Page 99 of It Happened on a Sunday
The grin disappears, and his eyes go from tranquil midnight sea to hurricane-wild.
“Now, Martin,” his coach begins, “you know I’ve already said—”
Sly cuts him off with a hand. “If you don’t mind, Coach, I’d like to answer that question.”
Without waiting for permission, he focuses his deep brown eyes right on the very unfortunate Martin. “I’m going to assume you mean no insult toMs.Walker with that very awkwardly phrased question, which is the only reason I’m going to do you the service of answering it.”
He pauses for a moment, and the look he gives Martin and every other reporter in the room says that if they do mean insult, they’d better change their minds very quickly.
At that look, a sense of dread I usually only associate with stage fright invades me. I hold my breath, waiting to see what he says next and knowing as I do that whatever it is won’t be good.
Sure enough, the very next words out of his mouth pretty much set fire to the place—and Sly’s reputation right along with it.
Chapter 44
Sly
¡Santo Dios!I take a long, slow breath in an effort to keep the ache in my chest from cracking wide open and force myself not to say something I can’t take back in front of God and the media.
Instead, I very purposefully let the silence stretch out, partly so everyone can make sure their recording devices are on and partly because I want them to hear me—really hear me.
After several seconds, I finally say, “Ms.Walkerhas been nothing but kind and honest from the moment I met her.” I lean extra heavily on the “Ms. Walker” to make sure they understand this Black Widow bullshit needs to stop.
“She had absolutely no idea there was a team meeting last night when I asked to keep our date going so late. In fact, I’m pretty certain I’m going to get an earful from her about that later, considering the fuss y’all have kicked up about it. But to be clear, missing one meeting that had absolutely nothing to do with tomorrow’s game, or even football, by the way, was solely my decision. As was leaving my hotel room a couple of hours before curfew was lifted at six this morning.”
I look around the room, meeting as many eyes as I can. Just being photographed with me a few weeks ago set off a feeding frenzy on Sloane, and it’s killing me that I played a part in making it worse. “Sloane did not ask me to break the rules. She had nothing to do with any of it, except for the fact that I wanted to be with her. She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met, with the biggest heart, and I’m going to continue to want to be with her every chance I get. As I’m sure you would, too, if you took a second to get to know her. But I can also assure you, andall Austin Twisters fans, that I will be exercising more discretion about when I choose to see Sloane going forward. She wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I turn back to the guy who started this. “I hope that answers your question, Martin.” I push my chair back from the table and stand up. “Now, my part in this press conference—and I use that term lightly—is over. If any of you would like to talk more, I invite you to head on over to the fundraiser this afternoon. A thirty-dollar donation is required to get in the door, but I’m sure you would all love to give to such a worthy cause.”
Then I walk out the door, the weight of too many eyes and too many assumptions heavy on my shoulders.
Marquis, waiting in the hallway for his turn at the podium, takes one look at my face and lets out a long, low whistle. “Something tells me that didn’t go as well as Coach hoped it would.”
“Fuck the press,” I mutter. Knowing Sloane has to face this kind of scrutiny every day guts me. Knowing that my choices dragged her right back into it? That full-on wrecks me.
“I might be tempted, but I’d be afraid of their tooth marks on my ass,” he says, straightening his tie.
“Smart man.” I don’t wait for him to go in before I pull out my phone. I need to get to Sloane before someone else does.
Except when I call her, she doesn’t pick up.
A sick feeling twists in my gut, even as I try to tell myself she’s probably just busy. Still asleep, maybe. Or in a meeting. But that doesn’t make the unease go away.
A glance at the clock tells me I can’t get to her hotel and back in time for the fundraiser. Vaughn and I are giving the opening address, and showing up late would only make everything worse.
Which leaves me no choice but to try again. This time, she sends me straight to voicemail.
I should have told her about the meeting. I should havehandled it differently, so she wasn’t blindsided. But I didn’t think it would be this big a deal, not when it was about a charity event I helped organize. I definitely didn’t think my choices would blow back on her.
Turns out this isn’t a learning curve. It’s a fucking blitz—one she keeps ending up at the bottom of.
I don’t leave a message. Instead, I spend five minutes ordering the biggest bouquet the florist can deliver within the hour, along with an apology card and a promise to come see her as soon as I can.
Then I send a text. The same apology, just more personal. And I watch as she leaves me on read.
I tell myself not to overreact. That she needs space. That she’s figuring out how she wants to respond.
But the truth? It hurts in a way I didn’t expect.
