The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (63)
“You know, kid, you’re lucky you’ve got friends in high places,” I comment, trying like hell to keep this conversation heading as far away from football-player butts as I can. “When I was your age, never in my life did I get to sit on the fifty-yard line at an NFL game. Hell, even as an adult, I wasn’t scoring these seats until your mom married Wes.”
She just shrugs off my comment and points toward a concession stand. “Hungry, Uncle Rem?”
“Is this your way of telling me I need to buy my date a hot dog?”
“I am hungry.” She smiles. “I would like a hot dog plus a soda plus a bag of M&M’s.”
“Man, you’re an expensive date,” I tease.
“$21.15.”
“What?”
“That’s how much it’ll be with tax,” she says, having already calculated the cost in her head. “And you should go on real dates, Uncle Rem. Not just pretend dates with me. That’s the only way you’ll find a potential partner.”
Oh, here we go again…
“How about we cool it on the Uncle Remy needs to find a potential partner thing for the rest of the game, and I’ll buy you two bags of M&M’s?”
“Then, it’ll be $26.72.”
“Fine by me.”
Candy for the win. And your mental sanity.
In the second quarter, Quinn Bailey throws a beautiful thirty-yard pass to Sean Phillips, who runs it another ten years into the end zone, and the Mavericks officially take the lead over Philly.
Both Lex and I jump from our seats, cheering and high-fiving each other as we watch Phillips showboat in the end zone with one of his signature dances.
“Looks like Phillips might hit his game average today, Lex,” I comment, and she grins like a little devil.
“He will.”
“Wait…what?” I question and tilt my head to the side. “Were you playing him back in the locker room?”
“What do you mean by ‘playing him’?”
“Were you messing with him when you were telling him statistically the odds were against him? Were you lying to him a little?”
“Oh,” she responds, and her mouth forms a little O. “Yeah, I think I was.” She shrugs as we sit back down in our seats. “Sean Phillips statistically plays his best game when he thinks he has something to prove.”
“I see,” I answer through a soft laugh. No wonder Wes loves when she talks to his players. She’s fucking brutal.
“Uncle Rem, I need to run to the bathroom.”
“Oh, okay,” I say and start to stand up, but she lifts one hand toward me.
“I can go by myself.”
Well, shit. That’s a new one.
“Are you sure? Because I can go—”
“I’ll be back in about…” She pauses and glances at her watch. “Five minutes, if the bathroom line is the usual forty-five-second wait. And I have my phone if you get worried. Though, the probability that something could happen to me on the way to the bathroom in the middle of a stadium with security at every entrance and exit is around 0.0001 percent.”
I quirk an amused eyebrow. “I take that as you telling me not to worry?”
“Yes.”
“Well, okay then,” I tell her and stand up from my seat to let her pass by me. “I’ll give you six minutes, but after that, I’m most definitely calling you.”
She snorts and rolls her eyes heavenward. “Fine.”
As I watch her walk up the stadium steps, I can’t stop myself from thinking about how it wasn’t that long ago that Lexi wouldn’t have gone to the bathroom by herself. Hell, she wouldn’t have done a lot of things by herself.
But now, she’s a girl who wants independence and notices football players’ butts.
Sheesh. Where did the time go?
I turn my attention back to the game, and when the Mavericks force Philly to a fourth-down punt, I find myself pulling my phone out of my pocket and checking for any missed messages or calls.
But the odd sensation of disappointment fills my gut when all I find is one text from the illustrious Cleo and a boatload of messages within the group chat with my brothers.
I prioritize by level of sanity, checking the least crazy first.
C: Memories are there for a reason.
Looks like she’s back at it again…
I almost want to laugh. I know exactly what she’s trying to do, but I’m not taking the bait today. Quickly, I shift into my brothers’ chat.
Ty: Fifty bucks says Bailey hits Mitchell for a TD.
Ty: PS: Remy, when and where are we meeting tonight?
Jude: Yeah, Rem. What’s the plan? And you’re wrong, Ty. He’s going to Phillips.
Ty: So…you’re taking that bet?
Jude: Of course I fucking am.
Three minutes later, Jude was gloating like a prick when Phillips scored that touchdown.
Jude: HAHAHAHAHAHA TOUCHDOWN! PHILLIPS IN THE END ZONE! You owe me fifty bucks, sucka!
Jude: Oh, and hey, Remy, if I don’t hear from you by the time this game is over, I’m coming to your place.
Ty: I second this plan.
Flynn: I am not a part of this plan.
Finally caught up on all the message, and while I appreciate Flynn’s solidarity, I’m actually good with their plan. It’ll be better for me in the long run if I just get it over with rather than suffer through thousands of text messages like these.