Page 33 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Of course they do.” My hand trembles with the need to reach for my phone, but I remind myself not to look. Knowing what’s being said about me—about Hayden and Jarrod and Sly and me—won’t change anything. It will only make me feel worse.
If something ever happened to Sly, if the Black Widow actually struck again, there’d be no coming back from that. Not for my career, and certainly not for me.
Knowing that is all it takes for me to decide.
“I can’t,” I choke out, the walls inside me splintering at the thought of everything that could go wrong. So I patch them up, build them higher even as they start to crumble. “I just can’t do it. He’s too famous, too adored. If something happened to him, I’d never—” My voice cracks, but I don’t need to finish the sentence for them to understand. I didn’t even need to start it.
“Okay, then,” Bianca says, climbing to her feet. “You heard the woman. Let’s try to get this fixed before the concert tonight.”
But before anyone else can so much as move, my phone buzzes with a text message…from Sly.
We all stare at his name on my lock screen until Bryan reaches for the phone and holds it out to me.
I unlock it with trembling hands, and as I pull up my messages, fury, excitement, and sorrow all whirl around inside me.
Sly:I’m so, so sorry
The phone lights up again.And again, each one makes me ache a little more.
Sly:I’d really like to explain what happened
Sly:Can you talk?
And just like that, the scaffolding I’ve worked so hard to hold together shatters. Whether or not I’ll shatter with it remains to be seen.
Chapter 14
Sly
I stand in the empty locker room hours after the game ended, wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.
My phone rings, but I don’t look. And I don’t answer. I’ve been jumping every time it buzzes, hoping it’s her. But it’s been hours since I texted, and Sloane hasn’t messaged back.
Neither has her assistant manager or publicist.
It’s been absolute radio silence from her entire team, and it’s making me twitchy.
Especially since everybody else on the fucking planethascalled, starting with abuela Ximena and ending with nearly every friend I’ve got. And they all want to talk about one thing.
I didn’t know you liked bad girls.
Has she said yes?
Good taste, man.
Not to mention my personal favorite:Aren’t you worried she’ll kill you next?
Jesus. Before today, I had absolutely no idea just how many shallow assholes have my phone number.
Even the team’s GM is getting in on the act. He congratulated me on a great game, then immediately asked if he should save tickets for Sloane. Three hours since the Great Jumbotron Debacle, and we’ve already sold out five home games.
Plus, my agent’s phone hasn’t stopped ringing, either. The same with my publicist’s. Reporters. Brand reps. Endorsement offers from companies I didn’t even know existed.
I already have a few solid deals—and I’ve turned down plenty that didn’t feel right. But now? Everyone from designer labels tobooze brands wants a piece of the guy who asked Sloane Walker out on national television.
Even the reps from the Jackson-Ware Foundation I’ve worked with for the last several years are excited. We’ve been planning the L.A. fundraiser for months, and now they’re asking if I think I could get Sloane toperform.
It’s unbelievable.
