Page 97 of It Happened on a Sunday
The truth is, last night, I didn’t give a shit about the consequences. And I still don’t. “It’s not game day,” I remind her. “Staying out late isn’t going to mess with my performance on the field. I can guarantee you a hell of a lot of guys were out of their rooms last night.”
“Yeah, well, a hell of a lot of guys didn’t get caught sneaking outof Sloane Walker’s hotel at 6 a.m.,” Vivian shoots right back. “So their bad behavior isn’t going to be the story. Yours is.”
I keep my voice relaxed and my body loose, but I refuse to be derailed by her interruption. “My being at Sloane’s hotel isn’t going to mess with my performance at the fundraiser today, either. I’ll write a check. I’ll be polite to the press. And I’ll hang out with the kids, which is the only part of this I’m actually looking forward to. What the fuck else do they want from me?”
“To get away and stay away from Sloane Walker,” she answers. “The woman is poison, and the brand deals she’s bringing you aren’t going to last if your career goes to shit.”
For a second, I can’t believe she’s just put it that bluntly. It pisses me off all over again. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” I snap. “Not about this.”
“I’m not telling you what to do,” she retorts with a glare. “I’m telling you what the press—and your fans—want from you. Thatwasyour question, wasn’t it?”
When I don’t immediately answer, she keeps going. “I assume I don’t have to remind you that the last two men Sloane Walker dated are dead. So yeah, everyone, and I meaneveryone, is watching to see what’s going to happen between the two of you. And, more specifically, if you’re about to become her next victim.”
“All that is bullshit, and you know it. She didn’t kill either of those guys.”
“I’m not saying she did. I’m just saying they’re dead and they shouldn’t be.” Her phone rings again, and she holds a hand up, telling me to wait. “None of us wants to see the same thing happen to you.”
But I’m fuming now. I’m so sick of people who don’t have a clue what’s going on making judgments about Sloane, and I’m past done with this conversation. So while Vivian’s talking to Stacy, the publicist she keeps on tap, I stand up and throw downenough money for both our breakfasts.
“Where are you going?” Vivian breaks off in the middle of a sentence to glare at me. “We’re not done here.”
“Yeah, we are. I’m going to go talk to Coach before this shit explodes. Then I’m going to get ready for what’s sure to be a fun press conference—”
“Don’t say anything until I tell you the message Stacy and I decide on. I’ll call you in half an hour. I’m sure you’ll be done getting your ass chewed by Branson by then.”
Oh, joy. I want to tell Vivian the message should be that I’m dating Sloane, full stop. But the last thing I want to do is make things harder for Sloane right now, so I just nod. And try to figure out what the hell I’m going to say to her when she calls. Because something tells me she’ll have something to say about all this…and it’s not going to be good.
Chapter 43
Sloane
“You can do whatever you want, Sloane,” Bryan tells me. “But I strongly suggest you rein in the Sly storm before it floods both your careers.”
My stomach drops at his words. Not because of my career—I’m certain the Black Widow will only becomemorenotorious if Sly’s career ends up in the gutter—but because of him.
I know Sly loves football.
I know football, and the fans, love Sly.
And I know, because Bryan has told me ad nauseum this morning—and also because I googled him weeks ago—Sly really is the NFL’s favorite son. He never gets in trouble. He never has anything bad written about him. And the public never turns on him.
In light of this morning’s articles about the fifty-thousand-dollar fine he’ll have to pay for ditching a team meeting during our date, then blowing off curfew last night to see me, I can’t imagine the talk he andhisagent are having right about now.
This isn’t what I want for him. At the park yesterday, when I wanted to see the observatory, he never told me he had a meeting he couldn’t miss. Last night, when he broke curfew to come over, he sure as hell never mentioned that he’d already gotten in trouble with his coach and been fined for it.
If he had, I never would have told him to come. Sly, golden boy extraordinaire, might not have a clue how things like this can blow up in an instant, but I certainly do. And there’s no way I’ll let him jeopardize himself this way, not when going on one date with me has already attracted so much attention—and caused somany problems for him.
“Okay, thanks for the heads-up,” I tell Bryan. “I’ll—”
“Shit!”
“What?” The alarm in his voice has ice slamming through me. “What happened?”
“ESPN just went live with the Twisters’ press conference—something they almost never do. Sly is front and center.”
Oh, shit. When it comes to me, I’m learning Sly doesn’t have a self-preserving bone in his body. So who the fuck knows what he’s going to do today, especially if the reporters start asking about me—which I have no doubt they will.
I can feel the strings tightening already, the invisible ones that jerk me into character every time my name leaves someone’s mouth.
