Page 25 of It Happened on a Sunday
I hate that I’m mirroring that reporter’s words, but…she did have a point.
“Sloane, baby, you aren’t the same girl you were with Hayden. And you’re definitely not the young woman you were with Jarrod. What’s the point of all the therapy you’vedone if you can’t use it to move on?”
Because she’s one of the few people on the planet whose touch comforts me, I don’t move away when she reaches out to run a comforting hand over my hair. “You were forged in fire, Sloane, though God knows I wish you didn’t have to be. You’re more than strong enough to take what you want. And what you deserve.”
What I want?Her smooth voice reverberates inside my head, and for one traitorous second, all I can see is the reflection of myself in the depths of Sly’s eyes.
I want to argue with Pauline. To tell her she doesn’tunderstand. But the truth is, she does. And I think maybe Sly does, too. Because he didn’t just look at me. He saw me. Not the spectacle, not the scandal. Just…me.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about him since.
“I don’t—” I start, not even sure what I want to say.
But then another knock sounds at the door, and Marco pokes his head back in. “Just got the word. Your car to the venue is downstairs.”
I nod. “I’ll be ready in two minutes.”
Once the door closes behind him again, I turn back to the woman who has been my mentor, my friend, and, for all intents and purposes, my mother for the last ten years. “It’s not that I think I don’t deserve him. It’s that I don’t want him.”
To prove it to her—and myself—I grab the card Sly sent and rip it into quarters before tossing the remnants in my empty coffee cup to be thrown away.
But even as I do it, even as I head into the bedroom to grab my shoes and purse, I’m aware that this is the first time I’ve lied to Pauline. Or if not lied, then at least not been completely honest. Because the truth is that I don’tknowif I want Sly. I just know that I can’t have him, and that isn’t the same thing at all.
Chapter 11
Sly
Sloane:Thank you for the ice cream
For what’s probably the hundredth time in the last four days, I glance down at Sloane’s very formal text from Wednesday night. Definitely not the best use of my time on the morning of our first game, but here we are.
Though, to be fair, it’s nothertext that makes me feel like a complete fucking ass. It’s the two texts I sent after that do the trick.
Me:You’re welcome
Me:What was your favorite flavor?
And then…nothing. Not a word from her since. Yet I’m still checking the damn thread every half hour, just to make sure I haven’t missed anything.
Turns out I still haven’t. I’ve even checked to make sure I didn’t accidentally block her. Twice.
Could you have thought of a less interesting response, fuckhead?
Over myself,I drop my phone into my duffel bag with a frustrated sigh before heading through the players’ parking lot to the tunnel that’ll bring me straight to the locker room.
The closer I get to the tunnel, the more the nerves and excitement churn inside of me. This is my fifth year in the NFL and my third as starting quarterback—but the jittery feeling in my gut makes it feel like my very first game.
How could it not? The last time I played on this field, I choked. Took the whole team down with me, and it sure as shit doesn’thelp that the draw has us playing the same fucking team today. The Lightning.
On the plus side, our team has been on fire in the preseason. Our offense is the best in the NFL, and our defense is almost as good. I can’t ask for more than that.
Except maybe a text from a certain redheaded pop star. But since that ship seems to be sailing, I need to get my head out of my ass and into the game where it belongs.
I run through our plays in my mind yet again. Make sure there’s nothing I missed because I can’t get Sloane Walker off my mind.Ay, Dios. I haven’t thought about a girl this much since Maria Garcia in the tenth grade.
The whole thing makes me feel like a total jackass. Because even with the season, and this game in particular, looming large in pretty much my every waking moment, Sloane has still managed to creep in a ridiculous amount. And not just because abuela Ximena hasn’t stopped raving about how fabulous she is.
But not today. I give my body a quick shake, resetting my thoughts. My next hours belong to the team.
