Page 118 of It Happened on a Sunday
Sloane:We’re pulling in now
Me:I’ll be waiting for you
Even though this is what I’ve been waiting for, my heart starts pounding overtime. I leap up and grab the bouquet of flowers I got for her this morning—purple calla lilies with white-and-pink peonies—and make a beeline for the locker room door.
As I do, I send a message to Vince to let him know it’s time. This thing needs to run like clockwork, and his guys being out there to greet her is the first step.
Sloane:Don’t you have something more important to be doing right now?
Me:More important than seeing my girl after the longest twenty-nine days of my life? Not really
“Wait. Is this it?” Marquis asks, looking up from his own phone for the first time. “Is Sloane here?”
“She will be in a minute.”
“Hell yeah.” He jumps to his feet. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” I tell him, closing the door in his face.
Not that that stops him. Seconds later, he’s in the hallway with me, wearing an extremely insulted expression. “Hey, I’m the one who got you two together! Don’t you think I should see the fruits of my labor?”
“Not sure bribing the jumbotron operator can actually be called labor.”
“Well, it’s more than you did,” he grouses as he keeps following me.
And, it turns out, he’s not the only one. The entire O-line istrailing behind me, determined not to miss their shot at meeting Sloane. One look at their faces tells me it’s no use arguing, so I don’t. Instead, I position myself right in front of the open doors at the players’ entrance and wait for her to get to me.
Less than two minutes later, a black SUV pulls up to the entrance and Marco climbs out of the passenger seat. He moves to open the door, but she shoves it open before he gets there and throws herself into my arms, flowers and all.
I never would have expected my careful, reticent, suspicious-of-everyone-and-everything Sloane to dive into my arms like that. But she just did, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to complain about it, even if it doesn’t give me a chance to shift the flowers around to prepare.
I drop them, because I sure as shit would rather have an armful of Sloane than a bunch of lilies any day, and catch her on the fly. And then finally, finally, after the longest four weeks of my life, she’s back in my arms where she belongs.
She winds her hands around my neck, leans her body against mine, and slams her mouth—her gorgeous, top-heavy, red-tinted mouth—into mine. Nothing has ever felt so good.
I wrap my arms around her as well, pulling her closer as I deepen the kiss despite the whistles and catcalls coming from all around us.
To be honest, with the amount of ribbing I’ve taken the last few months, I’m a little surprised the guys didn’t bring popcorn. Or confetti.
Coach and some of the fans may be a little bent out of shape over Sloane and me, but my teammates are all in. Especially Marquis.
Sloane ignores the whistles, too, kissing me thoroughly before finally pulling away. I give her one more quick kiss, loving that she always tastes like cherries, then reluctantly pull back. “Hi,” I whisper. I’m grinning like a fool, and I don’t even give a shit.Having her here with me, in my stadium, is the best gift she could ever give me.
Having her heretoday, when Grant and the Grizzlies are also in my stadium—I can’t believe they fucking made the playoffs—makes the whole thing a little more bearable.
“Hi,” she whispers back, and though her face is serious, her eyes are smiling just as big. “Thanks for the flowers.”
“Oh, right.” I pick them up and hand them to her. “They’re a little worse for wear, but the sentiment’s there.”
“The sentiment’s what counts.” She holds out a small black gift bag for me to take.
“What’s this?”
“You’re not the only one with sentiment,” she answers, smirking in a way that makes me want to kiss her again.
“For me?” I know I sound shocked, but I can’t help it. I’ve never had a woman I’m dating give me a present just because. Birthdays or Christmas, sure. But just because she was thinking of me? That’s usually my department.
“What is it?” I ask, glancing from Sloane’s face to the bag and back again.
