Sloane: Thank you for the ice cream

    For what’s probably the hundredth time in thest four days, I nce down at Sloane’s very formal text from Wednesday night. Definitely not the best use of my time on the morning of our first game, but here we are.

    Though, to be fair, it’s not her text that makes me feel like aplete fucking ass. It’s the two texts I sent after that do the trick.

    Me: You’re wee

    Me: What was your favorite vor?

    And then…nothing. Not a word from her since. Yet I’m still checking the damn thread every half hour, just to make sure I haven’t missed anything.

    Turns out I still haven’t. I’ve even checked to make sure I didn’t identally block her. Twice.

    Could you have thought of a less interesting response, fuckhead?

    Over myself, I drop my phone into my duffel bag with a frustrated sigh before heading through the yers’ parking lot to the tunnel that’ll bring me straight to the locker room.

    The closer I get to the tunnel, the more the nerves and excitement churn inside of me. This is my fifth year in the NFL and my third as starting quarterback—but the jittery feeling in my gut makes it feel like my very first game.

    How could it not? Thest time I yed on this field, I choked. Took the whole team down with me, and it sure as shit doesn’t help that the draw has us ying the same fucking team today. The Lightning.

    On the plus side, our team has been on fire in the preseason. Our offense is the best in the NFL, and our defense is almost as good. I can’t ask for more than that.

    Except maybe a text from a certain redheaded pop star. But since that ship seems to be sailing, I need to get my head out of my ass and into the game where it belongs.

    I run through our ys in my mind yet again. Make sure there’s nothing I missed because I can’t get Sloane Walker off my mind. Ay, Dios. I haven’t thought about a girl this much since Maria Garcia in the tenth grade.

    The whole thing makes me feel like a total jackass. Because even with the season, and this game in particr, loomingrge in pretty much my every waking moment, Sloane has still managed to creep in a ridiculous amount. And not just because abu Ximena hasn’t stopped raving about how fabulous she is.

    But not today. I give my body a quick shake, resetting my thoughts. My next hours belong to the team.

    No pop stars or poorly crafted texts.

    No sold-out stadiums, except for football games. And no stress over the fact that, once again, I’m going up against a quarterback I’ve idolized since I was thirteen years old. Hunter fucking Browning.

    Today isn’t about Hunter, though. It’s about me and the ybook. Me and the game. Me and the ball.

    I hit the warm-up room and do a quick three miles on the treadmill as ys fromst year’s Super Bowl run through my mind. I go over the Lightning’s most sessful defensive formations, one after another. Then I visualize myself evading them, including that damn zone blitz they like to throw in around the third quarter when they’re down a touchdown.

    I do a few stretches just to make sure everything’s nice and loose as I head down the hall to the locker room. A quick nce at my watch tells me I should have another half an hour or so before the others start straggling in. But as I pull open the door to the locker room, I find Marquis already there.

    My best friend is the best left tackle in the business, and judging from the look on his face, he’s been waiting for me. “What’s up, man? You ready for this?” I ask as I drop my bag on the padded bench in front of my locker.

    “Thought I’d ask you that,” he answers. “You’ve been off the past couple of days. Is it just nerves or something else?”

    “Off?” I repeat, more than a little insulted. “My throws have been as tight as—”

    “I’m not talking about your arm.” He narrows his eyes at me. “We’ve been friends since Cal, man. You think I don’t know when you’re in your head about something?”

    I don’t have an answer to that, mostly because he’s right. I am in my head. That’s why I’m here more than three hours early, doing all that visualization stuff the team therapist taught me. So I can try to get the fuck out of it.

    Marquis knows me well enough to recognize that silence means acquiescence, so instead of backing off, he decides to push. “So, you worried about Hunter or something? Because—no shit—you’re better than him.”

    “I wouldn’t say that, but no. I’m not worried about losing to the Lightning.” They’ll have to break both my arms on this field today before I let that happen.

    “Family?” he asks. The inner edges of his brows meld together as worry takes over. We’ve been friends long enough that my family is his family and vice versa. “Your abu’s okay? No one’s bothering your sis?”

