Page 123 of It Happened on a Sunday
I take a couple of deep breaths, pile up a plate, and head back to the others, making sure to give Vivian a wide berth. Respect from one bad bitch to another.
But as I cast a wary look her way, I notice her slipping a small pink pill in her mouth and swallowing it dry.
I jerk my gaze away, but Vivian just narrows her eyes and says, “I wouldn’t need painkillers if Sly would stop giving me headaches.”
I have no idea what to say to that, at least not unless I let the Black Widow have her way, so I settle for ignoring her as I slide into the seat between abuela Ximena and Sly’s youngest sister.
“So, do you like football?” Mariana asks when I finally join them. She’s young and artsy, but her black eyes are so much like Sly’s, I can’t help but relax a little.
“I don’t know a lot about it, to be honest. This is my first game.” I don’t tell them that I’ve spent the last week, ever since Slyissued the invitation, studying up on the sport in every minute of free time I’ve had.
“Don’t worry about it,” she tells me with a conspiratorial roll of her eyes. “It’s not that difficult…or that interesting.”
Just then, a voice announces over the loudspeaker that the Twisters are about to take the field. Like a total fangirl, I turn to watch the tunnel entrance for my first glimpse of Sly.
“Can you pick him out of the crowd?” Vivian asks. Her voice is normal, but I can see the hint of snark in her eyes.
“I can,” I answer. To prove it, I unzip the coat I’ve been wearing to reveal a minidress that is basically Lucinda’s version of Sly’s number seven jersey. I didn’t show it downstairs because I didn’t want to seem too over-the-top, but if Vivian is going to challenge me, I’m totally going to bring it.
A few months ago, we—and by we, I mean I—ordered half a dozen of Sly’s jerseys, which I may or may not wear to sleep and when I’m alone in my hotel suite watching him play. Lucinda caught me one day and told me we could do better than that. Since then, she’s made it her mission to turn my jerseys into wearable pieces of art.
Today’s has the Twisters’ tornado logo cut into the center of the jersey over the number, so that every couple of inches, front and back, there’s a thin line of bare skin exposed—another reason I really need my underwear today. The entire blue part of the jersey has been stitched over with sequins in the exact same color and, as a nod to our relationship, the stripes on the collar and sleeves are now adorned with mini cobwebs.
“Umm, I’m sorry, but where did you get that?” Mariana screeches.
I lift a brow. “Too much?”
“Hell no,” abuela Ximena chimes in. “It’s exactly enough.”
“It’s amazing,” Mariana gushes, pulling out her phone. “Where did you find it so I can get one?”
“My costume designer and stylist made it for me.” Mariana looks so disappointed that I quickly add, “I can ask her to make one for you—like this or different. She’s made five or six different versions.”
“Wait a minute.” Mariana looks me over. “Are you telling me you have six different blinged-out dress versions of Sly’s jersey?”
“Only two are dresses. One’s a jacket and the other three are actual jerseys.”
“Well then, we all want one,” Lucia tells me.
“Speak for yourself,” abuela Ximena says. “I want two. A jacket and a jersey.”
Even Vivian laughs at that, and it feels like the ice has been officially broken. Especially when I catch sight of Sly on the field and yell, “Oh! There he is!” with enough excitement to have everyone in the suite cracking up.
I lean forward to get a better look as the crowd roars their approval. Turns out Sly and Marquis are clowning a bit for the fans as they make their way toward the sidelines. And I’ve got to say, watching Marquis’s larger-than-life personality, I’m beginning to see exactly how my name ended up on that jumbotron.
“I swear, that boy can never be serious,” abuela Ximena mutters.
“You’ve haven’t seen the questions he’s got about his contract negotiation,” Vivian tells her dryly. “Believe me, Sly can be plenty serious.”
“Seems prettyseriousabout Sloane,” Camila adds, gaze narrowed and popping a stadium fry in her mouth. Her dark eyes study me over her younger sister’s head, waiting for my reaction.
Instinct has me reaching for my resting bitch face—if she wants to go, we’ll go—but then I remind myself I’m trying to impress these people, not show them how impervious I am. Plus, justbecause I don’t have any family to be protective of, or to be protective over me, doesn’t mean I don’t get that she’s just trying to look out for her big brother.
So instead of matching her energy, I keep what I hope is a serene smile on my face as I meet her gaze. “Then we have that in common.”
She doesn’t look any more impressed than Vivian.
I’ve got to say, so far, this little experiment isn’t looking good for me. I know it’s because of the Black Widow’s persona, just like I know that if I want Sly’s family to like me, I need to show them who I am under all that noise.
