Page 126 of It Happened on a Sunday
I’m grinning again as I make my way through the mostly empty tunnels toward the locker rooms. Of course Sloane got his granddaughters tickets. She may act curmudgeonly, but she’s got a much bigger, sweeter heart than she wants anyone to know.
But I see it. I seeher. And I definitely plan on taking Vince’s advice. I’m holding on to Sloane for as long as she’ll let me. In fact—
Someone shoves me from behind hard enough that I go flying into the locker room door. Only a well-placed hand keeps my face from hitting the cold steel.
“What the fuck?” I whirl around, thoughts of Sloane’s stalker vivid in my head, only to find myself facing none other than Grant fucking Darron.
“When are you going to let it go, Sly?” he demands, hulking over me like he thinks that’s going to intimidate me instead of just make me angry. “It was years ago—”
“Four years,” I correct as the anger that’s always on a hot simmer when it comes to him roars into a full inferno. “And she’s still got the scars, so I figure I’m not done yet.”
“You can’t keep doing this to me!” he screams as his face turns a shade of red that might be concerning if I actually gave a shit about the asshole. “You’re ruining my whole fucking career.”
“I didn’t do shit to you,” I fire back. “If I remember correctly, you’re the one who tried to sack me three different times today. And it probably would have been more if you hadn’t wimped out and begged your coach to take you out of the game.”
“I didn’t wimp out. I got taken out because your offensive linekept trying to turn me into a fucking pancake—”
“Because you tried to sack me,” I remind him. I keep my voice, and the rest of me, cool, despite the rage burning inside me. “My guys tend to get pissed off about that. If you can’t handle the heat, maybe you’re in the wrong game.”
“It’s not fair for you to keep doing this to me!” he screams. Because of course he puts the responsibility on me. The guy hasn’t changed a bit. “I’ll get a restraining order. I’ll have you arrested. I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” I sneer, and it’s my turn to shove him. Not hard enough to knock him on his ass, because he’d whine to high heaven about that, but more than hard enough to stop his little fuckboy rant before I actually do lose the tenuous grip I’ve got on my temper.
Listening to him blame me the way he used to blame my sister for shit that went wrong is pushing every button I’ve got. The only thing keeping me from throwing down right now is knowing that it will make things harder for Sloane if I do.
Because I can practically see the slew of new headlines—variations onBlack Widow’s Influence Drives Football’s Golden Boy to Violence—I deliberately keep my hands fisted at my sides, no matter how much I want to plow one into his smug face.
“You’ll do nothing,” I say again, “because cowards like you only like to pick on people who can’t fight back. Now that you’re faced with someone who isn’t the least bit afraid of you, you start whining about shit not being fair. Grow the fuck up.
“Or not,” I continue with a shrug. “Personally, seeing you get your ass kicked up and down my field every time we play is the best entertainment I can ask for. So if you want to keep acting like a whiny little asswipe, have at it. It’s just more laughs for me.”
“You really think you’re going to get away with this, don’t you?” he demands as he takes a threatening step forward.
“Playing football?” I deliberately ignore the physical threat as I lift a brow. “Winning the game? I hate to break it to you, but I already have.”
“Fuck you, Sly!” He raises a fist. “Let’s see how much winning you do with my fist down your throat.”
“I’m happy to find out if you want to give it a go.” I lift my chin, daring him to do it with a look as well as my words.
But, like always, Grant refuses to throw a punch at someone more than able to return it. Instead, he spits on my cleats and says, “This isn’t over.”
Part of me wants to make him eat that spit—and my cleat along with it. But a bigger part knows he’s not worth the repercussions. Grant is pathetic. He’s always been pathetic, and he’s always going to be pathetic. He’s too much of an asshole to get out of his own way long enough to be anything else. I, on the other hand, am not the same hotheaded twenty-three-year-old who beat the shit out of him four years ago. I’ve got too much going on in my life to risk it on the likes of him.
So instead of feeding him my shoe like a part of me really, really wants to, I settle for saying, “Good talk. Happy to have another one any time you’re in the area.”
Then I pull open the locker room door, only to have Marquis stick his head through the doorway. “Hey, Sly. What’s—”
He stops dead when he sees Grant. “Is there a problem here?” He glances between us with narrowed eyes, his own hands balling into fists.
“Not anymore,” I answer, grabbing his shoulder and turning him back toward the locker room. My girl is waiting for me upstairs, and I don’t want to waste one more second of our time together.
Chapter 53
Sloane
After the game, Sly takes Vivian, his family, my security team, and me out to dinner at a private room in a famous Austin barbecue restaurant. I’m usually more of a veggie or pasta girl myself, but right now I’m up for doing whatever I can to fit into Sly’s world. Besides, the food is good and the company is even better.
Now that we’ve spent an afternoon getting to know one another, even Camila and Vivian have loosened up. Though, to be fair, I’m pretty sure Vivian’s good mood has more to do with Sly’s late fourth-quarter pass that won the game and left the Twisters one win away from the Super Bowl than the fact that she might be starting to like me. But I’ll take what I can get.
