Misadventures of a College Girl (Misadventures #9)(59)

“Consider that interception already in the books.”

I sigh into the phone. “Good luck. I’ll be sending you all my positive juju.”

“Good luck to you, too, baby. Or, rather, break a leg.”

“Thanks. And, please, for the love of God, don’t you do the same.”

“No worries. Tyler Caldwell is invincible.”

I chuckle. Yep, it’s definitely game day—the one day of the week Tyler talks about himself in third person.

“I’ll text you after I’ve watched the full game,” I say.

“Call me, instead. Win or lose, I’ll want to hear your voice.”

My heart skips a beat. What is this? Yet another first. “Okay. I will.”

“I’ll talk to you later, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Bye.”

“Bye, cupcake. Talk to you later.”

We hang up.

I love you, Tyler.

I text him a little football followed by a heart, and two seconds later, he replies with his usual text to me—a beaver and a heart. Well, actually, it’s not technically a beaver. It’s a squirrel. But I know exactly what Tyler means, without him needing to explain it to me. There’s no beaver on the emoji menu, so that beautiful boy is simply making do as best he can.





Chapter Thirty-Seven





I lean forward toward the TV screen. We’re seven minutes into the first quarter. The Chargers’ pass was tipped at the line, and now it’s gracelessly wobbling through the air. Out of nowhere, Tyler leaps across the screen, a blur of aqua and orange.

Tyler comes down with the ball, and I squeal with glee. He’s on the run, cradling the ball in his bent arm. He dodges a running back’s sorry excuse for a tackle. And then an offensive lineman’s. Finally, he makes the quarterback look like a fool, son! And now he’s free and clear and streaking down the sideline toward the Promised Land…Touchdown!

Tyler’s teammates converge on him in the end zone. But just before they reach him, Tyler turns directly to the nearest camera, brings the football horizontally up to his facemask, and moves it back and forth across his face like he’s gnawing voraciously on it.

I clutch my heart. Oh, my God.

The TV commentator laughs uproariously. “What in the heck is Tyler Caldwell doing? Eating corn on the cob?”

“Maybe he’s telling the world he’s eating the Chargers for lunch,” the other commentator suggests.

“See, this is a perfect example of why I’m so glad they’ve relaxed the ‘no celebration’ rule in the NFL,” the first commentator says. “Football should be fun, for Pete’s sake. It’s entertainment. And nobody knows how to entertain better than Tyler Caldwell. That guy…”

I’ve stopped listening. Indeed, I’ve stopped breathing. That was it. My sign. All this time, I’ve been waiting for a sign from the universe that our time had finally arrived. That suddenly, things would click for Tyler and me and become easy. But, out of nowhere, I understand that to make this work, Tyler and I are going to have to take matters into our own hands. That it’s not going to be easy. It’s going to be hard. And that’s okay. Screw waiting for the stars to uncross themselves. Fuck the stars. Tyler and I love each other. And that’s all that matters. Easy. Hard. It doesn’t matter. We’re meant to be.

“Zooey!” my castmate calls to me, popping her head into the small sitting room. “Show time!”

I turn off the TV with a shaky hand. Yes. I’m going to go out on that stage and perform in this matinee and the minute I get offstage, I’m going to call Tyler and tell him what I’ve decided. He’s mine and I’m his, and it’s always been that way and always will be. I want him and no one else, and nothing else matters. Let the chips fall where they may. When my contract is done in three months, I’m not going to renew. I’m going to move to Miami and live with the love of my life and have faith the rest will take care of itself. New York is only a three-hour flight from Miami, for crying out loud. I don’t need to give up on my dreams to be with the man of my dreams. I just need to be willing to commute.





Chapter Thirty-Eight





I practically sprint offstage after the curtain call and beeline to the dressing room. I can’t wait to call Tyler and tell him about my preshow epiphany. Before calling, though, I click into the ESPN app on my phone and check the final score of his game. Shit. The Dolphins lost in overtime by three points.

“Damn,” I whisper softly.

I click on a link to see an overview of the game highlights and gasp at the horrific words on my screen.

FS Tyler Caldwell injured 2nd quarter. Knee. Torn MCL and ACL. Confirmed out for remainder of season.

I burst into tears. “Tyler. Oh, my God, no.”





Chapter Thirty-Nine





I walk quietly into the hospital room, my stomach twisted into vicious knots. Tyler’s lying on top of a metal-framed bed, his muscular body splayed out. He’s got some sort of motorized contraption on his left knee. His dad and sister are sitting in a corner, looking wiped out while Tyler listens intently to some guy in a white lab coat speaking to him in hushed tones. I can only imagine what dire things the guy is saying to Tyler—from what I’ve been able to find out from Google, more often than not, Tyler’s type of knee injury is career-ending for most professional football players.