Page 75 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Sorry, Sloane,” he tells her as he opens the back door.
“Traffic happens,” she tells him right before she pushes onto her toes and gives me a soft kiss on the cheek. “I’ll text you later.”
Once she’s safely in the SUV, the security guy turns to me and holds out a hand. “Thanks for waiting with her.”
“You never need to thank me for that,” I answer, shaking his hand. “I’m Sly, by the way.”
“Marco.” He grins. “I get the feeling I’ll be seeing you again.”
“I hope so.”
Marco climbs into the car, and I step back to order my own Uber before watching Sloane disappear into the snarl of L.A.traffic. I don’t expect it to be so hard to watch her drive away, but it is. Probably because I want, more than anything, to be in that car with her.
I want to be near her. Now that the connection I felt that first night has proved stronger than I’d ever thought, letting her go after only a few hours together doesn’t sit right with me.
But this is just another challenge that comes with falling in love with Sloane Walker. The woman’s job takes her all over the country. No, correction: all over theworld. And my job necessitates that my ass be in Austin, Texas, at least half the year. Yeah, I’ve got away games in cities that coincide with her tour. Four of them, actually, including this one. But considering I want to see her every day, that fucking sucks.
As does the fact that I have to put her protection in someone else’s hands. I know she has a good system, know Marco’s been with her a long damn time and has kept her safe through numerous stalkers, pervs, and assholes who think their mere existence gives them the right to take potshots at her. But I’ve always viewed it as my responsibility and privilege to protect the people I care about, Neanderthal as that may seem.
I want her to be safe and comfortable and happy. I failed Lucia once. No way in hell am I failing Sloane, too.
She takes the weight of the world’s expectations and derision on her shoulders, and she seems to think she deserves it because of what happened with her exes. But she’s dead wrong. The Black Widow may be the persona she wears to keep the squishy woman inside safe, but I’ve seen that woman. I’ve held her and kissed her—twice!—and I don’t want to just sit back and let others continue to hurt her.
I’m still thinking about how to protect Sloane without getting her fangs in my ass when my Uber pulls up to the hotel forty-five minutes later.
Shocking no one, rush hour traffic was a bitch, and I’m thirtyminutes late to a team meeting that shouldn’t take much more than that. Coach isn’t going to be impressed, especially since I didn’t fly here with the team to begin with. But Marco got stuck behind an accident on his way to pick up Sloane, which cut down on the time I had to get through the gridlock, and there was no way in hell that I was going to leave her there to wait alone.
So here we are.
As soon as I get into the hotel, I head straight for the fourth-floor ballroom. By the time I get there, the meeting’s over, the coaches are gone, and a few of the guys are just sitting around, shooting the shit.
At least until I walk in.
The second they see me, huge, shit-eating grins take over every face in the room. Big fucking surprise. These guys are bigger gossips than abuela Ximena.
Still, I try to play it cool, like there’s nothing to see here. “Anyone know where Coach went?”
“Well, hewashere for the meeting,” Marquis answers like the asshole he is.
“Helpful.”
He shrugs. “Maybe he’s in bed already. You know how the man likes his sleep.”
“I know how you likeyoursleep. Thanks for the help.” I turn on my heel and head back toward the door, only to be intercepted by the biggest O-lineman on the team. Tyson plays right tackle and usually does a hell of a job watching my back.Usuallybeing the operative word here…
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says as he steps between me and the door. “Don’t tell me you actually think you’re going to get out of here without dropping at least a few details.”
“I didn’t realize this was a press tour,” I reply.
“Yeah, you did,” James shoots back. He’s one of my tight ends and a pretty decent guy, though he apparently isn’t above anambush. “What else do you think we’re sitting around waiting for? Halloween?”
“Come on, Sly. Give us the deeeeeets,” Marquis says in a deliberately high-pitched whine. “Did she fall for that precious dimple?”
“Don’t forget the dreamy eyes,” Tyson chimes in, patting his short braids like he’s pretending to primp.
“And the rugged physique,” adds Levi, the scrappiest guy on the D-line. “He’s totallyswoon worthy.”
“Seriously?” I shake my head. “We’re really going to do this bullshit right now?”