    By “sis,” he means Lucia, and by “no one,” he means her asshole of an ex-boyfriend. He helped me set up the two of them during our junior year, and I know he takes the shit show their rtionship turned into almost as personally as I do. “Lucia’s fine. She’s dating a guy from herw school and seems really happy.”

    “That’s good.” He nods. “That’s real good. So who is she?”

    Now it’s my brows that scrunch together. “What makes you think there’s a woman?”

    Marquis appears surprised for a second, but then he shrugs. “Okay, who is he, then?”

    “That’s not what I meant.” I shoot him a look.

    He holds up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not judging. I’m just saying, if it was work, you’d tell me. The family’s fine, and it can’t be money, since you’re rich as fuck now. That leaves romance. So, who are they?”

    Ah, screw it. I can’t do any worse with his advice than I’ve done already. “She,” I finally say with a resigned shake of my head. “And I’m pretty sure who she is is part of the problem.”

    He goes from looking triumphant to confused in the space of a second. “Okay, I’m good, man, but I’m not that good. You’re going to have to give me a little more to go on if you want my help.”

    I’m not sure there’s anything he can do to help, but I catch him up anyway, because clearly I’m not doing too hot on my own.

    “Sloane Walker?” he yelps halfway through the story.

    “Yeah.”

    “The Sloane Walker? The singer?”

    “Yes, dude. The singer.” Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

    He looks dubious. “The one with a bunch of dead boyfriends? That Sloane Walker?”

    “Two,” I interrupt. “She has two dead boyfriends, not a bunch.”

    “Because that makes it better.” He shakes his head. “You sure you’re not auditioning to be Dead Guy Number Three?”

    “Pretty damn sure, Marquis.” It’s a shitty thing to say, and I know I sound as pissed off as I feel, even before he holds his hands up.

    “Okay, okay! Sorry, I had to ask.”

    I’m not so sure he did, but since he finally seems to be moving on, I don’t push it.

    “So you don’t even know if she’s getting the stuff you send?” he asks after a minute.

    I shake my head. “No, she definitely got the ice cream. She thanked me over text.”

    “Eyy, you got her number after all!” He ps me on the back, smiling. “I’m impressed. Lemme see. Maybe there’s some subtext or shit.”

    “It was six words, Marquis. Not a lot of room for subtext.” Cringing, I pull out my phone and swipe it open to my meager conversation with Sloane. Only to find that, after four damn days, she’s texted again.

    Sloane: Espresso

    Sloane: Sorry, just saw this

    What the ever-loving hell?

    “Wait, she’s texting you right now?” Marquis leans over my shoulder to watch the three little blue dots bounce across the screen as we wait for whatever she’s currently typing toe through.

    Except it never does. The dots bounce around for a moment, then disappear. Then bounce some more before disappearing again. I keep watching, but this time they stay gone.

    “That’s it?” Marquis sounds outraged on my behalf. “Espresso? That’s all she’s got after four days?”

    “Looks like.” Jesus. I waited four days for a shot of caffeine. “I’m definitely leaning toward her not being interested.”

    “Yeah, I can see that.” He nods. Terrific. He might as well punch me in the gut while he’s at it. “But she did answer your text when she didn’t have to,” he says, trying to cheer me up. Then ruins it again by adding, “I guess that’s not much constion.”

    “You saying it would console you?” I ask.

    “No, but I would ask her about it. See what she has to say.”

    “I’m trying not to freak her out. Thest thing she needs is some heavy-handed guy harassing her. I’m sure there are plenty in her fanbase already.”

    “Is that what you’re nning on doing?” He sounds skeptical. “Harassing her?”

    “You already know the answer to that,” I snap.

    “I do, but do you? She asked for your number. She texted you, then texted you back even if it took a while. So it’s not harassing to ask if she wants to chat sometime. If she says no, fine. Move on. But it doesn’t hurt to shoot your shot, especially after she reached out again, asme as it was.”

    I start to argue, but he cuts me off. “Either way, figure your shit out quick or Coach is going to be so far up your ass you’ll feel him for the rest of the season.”

