That Girl (That Girl, #1)(43)

“One hundred feet, turn right onto 3rd Avenue East.”

The second best feature on my phone is the map app. I’m freely walking to a destination, not worried about a route or which way to turn. I’m simply following the dot and listening for directions. Sounds silly, but it’s the best thing I’ve ever experienced. The screen shows I’m about three city blocks from the stadium.

Carloads of crazy fans have been screaming past me, blaring on their horns with their game day flags whipping in the wind. I’ve even had several fans holler, “Wilks kicks ass. Go number twenty-two.”

Each time, like a fool, I look around me to see if they’re talking to me. So far, the sidewalk has been lonely and free from others. The sound of a loud engine pulls up behind, and I can’t tell if they are stopping for traffic or actually stopping for me. Turning around, I see Monica’s face smiling from the passenger window. She’s dressed almost identically to me in team colors. Please keep driving. Please, please, please, just leave me alone.

The dreaded voice of Monica. “Don’t feel so badass out here on my turf, do you?”

The truck is now creeping along the sidewalk, matching my pace. I try to speed up and keep my eyes focused on the path ahead.

She snarls, “You’re trash, and he’ll throw you away soon enough.”

Turning to make eye contact while still walking, I finally speak up. “Enough. Leave me the f*ck alone. I’ve never done anything to you. Just leave me alone.”

Monica laughs, and I realize she’ll never give up on destroying me. Turning my attention back to the sidewalk, I catch the blur of a flying object heading toward me. I try to duck, but the hard object hits me in the side of the head, causing me to lose my balance and fall to the ground. The pavement tears up my knees when I hit the sidewalk. I feel the blood dribbling down my shins, and roll over to sit upright and look at the mess.

Just another set of scars to define me. In this moment, I want to run away once again. The urge is building up in my belly, and it will take only one more incident for me to finally cave in. I find a tissue in my purse and start to clean up the blood. The cuts and scrapes don’t want to quit bleeding, so I hold the tissue on them for a couple minutes. Looking at the time, I realize I have fifteen minutes to get to my seat before Lincoln takes the field, and if he doesn’t see me sitting in my seat I’ll ruin everything for him. Pulling out hand sanitizer and cringing like a wuss, I dab some on each knee and clean off the blood the best I can.



Jewels: Where are you?



Me: A couple blocks out.



Jewels: Street name.



Me: Ram Avenue.



Jewels: Keep walking toward stadium. Be there in a bit.



I don’t listen to Jewels, I run instead of walk, and I feel the pain each time my knees bend. The pain drives me to run faster. Nothing will stop me from getting to Lincoln’s game. My gut wants to run, so I will run, but not in the direction it’s indicating.

“Oakley, it’s me,” Jewels says waving from a lime green Volkswagen Bug.

I gasp, “We can’t miss kick-off.”

“Oh, honey, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ll have your ass in the stadium in five minutes.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, remembering why plan A got all screwed up.

“No, but I will be.”

An awkward silence takes over the tiny interior of the car, and I’m not quite sure what to say, so I say nothing. Jewels is right and has us parked within minutes. We both exit the car and take off for the stadium.

In a steady jog, Jewels finally gives in. “My dad told me to get an abortion or never come back home. He said he hasn’t driven long haul truck for the last twenty-eight years to raise a daughter who gets knocked up and drops out of college.”

This time I definitely have nothing to say, besides, “I’m so sorry, Jewels.”

She brushes one knuckle to catch moisture at the corner of her eye. “Thank God I have Heath.”

A few minutes later, I point and say, “Lincoln said to use gate B.”

Jewels is veering in a different direction. We are both now in a complete sprint.

“How many times has Lincoln watched a game?”

I can admit when I’m wrong. “Point well taken.”

We finally come to a stop underneath an enormous set of bleachers. It looks like it goes up at least twenty stories.

“Hey, Jewels,” a tall security guard says.

“Hey, Hank. We’re running late. Can you let us in, please?”

“You got tickets, then I’ll let you in.”

“Yep, we have Lincoln Wilks’ season tickets.”

“Hell, those seats have been empty forever, and they’re probably the best in the house. Go on in,” he says, swinging open the chain-link gate.

“We have one minute and thirty-two seconds to get to our seats before the team takes the field for introductions,” Jewels hollers over shoulder.

I hear the words, but I’m unable to process the meaning while dodging through the sea of people who have swarmed the stadium. Green and white everywhere, crazy wigs, face paintings, and shirtless men fill the area. Never in my life have I been around so many people, and I’m not talking hundreds, I’m saying thousands and thousands, from infants to grandpas.