The Baller: A Down and Dirty Football Novel(75)

The kid nodded, even though he had no idea who the boy on my shoulders was.

“You sign too, little fish.”

“I don’t know how to write my name in script.”

“Just fake it. That’s what I do. Scribble a lot.”

Guppy balanced the pad on top of my head and did as I told him. The crowd got a kick out of it. We signed for fifteen minutes and then went inside before I got fined for being late to the pre-event team meeting.

I handed Grouper and the guppies VIP badges to wear around their necks and fan admission tickets. “Back here at six?”

“You got it, boss.”

“Boss? Now you’re talking.” I grinned at Grouper. “I like it.”

***

Fifteen minutes before the event was to start, I stood alone in a luxury box high above the swarm of people on the arena floor. I looked out through the glass window and sipped from my water bottle. Both sides of the arena were lined with booths set up for each of the starting players to sit in. Microphones dangled from wires high above the ground, and I knew from experience that crowds of reporters would soon be yelling their questions and shoving even more microphones in our faces.

This week was the pinnacle of what every player worked for—making it to the Super Bowl. Yet I hadn’t felt like celebrating with the rest of the team after our meeting. Instead, I’d ducked into the first private area I could find so that I could take a few minutes to look for her. It had been ten long days since I’d seen her face, and I would take whatever glimpse I could get. Now I knew what a fan felt like stalking a player.

Part of me was still pissed at her for saying she didn’t love me. But a bigger part of me didn’t believe it was true. Her eyes had said something different than her lying lips. After my anger had subsided, I’d replayed the last few months over and over in my head. A wounded chick playing a mix tape that her ex made her before he dumped her had nothing on me. The only good thing was, every time I was exhausted at practice, I thought of that douchebag Langley with his hand on my girl’s back, and I suddenly had a fresh burst of energy. Angry energy, but it worked at my job.

Finding her in the crowd of thousands took less than a minute. I guzzled the last of my water bottle, following her with my eyes. She was wearing a black dress, a fitted red blazer, and had on high-heeled black leather boots that came up to meet the hem of her dress. Sexy as all f*ck, while showing barely any skin.

Suddenly she stopped walking and looked up, scanning the arena as if searching for something. When her eyes found mine, even across half a stadium, it was all the sign I needed. This shit was not over. And I was going to find out once and for all why she was pretending it was.





Chapter 41


Delilah

I’d thought about calling Brody dozens of times over the last week. Even called up his contact on my phone on more than one occasion, but each time I only ended up staring at his name. What would I say? There wasn’t much that I remembered clearly from that last night in the hotel room, but the way he looked when I told him I didn’t love him back was burned into my memory. It was the one thing I didn’t want to remember, and yet the only thing that kept haunting me.

You know that feeling you get when someone is watching you? Well, multiply the intensity of that times a thousand, and that’s what made me look up. I felt it in my bones, in the acceleration of my heartbeat, in the sheen of sweat that broke out on my skin. The question was definitely not Is Brody looking at me? The only question was Where is he watching from? It didn’t take me long to find out, and I couldn’t look away, even when I should have. When he turned away without looking back again, it was like pouring salt on an open wound that refused to heal.

Staring up at an empty luxury box, I paid no attention as I walked. The mass of people swarmed in all different directions, and I smacked straight into the back of another reporter. It had to be Angie Snow of all people.

“Delilah Maddox.” Her smile was sugary sweet, but the intonation in her tone was false.

“Angie. How are you?” There were very few women in the world of men’s professional sports. It wasn’t like we had a club or anything, yet we all knew each other’s names and faces. I’d met Angie at an event a few years back. We were both covering college games still.

“I’m good. A little disappointed, though.”

“Disappointed?”

“Easton. You’re a lucky girl. I thought you were done with him, and he was back on the market. I didn’t realize you were still together.”

I’d had my nails done that morning. The thought of getting them shaved into sharp points next time suddenly popped into my head. “We’re not together anymore.”

“Oh. Good to know.” She smiled, and I folded my fingers into my hand, digging my nails into my skin. “Well. Good luck today.” The blonde bombshell flipped her hair and turned to walk away.

“Wait. Angie. What made you think we were still together?”

“Well, usually when a cowboy shows me his horse, he lets me take a ride on it.”

I cringed. “And Brody didn’t?”

“Wrapped the towel back around his waist after he intentionally let it fall. And after my interview, when I suggested he give me a private viewing of what was under the towel again—alone at my place that night—he blew me off.”