Page 110 of Bluffed By the Offense

Cass: No calling me Carter. Also, no kissing unless necessary. You’ve got two major infractions.

Marcus: I think you broke that rule too. I feel thoroughly kissed.

She doesn’t answer. Did I push it too far? I’m about to text her, to backpedal to move us onto more familiar and safer ground. But then three dots appear, followed by her response.

Cass: I did it for Winona.

A laugh bursts out of me. My driver glances back. We make eye contact and then I go back to my phone.

Marcus: For Winona? Okay. Let’s go with that.

When she doesn’t answer, I text her again. As much as I want to keep things light and dismiss the way her kiss impacted me, I care about Cass. And I don’t want to upset her.

Marcus: Are you okay?

She said she had nerves before the interview, but she usually seems able to push past them, except in the Seatrain. Something was off with her this morning. As irrational as the instinct may be, I want to fix it, to comfort her, to make everything alright for her.

Cass: I’m fine. You?

Marcus: My lips won’t ever be the same.

She’ll think I’m joking. I’m not.

I need to make sense of this … of her … of us. Not that there is an us to make sense of.

Cass: I think bleach might help. That’s my plan.

Marcus: You want to bleach away my kiss?

Cass: It wasn’t an entirely bad kiss. But it should never have happened. And it won’t happen again. We’re faking here, Delaney. Kissing isn’t a part of the deal.

Her words feel like a slap in the face. First of all, our kiss was nowhere near “not entirely bad,” and she knows it. But the reminder that we’re faking? I should expect it. Still, it stings.

I wanted clarity. I got it.

My unexpected feelings for Cass are not reciprocated. I need to get a hold of myself.

We’re faking here. That’s my new mantra. I’m in season. I need to get my head off my fake girlfriend and back in the game.

Marcus: Yeah. We’re faking. Kissing isn’t part of the deal—unless it’s necessary.

Cass: It isn’t necessary. Now go watch film and get ready to beat the Titans.

Marcus: Yes ma’am.

I pocket my cell. Kissing isn’t necessary. So why am I trying to concoct scenarios where I can kiss her again?

I shake my head lightly to dislodge those thoughts and then I ask my Uber driver, “Are you a Nashville native?”

He perks up. “Born and raised. And I’m a big Thunder fan, Mr. Delaney.”

I’m sitting on the couch in my hotel room running through strategies for tomorrow’s game. The Titans have some strong recruits this year. But with so many newer players, it leaves things up in the air for them. Will the team gel? Can they find their rhythm and play off one another’s strengths? Their defense has the speed they need. Our offensive linemen are going to have to double down to protect me. I’m making notes on a pad of paper I always bring with me when I travel.

I’ve been so engrossed in strategizing, I’ve lost track of time since I got back here after the interview. I ordered room service and pulled up YouTube on the big screen. I’ve been watching fan footage of the Titans’ open practices for any tells as to their weaknesses or plays they might be working on.

The door to my room swings open and Treyvon bursts through.

“Heyyyyy movie star! Saw your ugly mug on the morning show. Your girlfriend was looking like a snack. She kept staring at you with that look—you know the one. The Marcus Delaney is my world kind of glow. I was eating that stuff up.”