Page 46 of Bluffed By the Offense

I know Kate wants us to let the rumors run their course—especially because they’re harmless. I agreed, but I’m still not so sure. Porch Light is about the people Cass is trying to help, not me or my image. And I don’t like feeling like I have to keep things quiet when I’m talking to the guys about Cass.

As if on cue, my phone rings. Kate. Again.

“Kate. Long time no talk,” I say, holding a finger up to the guys and stepping toward the rear of the bus again.

“Yeah, well … get used to hearing from me for the next little bit here. I just got a call from Elsbeth Cowell, the head of the Thunder Foundation. She wanted to know about your attendance to the Night of Thunder silent auction and fundraiser dinner for youth sports.”

“I’ll be there. I already RSVP’d. I wouldn’t miss it. Coach expects me there, but it’s also a cause close to my heart.”

“I know. That’s not what I’m calling about.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’ll just cut to the chase. You need to bring Cass—as your date.”

My mouth pops open. I picture asking Cass and her legitimately plotting my death for even approaching her.

“This is coming from Elsbeth?”

“Well, yes and no. She reached out to ask about you and Cass. But then I got to thinking, if the Thunder hosts an event where players bring their partners or significant others, and you show up solo, the rumor could spread that you are broken up. That would not be a good look.”

“If I bring her, I will be essentially saying we're dating.”

Kate doesn’t even give that thought a minute to land before she says, “It is what it is. Do you like the alternative?”

I scrub my hand down my face. “How do you suggest I pitch this to Cass?”

I can’t believe I’m even agreeing to this, let alone considering approaching Cass about it.

“You don't have to,” Kate says. “I'll do you a solid. Cass has been to see me about Porch Light. I'll call her to follow up on a few things I need to nail down with her anyway, and then I'll slip the gala into the conversation.”

“You're a lifesaver,” I say, blowing out a breath.

“Thank me now and later,” Kate says. And then the line clicks.

We lost our preseason game. At home. The outcome doesn’t go towards our ranking, but it still messes with my head. All day I’ve been running through the game, play-by-play, asking myself what we can do differently going forward. Our position coaches worked out the kinks in practice. Then we ran film and had strategy sessions.

I stop by the grocery on my way home to grab a few steaks for dinner.

I’m deciding between a NY strip and a T-bone when a man walks up next to me.

“Excuse me,” he says. “Marcus Delaney?”

“Yeah,” I say, turning to him and putting a smile on my face.

Fans matter. On days like today, I’d rather not be recognized. But I suck it up and shake the man’s hand when he extends it.

“My son’s a huge fan,” the man says. He holds out a cereal box. “I don’t have anything else on me. Could you sign our Cheerios?”

I chuckle softly. It’s not the weirdest thing someone’s ever asked me to sign.

The man hands me a Sharpie.

“No paper, but you’ve got a Sharpie?” I ask.

“Got it from the butcher.”

“Ahh.” I hold the box and scrawl out Delaney #4 on it.