Page 98 of It Happened on a Sunday
“What channel?” I ask, racing into the living room to turn on the TV.
Please don’t let Sly get pissed off by the innuendos.
Please don’t let him do anything to hurt his reputation.
Please, please, please just let him get through this without making it any worse for himself.
These pleas to the universe run through my head in the same rhythm as my regular mantras, but even as I recite them, the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me they aren’t going to matter. Not if Sly decides to get his back up because reporters start talking shit about me.
And reporters are very, very good at talking shit about me.
My fingers fumble the remote. Too tight, too fast, too everything as I jab the power button like it might hit me back. I know better than most that one wrong move can make the cheers turn to knives. I can’t—I won’t—be the reason they forget how to love him.
I flip to the right channel just in time to see a man I’m pretty sure is Sly’s coach ask the media, “Can we please focuson the foundation we’re here to support today? The Jackson-Ware Foundation is dedicated to making sure that every child in America who wants to play a sport has the access and funds necessary to do so.”
He gestures to Sly, who is sitting on his right, and another guy I don’t know sitting on his left. “These players are two of the foundation’s biggest contributors and a huge part of its support system as well. I know they both want to talk to you about their feelings regarding its importance. I appreciate you giving them the chance to do so now.”
He turns to Sly and, in a voice cold enough to freeze lava, says, “Would you like to start?”
“I’d love to,” Sly answers in the slow, deep voice I have no doubt has panties dropping all over the country. Even before he leans forward and captures the attention of everyone in the room. “It’s no secret that my sisters and I were raised by our grandmother after our father died. Abuela Ximena was a widow herself at a young age, and after working her whole life to raise her children on her own, she didn’t blink when it came time to raise her grandchildren as well.
“She fed us, clothed us, and saved for a college education for every single one of us. But that didn’t leave much left over for extracurricular activities—” He seems to choke on the last words, has to pause to clear his throat and take a drink of water before moving on.
“The Jackson-Ware Foundation stepped in and made sure I had the money and equipment I needed to play football starting in middle school and continuing all the way up to my senior-year season. That’s the same season that saw me recruited to play college football, and that recruitment is what eventually got me here.
“But the Jackson-Ware Foundation’s support for my family didn’t stop with football. It paid for the oldest of my sistersto play tennis and for my middle sister to join a travel soccer team and her high school team, and those experiences led to her representing the United States in Women’s Soccer at the last Olympics.”
He takes another drink of water, giving his words time to sink in before moving on. “This foundation was there for my family, just like it’s been there for thousands of families all over the country. I’m proud to be able to give back to something that’s given so much to me and to the people I love.”
I only half listen as the coach introduces the other player, who also expounds on his relationship with the foundation. I’m too busy marveling at Sly, who I know had way less sleep than I did but who looks fresh as a fucking daisy up there. Not to mention the sincere and powerful words he shared. When he mentioned this foundation last night, I planned to follow up to find out more about it, but then I got distracted by everything else that happened.
But listening to him tell his story now…my usually stone-cold heart doesn’t just melt. It spills over and feels like a puddle of melted goo. Add in the part about his grandmother, and I’m a goner. I adored her when we met, but I didn’t realize just how much of a rock she’s been to Sly until right this moment.
For someone whose father fucked off when she was young and whose mother always treated her more like a paycheck than a person, it’s especially heartwarming. I’ve no doubt abuela Ximena counts the days between visits, not bank deposits, and I’m so, so happy for him.
At least until the second player stops talking and the coach announces that they’ll take questions for fifteen minutes. Suddenly, every hand in the room shoots up and the volume goes way up—a sure sign that their asks aren’t going to have anything to do with the Jackson-Ware Foundation.
Sure enough, the first reporter the coach calls on asks, “Sly,can you clarify your feelings for Sloane Walker now that her behavior has gotten you fined fifty thousand dollars?”
Before Sly can answer, his coach jumps in again. “We’re taking questions on the foundation at the moment.” He nods to another reporter near the back. “Go ahead, Jolene.”
“That kiss you and Sloane shared outside the Willow yesterday was definitely something. Can we take this to mean the date went well? And if so, can you tell us your favorite part?”
Sly’s coach is visibly frustrated as he cuts her off, too, and my stomach sinks. If he’s this upset now, I can’t imagine what will happen if Sly and I actually make a thing of this. There will be a million more questions, changes in security at their home stadium if Sly wants me to come to games, a whole different cadre of intrusive reporters, Sloane Walker fans snapping up game tickets… The whole thing is just a disaster waiting to happen.
The coach calls on a third reporter by name. He’s an older man, and it’s obvious he’s been a sports reporter for years, judging by the respect the others near him seem to have for him.
I relax a little, figuring—like the coach obviously does—that he’s the most likely person in the room to actually ask a question about the foundation or tomorrow’s game. The most likely, that is, until he opens his mouth and says, “Sly, you’ve got a big game tomorrow. Despite all the work you and the Grizzlies are doing today to get word out about the Jackson-Ware Foundation, there’s actually a huge rivalry between your two teams.”
“There is, indeed. And yes, I’ve been stewing about that two-point loss since last year. I definitely plan on doing something about it this time around.” He gives the reporter his most charming grin, one I recognize from that first night he came backstage, and the rest of the room titters in appreciation.
But the reporter just levels a flat stare at him. “That wasn’t my question.”
“Well, then, I am truly sorry to have cut you off.” Sly’s warm drawl is getting thicker with every word he says. Already I’ve been the victim of it—combined with his ridiculously attractive smile—enough times to know it’s one of his many tricks for lulling people into a false sense of security. But I’ve had enough experience with the media to know that this guy isn’t about to let himself be lulled. “Go ahead and hit me with that question.”
“Thank you,” the reporter replies dryly. “As I was saying, you have a big game tomorrow. How does it make you feel to know that the Black Widow has so little regard for your career that she’s willing to risk one of the biggest games of your season just for…how shall I say this delicately…a booty call?”
Oh, fuck. My whole body tightens in terror as I watch as the insult to me hits Sly.
