Fumbled (Playbook #2)(40)
Ugh. Like looking like me wouldn’t be even better? Brat.
I clear my throat and pull her shell-shocked face back to mine. “Where are we supposed to go?”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Her painted smile is back on her face. “Just follow this sidewalk and you’ll come to a set of stairs. Once you go down the stairs, you can go two ways. Right will take you toward the field. We have tents set up behind the fields for you to watch your players at camp. There’s food and drinks available and fans so you don’t die from heat exhaustion. If you go left, that will take you to a gate so you can join the rest of the spectators. There are games and bounce houses for the kids. Just make sure you don’t lose your family credentials. Without them, you won’t be able to come back in. After practice is over, the players will have an hour or two of free time in which they’ll be able to see you before heading back to the hotel for team meetings.”
I take in the bucket of information she just dumped on me and pray I can retain it all. “Left, spectators. Right, family. Got it.” God. Is there an option three for isolation?
“And if you need anything else, I’ll be right around here, so just holler at me.”
“Will do.” I try to smile, but the knots in my stomach make it impossible. I wasn’t even this nervous my first shift at the Emerald Cabaret. Why does this seem so intimidating? “Thanks, Jane.”
“Yeah, thanks, Ms. Jane,” Ace says like they’re old friends.
This time, as we start moving, Ace doesn’t sprint forward and we walk together.
I guess this is it. No more procrastinating.
Time to see what this NFL crazy world is really like.
Eighteen
It doesn’t take long before two perfectly maintained fields appear in front of us. The steady hum of noise grows into a roar, and we’re specks in the middle of a sea of blue and orange. Navy blue helmets with an orange stripe down the center bob around in groups spread across the fields. Wearing full pads and uniforms, the players are ready to put on a show for the thousands of fans who braved the traffic and heat to catch a glimpse of their favorite athletes.
Ace’s steps stutter beside me as we approach the set of cement stairs leading down to the madness.
Sensing his nerves starting to take over, I squeeze his hand in mine. “You ready?”
“I guess so.” The enthusiasm he’s been toting around for the last week is almost completely diminished, which means one thing—I have to act like an actual grown-up and ease his fears, even though I feel like throwing up or running away . . . or maybe both.
“Then move it, Patterson.” I walk down the steps, pulling him with me. “Which way are we going to go?”
Please say left. Please say left. Please say left!
“Ummm . . .” His eyes shift from side to side between the overwhelming crowd fighting to get the best view of the field and the calm of the white tent, where a few small children are running around in circles just outside the makeshift door. “Right.”
Mother sucker! I bite the inside of my cheek and nod my head, turning on a rubber heel toward the tent of affluence.
We make it to the tent, and I can feel that when Jane said they had fans, she meant they had an industrial air conditioner. A cool breeze blasts out of the opening, causing goose bumps to cover my bare arms and legs, and even Ace rubs his hands along his exposed arms.
I walk inside first, too focused on Ace’s hesitant steps to notice eyes swinging our way and the quick lull in the conversation floating around. As soon as he steps inside, a group of kids, mostly younger than him, run right to him.
“I’m Jagger. What’s your name?” a boy who’s probably around seven and wearing jean shorts and a Mustangs jersey like I’ve never seen before asks him.
“Ace.” He answers the question I hope he’s prepared to answer all day.
“Hi, Ace,” Jagger says, his brown eyes smiling and his brown skin flushed even in the chill of the tent. “We’re gonna go play tag, do you wanna play with us?”
Ace looks to me before he answers and I nod my head encouragingly even though I want him at my side.
“Sure,” Ace says. The smile that disappeared moments ago returns full force. He yanks off his family pass and shoves it in my hands before he runs off with his new friend and leaves me alone.
Well, damn.
I look around the tent, now very aware of being alone and new. It’s like high school all over again . . . but worse. Even though the air conditioning has me wishing I brought a sweater, my palms are sweating and my cheeks are flaming hot.
The front of the tent is open, giving everyone a clear view of the practice fields. There’s a table in the corner covered with sandwiches, salads, chips, and all sorts of goodies. Considering I’m already on the verge of emptying my breakfast all over the floor, I skip it, but I do grab a bottle of water from one of the many fully stocked coolers lining the back “wall.” Plastic tables and chairs are scattered about and cheers from outside fill the space, giving me the false hope of flying under the radar.
I find an open table near the back of the tent and take in the scene in front of me. It’s like watching a Bravo TV show being filmed live. Women with their hair straightened or curled to perfection move from table to table, giving air kisses and hugs to old friends. Their glossed lips, contoured faces, and false lashes are a stark contrast to my bargain bronzer and drugstore mascara. And don’t even get me started on their outfits. The few who are wearing Mustangs gear have their shirts cut and sewn into body-hugging masterpieces. Designer jeans cover every set of legs, and I’m the only person in the room in flip-flops. High heels and red-bottom soles bounce in the plastic chairs as they animatedly fill each other in on their off-season adventures. Diamond rings wink and sparkle from every angle . . . even in the shade.