Page 77 of It Happened on a Sunday
I give him a look that tells him to fuck right off. “I’m not the type to kiss and tell.”
“So there was more kissing!” Tyson whoops. “Hell yeah, that’s my man over there.”
James pulls out his phone and starts texting. “Thanks, Sly. Maria’s gonna love this.”
I think of everything that happened on our date, and my stomach drops. I know for sure they’ve got the kiss at the restaurant. It was meant for them. But what happened on that trail? At the food truck? At the observatory? I was hoping that would be just for us.
Suddenly glad I didn’t toss my phone, I search for a pic of a private moment that I’m suddenly very afraid is going to turn public.
I’m even more afraid of what Sloane’s going to do if that happens.
“Turns out she already knew,” James complains as he holds up his phone. “Apparently she kissed his cheek over on Hillhurst. They’ve got it from several different angles.”
“A cheek kiss, huh?” Marquis rubs his chin. “Guess that’s pretty tender. Right up Sly’s alley.”
Now I’m even more glad I didn’t pull her into my arms like I wanted to while we waited for Marco. The whole world doesn’t need to see that.
“Not just a cheek kiss,” Tyson says, holding up his phone. And fuck. Just fuck.
Because it’s not the kiss at the Willow. And it’s not the quick hug on the street corner. It’s a pic of Sloane and me at the picnic table, me laughing my head off and her looking more open than the Black Widow ever lets herself.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Marquis says, his voice rife with satisfaction.
The rest of the guys crowd around to give me a hard time, and I’m not delusional enough to think it’s my love life they want to know about. They’re interested because they want to see Sloane. For all her bad reputation, she’s had absolutely no record of dating anyone since Jarrod died.
“We were just having lunch,” I growl, hoping to high hell that there are no other pics of us at the park today. I thought I was so careful, but this got out anyway.
“Your face says otherwise,” comments Jesse, another member of the defensive line. He’s one of the best in the game, but his personality makes a pissed-off T. rex look like a cute little gecko. “Come on, Sylvester. Is she as hot in the sack as she looks in that pic? Because if that’s the case, I wouldn’t mind a turn with pop’s reigning bad girl.”
He accompanies the statement with a crude hand gesture, and annoyance shoots through me real quick. I give him a look that tells him to knock that shit off, but because he’s Jesse, and because he’s an asshole, he chooses not to heed it. “So, what do you think she sounds like when she—”
I don’t punch him, but I do slam a hand into his chest in what could be classified as a shove. “Knock it the fuck off, Gardner,” I growl.
He stumbles back a step, eyes wide in surprise. But it only takes him a second to recover, and then he’s coming for me, fists clenched.
And fuck, looks like this is going to go exactly the way I didn’t want it to. But no one’s talking about Sloane like that in front of me. I may not be able to do anything about the asshole trolls on the internet, but there’s no fucking way I’m putting up with it from my teammates.
I move forward, too, more than ready to put this issue to bed once and for all. But before I can, Marquis steps between us.
Always the fucking smooth talker.
“That’s enough,” he says to both of us, though he’s looking at Jesse. “You know better than to talk that shit about women—especially WAGs. Do it again and I’ll let him kick your ass.”
Jesse sneers and looks like he’s about to say something that will have me reaching over Marquis and knocking his teethdown his throat. He’ll have a hard time saying fuck all after that.
But before he can get whatever the hell it is out, the ballroom door swings open and Jake, one of the assistant coaches, calls mockingly, “Nice to see you decided to join us, Sylvester. Get your ass up to the team suite, now. Branson wants a word.”
I shoot Jesse a look that tells him this isn’t over, then head for the door.
Chapter 34
Sly
Ten minutes later, I’m in room 1427, the suite the coaches have taken over for team business during this trip. It’s just Coach Branson and me, and to say he looks pissed is a definite understatement.
“The fuck is going on with you?” he demands as he shuts the door behind me.
“I’m sorry,” I start, because I’ve got no problem admitting when I make a mistake. “I texted Coach Martinez and told him I was going to be late—”