    “No offense, Marquis, because I really do appreciate the talk. But I knew all this before we sat down.” I start to stand back up, hoping a quick half hour on the weights will help me get my head right, but he holds out a hand.

    “Chill, Sly,” he tells me with a shake of his head. “I’m justying out the facts while I think this through. The way I see it, you’ve got two options. One, you decide to forget about Sloane Walker, and in a few days you’ll be back to normal—”

    “I’m not so sure about that.”

    “Okay, maybe it’ll take more than a few days. But you’re not in love with her, right?”

    “I don’t even know her,” I tell him, though after what I saw in her eyes the night of the concert, that doesn’t seem quite right, either. I’d never admit it to him, but I definitely like her.

    “Exactly what I’m saying, and with these dry-ass texts, you’re not gonna get the chance to. So either you forget about her, or…”

    “Or what?” I ask warily, because my best friend is grinning like the devil himself.

    “Or you up the ante.”

    “Meaning what exactly? Punk out and try to have Vivian get in touch with her manager again?”

    “You could do that,” he agrees, but suddenly there’s a gleam in his eyes that tells me he’s got a much better idea—or a much worse one, depending on your perspective.

    “Or you could go bigger. After all, it’s a universally epted truth that women like to be wooed. So woo her.”

    “I’ve sent her flowers twice this week and followed them up with a hundred-dor ice cream sundae.”

    “That’s what I’m saying.” He makes an exploding gesture with his hands. “Sloane’s used to big. You need to go huge.”

    “You said bigger,” I shoot back, growing more suspicious by the second. “When exactly did bigger turn into huge?”

    “When I got involved, obviously.”

    I give him a quick side-eye. “You’re making me nervous.” Marquis isn’t exactly known for his subtlety.

    But he just grins and leans forward like a carnival barker hawking his wares. “Let me tell you my idea.” Before he can say anything else, though, the door to the locker room flies open and Jerry, one of the offensive coaches, walks in.

    “There you are, Sylvester. Mike wants to run through a few things before the reporters descend. Major talking points for the game and whatnot.”

    “Yeah, of course. I’m on my way.” I turn back to Marquis for a second. “Thanks for helping me get my head back on straight. I’ll catch youter, okay?”

    He grins. “Don’t worry about it, bro. I’ve got this.”

    I’m not sure what exactly he’s got, but I’m certain I’m going to have to talk him down from it. Still, with Jerry breathing down my neck, I don’t have time to ask. We can talk more after the game. I shove my phone in my pocket and follow Jerry to the team office.

    An hourter, I’m in front of the press, reassuring them that my arm’s the best it’s ever been and hitting all the talking points Coach wanted me to get in. An hour after that, I’m back on the treadmill, earphones in and headpletely in the game as I once again run y after y, oue after oue, in my mind.

    It isn’t until the game is about to start that I finallye face to face with Marquis again. “Don’t worry, Sly. I got your back,” he tells me as we cross to midfield.

    “I’ve got yours, too,” I say right before I call heads.

    We win the coin toss, and two minutester, the game starts with us on offense.

    It’s fast and intense. The Lightning haven’t won five of thest eight Super Bowls because they had a shit defense, that’s for sure, and I don’t even have time to think about Sloane again until right before halftime, when Marquis runs up to me.

    “You trust me, right?” he asks in a tone that suggests I absolutely should not.

    “Why?” I reply, rm coursing through me.

    He nods over my shoulder, shit-eating grin stered across his face. “Turn around and see for yourself.” There’s a gleam in his eyes, one that usually means I’m two seconds from disaster.

    I turn around slowly, feeling a bit like I’ve been dropped in a horror movie. When I do… When I do, everything in my head goes nk.

    Judging from the sudden silence of the crowd, followed by an overwhelming swell of cheers and screams and boos and hisses that goes on and on, they make sense of it at the same time I do.

    I whirl on the guy who’s been my best friend since the summer before our freshman year of college. “Holy shit, Marquis! What the fuck did you do?”

    “I upped the fucking ante.” His grin shines bright through his helmet. “I promise she won’t be able to ignore this.”