Page 29 of Playing for Love

Mia

To say I was excited to go to the game would have been like saying a kid felt okay waking up Christmas morning. Denise picked me up because she had a special parking pass for the VIP lot and we would arrive an hour early. Even so, I had paced around my living room drinking coffee all morning, watching NFL Network and pregame shows, working myself up into a frenzy.

With my Tate Fontanna jersey on—a gift from him sent over yesterday morning—and temporary tattoos of the Boston Militia logo on my cheeks, a jeans skirt and Sketcher slip-ons, I was ready to go well before Denise arrived. She’d called from her car out front so I ran down and jumped in with my small bag and a sign I’d prepared rolled up into a tube.

“Look at you, all decked out like a true fan.” She laughed at me. She wore her number eleven Wyatt jersey and white jeans, but she had no tattoos and no banners anywhere I could see. I tossed mine into the back seat.

“You’re driving Gabe’s car,” I said. “His Escalade.”

“Sure. Why not? He got a ride with Hunter and Cat to the stadium earlier.”

“Hunter Quintanna?”

“Don’t go all fan-girl on me now? What’s with you? You act like you’re now just realizing who we’re dating.”

“I’m not dating anyone,” I said, not sure why I needed to make the distinction. Maybe because she had a four-year relationship with Gabe and I had had less than four dates with Tate. It hardly seemed comparable.

“Sure you are. Not that I’d wish it on my best friend, but there are perks to dating an NFL player and today is one of them. We’ll get VIP treatment, as if we’re celebrities or something. TV cameras on us, fans staring, sometimes I’ve even had young men ask for my autograph. As if.” Denise laughed as she drove, the navigator telling her where to turn.

“If you say so, but that’s not what I’m excited about, Denise. Unlike you, I love football. Adore it. I’m excited to watch the game, super excited to have people on the team to cheer for. It makes the stakes higher than ever, sends my emotional investment in the Militia winning through the roof.” I looked at her as she focused on the traffic, realizing how little she cared. Realizing how foreign to me her attitude was. I waved a hand. “Never mind.”

“I get it. I don’t feel the same way, but I understand,” she said. “I’d have preferred if Gabe was a professional golfer if he had to be a professional athlete. But really, I’d prefer if he had more time for me.”

The sadness in her voice tugged at me. It was genuine and a rare vulnerable moment for Denise. She hated being vulnerable, always played the part of super competent, super in control, superwoman. I reached over and touched her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Denise. It’s not forever. Football careers are the shortest of all professional athletes.”

She snorted and then got that thoughtful dangerous look like she was scheming something. I knew her too well.

“What?” I said.

“Do me a favor?”

A red flag of nerves told me I should say no, but I had no right. Besides, how bad could it be? I was already playing her watch dog.

“You know I will.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate.” She kept her eyes on the traffic, but she put a hand over mine and at the same time trepidation rose like yesterday’s bad meal, a well of sympathy overshadowed it because I could clearly see my best friend was hurting.

A few beats went by, but I didn’t prompt her, just squeezed her hand back.

She finally asked me her favor and it put me in shock, the kind where I had to immediately push it aside, push aside the knowledge that I’d agreed to do it, and especially push aside the guilt that deep down I wanted to do it.

We drove the rest of the way listening to the radio. She let me tune in the pregame show, accusing me of acting a lot like her little brother. I didn’t care. My nerves were hyped like I’d drunk a gallon of espresso.

We drove the rest of the way listening to the radio. She let me tune in the pregame show, accusing me of acting a lot like her little brother. I didn’t care. My nerves were hyped like I’d drunk a gallon of espresso.

When we pulled into the stadium past the lot, the sight of an endless stretch of cars and tailgaters eating and drinking and tossing footballs tugged at me. I was almost disappointed we weren’t joining them.

“Don’t worry. We’ll go to the VIP lounge for our pregame refreshments. Inside a nice air-conditioned place on this hot day.” She patted my leg and gave me a smirk.

“Am I underdressed?”

“No, you’re perfect. Look at me—we’re a pair. We’re the girlfriends. We can wear whatever we want and fit in.”

“Will Gabe’s family be there?”

“They’re tailgating outside. Mrs. Wyatt loves to cook.” Denise rolled her eyes.