“As far as you’re concerned, it’s Mrs. Ralston and back the fuck up while you’re at it,” Ryan said, waving him off.
Oh. So…we really are practicing tonight.
It was going to take me a minute to get used to this.
“Excuse me but did you just sayMrs. Ralston?” Bigelow cried.
“When did that happen?” Wilcox asked.
“Soon enough,” Ryan replied.
“Can I be the ring bearer?” McKerry asked. “I’m being so for real—you know I’d be good at it.”
“Can we focus on me, please?” Hersberler clapped his hands together. “I’m the one in crisis here. If that story gets out and I’m traded to Chicago, I’ll never play again.”
My father had a bit of a reputation. He wasn’t known for being the warmest, fuzziest guy. He was great to those who played well for him, but he could be mean, petty, and vindictive. He would waste a trade on benching an all-star player likeHersberler if he thought it proved a point or fucked someone else over.
“As much fun as we had here tonight with this little story,” I said, “I can’t think of a single reason why I’d ever tell another soul about you and your pumpkin spice sparkle. Least of all my father. I rarely talk to him about anyone’s dick. It’s kind of a rule I have.”
“Thank you,” Hersberler said, “but if?—”
“Calm the fuck down, man,” Ryan said to him. “If you’d stopped dicking around with your contract, you wouldn’t need to worry about ending up in Chicago. Solve some of your own fucking problems and leave my girl out of it, all right?”
“That makes you a princess,” McKerry said suddenly, glancing around to the other guys. “She’s the princess—of football. Right?” He nodded vigorously, sending his loose bow tie flying like small, useless wings. “Am I wrong? She’s our princess.” He slapped a hand to his forehead. “I just told the princess about Pumpkin Dick. I saidjerking offto the princess. Multiple times.”
I smiled though I didn’t mean it. I was hardly a princess in my father’s world. I was barely the princess of my own apartment.
“You did,” Wilcox said, slapping him on the back. “Well done, dude.”
“If I was gonna talk about dick to the gridiron princess,” Bigelow said, “I’d make sure it was my own and not fuckin’ Hersberler’s jack-o-lantern shit.”
“I seriously hate you guys,” Hersberler muttered.
“You love us so much,” McKerry said, pulling him into a rowdy embrace.
A photographer stopped by then and corralled us into a group shot. Ryan and I stood on the end, his chest warm and solid at my back and his hands on my waist. “If we aren’tinside an elevator in the next minute, I’m throwing you over my shoulder and running for the stairs. Just keep your head down. You’ll be fine.”
“You don’t want to hang with the team for a bit?”
His hands flexed on my waist. “Why? I hang out with them enough. Do you need more dick stories? Because they have them.”
“I’ve probably had enough dick for tonight, thanks.”
Beside me, Wilcox busted into laughter and took McKerry and Bigelow down with him. Hersberler made a beeline for the bar. To the photographer, Ryan said, “Thanks for your time. Have a good night.”
After another round of man-hugs punctuated by McKerry’s incessant giggling, we stepped into the elevator. Ryan pulled me up against him, my back tucked tight to his chest. I startled when he slung an arm low across my waist. There was no one around to see this.
He pointed his phone at the mirrored doors and snapped a few photos. “Pick one,” he said.
I swiped back and forth through the photos, zooming in on the tiny differences in each. His fingers were splayed wider across my belly in one, my lips were parted like I was gasping in another. My chin was tipped at a strange angle or there was the slightest hint of a smile on his face. But more than any of those barely noticeable details, we looked like we were together. Like I was meant to fit up against his body this way and his hand belonged on my hip and the hunger in his gaze was real.
“This one,” I said, tapping that smile of his as the doors opened at the lobby.
We headed toward the sidewalk where Bowen and the SUV sat waiting for us. “I’m picking you up and putting you in the car,” Ryan said. “Consider this fair warning.”
“The rest of my dresses need to have full range of motion,” I said as we reached the hotel doors. “If I can’t kick and squat and lunge, I’m not wearing it.” I rustled the sequined fabric. “Maybe I just need a slit up the thigh. That would’ve made a huge difference.”
“Don’t do that to me,” Ryan murmured as he scooped me up and dropped me in the seat before jogging around the car and sliding in on the opposite side. “The North End,” he said to Bowen.
