Page 28 of It Happened on a Sunday
“You could do that,” he agrees, but suddenly there’s a gleam in his eyes that tells me he’s got a much better idea—or a much worse one, depending on your perspective.
“Or you could go bigger. After all, it’s a universally accepted truth that women like to be wooed. So woo her.”
“I’ve sent her flowers twice this week and followed them up with a hundred-dollar ice cream sundae.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” He makes an exploding gesture with his hands. “Sloane’s used to big. You need to go huge.”
“You said bigger,” I shoot back, growing more suspicious by the second. “When exactly did bigger turn intohuge?”
“When I got involved, obviously.”
I give him a quick side-eye. “You’re making me nervous.” Marquis isn’t exactly known for his subtlety.
But he just grins and leans forward like a carnival barker hawking his wares. “Let me tell you my idea.” Before he can say anything else, though, the door to the locker room flies open and Jerry, one of the offensive coaches, walks in.
“There you are, Sylvester. Mike wants to run through a few things before the reporters descend. Major talking points for the game and whatnot.”
“Yeah, of course. I’m on my way.” I turn back to Marquis for a second. “Thanks for helping me get my head back on straight. I’ll catch you later, okay?”
He grins. “Don’t worry about it, bro. I’ve got this.”
I’m not sure what exactly he’s got, but I’m certain I’m going to have to talk him down from it. Still, with Jerry breathing downmy neck, I don’t have time to ask. We can talk more after the game. I shove my phone in my pocket and follow Jerry to the team office.
An hour later, I’m in front of the press, reassuring them that my arm’s the best it’s ever been and hitting all the talking points Coach wanted me to get in. An hour after that, I’m back on the treadmill, earphones in and head completely in the game as I once again run play after play, outcome after outcome, in my mind.
It isn’t until the game is about to start that I finally come face to face with Marquis again. “Don’t worry, Sly. I got your back,” he tells me as we cross to midfield.
“I’ve got yours, too,” I say right before I call heads.
We win the coin toss, and two minutes later, the game starts with us on offense.
It’s fast and intense. The Lightning haven’t won five of the last eight Super Bowls because they had a shit defense, that’s for sure, and I don’t even have time to think about Sloane again until right before halftime, when Marquis runs up to me.
“You trust me, right?” he asks in a tone that suggests I absolutely should not.
“Why?” I reply, alarm coursing through me.
He nods over my shoulder, shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Turn around and see for yourself.” There’s a gleam in his eyes, one that usually means I’m two seconds from disaster.
I turn around slowly, feeling a bit like I’ve been dropped in a horror movie. When I do… When I do, everything in my head goes blank.
Judging from the sudden silence of the crowd, followed by an overwhelming swell of cheers and screams and boos and hisses that goes on and on, they make sense of it at the same time I do.
I whirl on the guy who’s been my best friend since the summer before our freshman year of college. “Holy shit, Marquis! Whatthe fuck did you do?”
“I upped the fucking ante.” His grin shines bright through his helmet. “I promise she won’t be able to ignore this.”
Chapter 12
Sloane
A voice that sounds a lot like my manager’s comes from somewhere far away, and I roll over, burying my head under a pillow and willing it to stop. Just stop.
It doesn’t. In fact, it comes back louder and more adamant than before.
“Sloane, you need to wake up.”
Again, I ignore the voice—partly because Bianca is in L.A. and I don’t care to talk to whoever is impersonating her, and partly because it feels like I just got to sleep after tossing and turning for hours. I never sleep well the first night in a new city.
