Page 48 of It Happened on a Sunday
Chapter 20
Sly
My last conversation with Sloane is still in my head when I catch the red-eye to California after practice on Thursday night. The team isn’t flying to L.A. until tomorrow, and while I could theoretically take the team flight and make it from LAX to the Willow by one in the afternoon, I’m not about to leave what could be my only date with Sloane in the hands of fate and freeway traffic. Especially not in Los Angeles.
Since I’m in L.A. early, I spend Friday morning running on the beach. I may be a Texas boy, born and bred, but there’s something about the Pacific that’s always struck a chord in me. That’s probably why, when I had my choice of colleges and scholarships, I chose Cal. Even if the ocean didn’t call to me, the fantastic weather would have.
It’s ten thirty in the morning, and it’s barely seventy degrees outside. When I left Austin at close to ten last night, it was still over ninety.
But as I run, I can’t get our last conversation out of my head.
“This is going to getverymessy.”
I know Sloane’s had a rough time with the guys she’s dated, and I know she’s looking for any excuse not to give something between us a shot. But what she doesn’t get is that, for me, it’s never been anything as simple as a feeling.
Not just lightning bolts and butterflies—though there were a few of each—but recognition. A reflection I never expected to see staring back at me.
We’ve both hurt. We’ve both got cuts we pretend don’t ache anymore. And while something tells me hers are deeper thanI can ever imagine, I think the masks we wear are what we recognize in each other. Because even broken pieces shine when the light hits them right.
It doesn’t matter how messy this gets. It doesn’t matter how much of that mess splashes on me. All I care about is making sure she’s okay when the dust settles. And that she knows she’s worth fighting for.
Because she is. Every damn time.
After my run, and with a certain pep in my step, I stop by a flower shop and pick up a mixed bouquet of calla lilies and peonies before returning to the hotel to get cleaned up. I want to make sure I get to the Willow before Sloane, so she doesn’t have to walk through the throng of paparazzi alone.
I take a quick shower, then dress in jeans and a black T-shirt. Gotta match Sloane, obviously. On my way out the door, I grab the flowers and head down to the lobby to catch an Uber with plenty of time to spare.
Which turns out to be a good plan, because cutting through the photographers and the Sloane Walker fans to get to my ride takes longer than I expected. Apparently, staying at the team hotel was a bad move on my part. It makes me way too easy to find.
Live and learn.
That’s always been my motto, but something tells me the learning curve is gonna be pretty steep from here on out. I’ve only just adjusted to being football-star famous, but mega-star famous is something else entirely. It’s not just a different game, but a whole different sport.
The fact that my Uber driver nearly gets in a wreck because she keeps sneaking peeks at me in the rearview mirror makes that very clear. All while blaring Sloane’s latest album to really hammer it home.
This kind of attention isn’t something I ever wanted or eventhought about. I keep a pretty low profile most of the time, especially during the off-season, and I like it that way. But I want to be with Sloane, and this comes with the package, so I’m going to do my damnedest to get used to it. To getgoodat it, goddamn it, so I can keep her from getting hurt.
When we finally pull up at the Willow, the Uber takes me up the circular drive to the front door. There’s a roped-off area to the right where folks with cameras are allowed to take pics of the restaurant’s famous guests arriving and leaving. From what I understand, most days there are only four or five people in the designated area at any given time, but today it’s full to bursting. And not just with paparazzi, either. Reps from real news media are here as well: local TV stations, newspapers, and magazines.
No real surprise there. But the fact that they’ve had to set up another whole area for fans behind the media section? That, I didn’t anticipate. Hundreds of fans are crowded into another area manned by two security guards. They’re mostly dressed in Sloane Walker black, but there are a few in Twisters blue.
“Thanks for the lift,” I tell the driver as I add a huge tip to the fare. “I know it’s been a bit of a wild ride.”
“That’s okay,” she tells me, eyes wide. “But could you tell Sloane I’m a huge fan?”
“I sure will.” I grab the flowers and the pinkconcha pastries abuela Ximena sent for Sloane, smile at the driver one more time, and prepare myself for who the fuck knows what as I climb out of the car.
The screams start the second they see my face, and they come from the paps and fans alike.
“Look over here, Sly.”
“Give us a smile.”
“When is Sloane getting here?”
“Can you come over for a close-up?”
“What’s in the box?”
