Page 34 of It Happened on a Sunday
Vivian is dancing, but I’m too busy contemplating the best way to torture Marquis to think about the upsides. When he told me to go big, I thought he meant jewelry. I never imagined the fucker would dream up this mess, much less bribe the jumbotron techs to make it happen. It takes a lot to piss me off. And right now? I wouldn’t mind making the fucker bleed.
What the ever-loving hell was he thinking? I asked for advice on getting Sloane’s attention, not how to turn both our lives into a Super Bowl halftime show on steroids.
The last thing I wanted was to make her life harder, and considering the response I’m getting, I can’t imagine what’s going down on her end. Just the thought makes me feel like an even bigger asshole than I already do.
But sitting in this locker room, hiding from whatever the hell is waiting for me outside the stadium doors, is getting old fast. Especially since everyone else has already left, including Marquis, who slinked out before I could corner him for an explanation…and an ass-kicking.
Fuck it. If the press is out there, I’ll just “no comment” it like I’ve been doing all afternoon.
I wind through the tunnel to the players’ entrance and throw my shoulders back. I keep on walking, straight into the sweltering September heat.
On the plus side, security must have banned the press from this lot, since all the reporters are currently standing outside the players’ area. On the negative side, there are about a hundred ofthem, and they’re dangerously close to my only way out.
I didn’t even know there were a hundred reportersinAustin. I’ve seen the same ten or fifteen my whole damn professional career.
Not wanting to encourage the madness, I ignore the crowd as I make my way through the lot. That doesn’t stop them from yelling questions at me about whether she’s said yes or where I want to take Sloane on our date.
I’m halfway to my truck when my phone rings, and a quick glance at the screen tells me it’s Vivian. Again. Deciding whatever she’s got to tell me can wait, I send her to voicemail, only to have the phone ring again before I even open my door.
Hoping this means she’s got something important to tell me, like how the fuck to get out of this mess, I swipe to answer it. “Give me a minute,” I tell her as I sling my bag into the passenger seat before climbing in and starting the truck.
Once the call picks up on my audio system, I say, “What’s up?” and start backing out of the parking space.
“What’s up?” A low, whiskey-smooth voice comes through the speaker, and everything inside of me freezes. “You really have the nerve to ask me that after the stunt you just pulled?”
Shock rockets through me, and I slam on the brakes, half in the parking spot and half out. “Who is this?” I ask when I get my voice back, even though I already know.
“Seriously?” Sloane sounds equal parts annoyed and amused as she continues. “Exactly how many women have you asked out on national TV today?”
“Only one.” I finish pulling out of the parking spot with what I’m pretty sure is the dumbest grin in the history of the world on my face. She called. She finally called.
“Yeah, well, it was one too many,” she shoots back. “What the hell were you thinking, Sly?” My heart kicks up when she says my name.
“That I could trust my best friend. And believe me, it’s not a mistake I’m going to make again.”
Sloane pauses like I’ve surprised her. “Explain,” she finally says.
So I do, throwing Marquis under the bus with gleeful abandon as I steer around the pack of reporters. I even wave at a few as I drive on by, certain they’re getting some really great shots of me grinning like I just won the biggest lottery on earth…which is exactly how I feel right now.
“I’ve got to say I’m a little disappointed in you,” she tells me as I finish the story. “You’ve had how many years in the spotlight? And still haven’t learned to be careful who you trust.”
She sounds more amused now, but there’s a thread of seriousness—of truth—in her voice that makes me wonder just how lonely it is at the top. And whetherIcould help her feel a little less alone. Not that I say that out loud. Considering the shitstorm I just kicked up, I sincerely doubt she’ll be impressed with the sentiment.
“Oh, I trust Marquis with my life,” I finally say as I make it to the exit. “I just don’t trust him with my—”
“Sex life?” she posits.
A drop of sweat that has nothing to do with the Austin heat rolls down the center of my back. “I was going to say heart,” I tell her, “but I won’t kick your answer out of bed in the middle of the night.”
She finally laughs at that, and it’s even better than I imagined. I was afraid this mess would break whatever this thing is between us, but instead she sounds almost intrigued.
I seize the opportunity to say what’s been on my mind for the last few hours. “I’m sorry, Sloane. I’m so fucking sorry about this. I’d take it all back if I could.”
There’s a long silence from her end, and I’m just beginning to think I’ve lost her when she says, “I still don’t see why Marquiscouldn’t have advised you to go about this the normal way.”
“I’m guessing because I tried the normal way and it didn’t work. Obviously.”
She sounds skeptical when she replies, “I wouldn’t exactly say a giant ice cream sundae is normal.”
