Page 3 of Praised By the Cornerback

His mouth twitches. “Interesting choice of words from a receiver I held to sixty-two yards.”

“Oh, we’re doing stats,” Cole cuts in, delighted. “Now we’re talking.”

“He started it,” Vega says, still looking at me.

I give him my brightest grin, the one that usually gets me out of trouble or into it, depending on the situation. This is what we do. He’s a cornerback, I’m a receiver. We spent three hours today lined up across from each other, talking shit and trying to make each other miserable.

And I won’t lie, it feels good to smile at him from the winning side.

The waitress returns with more drinks. Santos launches into a story about their defensive coordinator’s halftime speech, and even Harlow cracks up. Santos is funnier than I expected, self-deprecating enough to put everyone at ease, and I find myself actually enjoying the conversation.

Can’t say the same about Vega.

Vega is weird. He participates just enough not to seem rude, but mostly he observes, watching everyone with his dark eyes. It’s impossible to tell what he thinks, and it unnerves me.

It isn’t long before a group of fans in Knights jerseys appears at the entrance to the VIP zone, lingering hopefully. Harlow catches a guard’s eye and motions for him to let them through. They come over to our table, phones out, asking for photos. We oblige, because that’s part of the job, and I slip into entertainer mode easily. Smile, arm around shoulders, make them feel like they’re part of the moment.

One of the girls looks around our group with wide eyes. “Where’s Kane Dalton?”

“He’s not here tonight,” Harlow says smoothly.

Her face falls. “Oh. That’s too bad. He’s my favorite. Can you tell him—” She launches into a long-winded compliment about his route running, and I tune out halfway through because I’ve heard variations of this speech about a hundred times.

When she finally leaves, I raise my glass. “Well, fuck WR2, I guess.”

“Aww,” Cole says, reaching over to pat my cheek. “You’ll always be our number-one class clown, baby.”

I laugh because that’s what I do, and anyway, he’s not wrong. I catch Vega watching the exchange with that unreadable expression, his eyes tracking the movement of Cole’s hand.

We fall back into easy conversation. Santos has this way of pulling stories out of people, and before long the whole table’s loud again. Cole and Santos realize they had the same position coach in college and spend a minute roasting him. Rhodes and Santos square off over the best postgame meal, neither willing to concede.

Harlow checks his phone for the third time in ten minutes and stands. “I’m heading out.”

“Hot date?” I ask.

“I’ve got a FaceTime with Bennett.”

“By FaceTime you mean video sex?”

Harlow doesn’t dignify that with a response, just gives me a look that could mean anything from “shut up” to “you’re not wrong” and leaves.

Which leaves me with Rhodes, Cole, Santos, and Vega, and somehow the table splits in two. Rhodes, Cole, and Santos get into an argument about some trade rumor, one I have no interest in joining, leaving me and Vega sitting across from each other in our own pocket of silence.

I lean forward. “Come on, Vega. Give me something. I know you’ve been thinking about me since the game ended.”

“Unfortunately,” he says.

I grin. “I knew it. You can’t stop thinking about that route I ran in the third quarter, can you? The one where I left you in the dust.”

Vega doesn’t take the bait. He just watches me, calm and unhurried, then asks, “Why do you keep volunteering for those blocks?”

I blink. “What?”

His voice drops lower, forcing me to lean in to hear him over the music. “Most receivers avoid contact whenever possible. You seem to go looking for it.”

“Somebody’s got to do it,” I say, shrugging like it’s nothing. Like I haven’t spent my entire career being the guy who does the shit nobody else wants to do.

“Yeah,” Vega says, thoughtful. “But you always do. Like a Boy Scout.”