriend’s face.
That was them. Mr. and Mrs. Maddox. Now that I had a good look, I could see all of Knox’s features in the father. The cut of his jawline, and the intense green eyes.
There was a roar in the stadium, followed by groans. We all looked up at the TV and watched the other team’s running back dodge a tackle from Roman, then stiff-arm another defender before being brought to the ground for a first down.
