CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Fresh pasta and cheese smells waft their way from the counter where Ryland piles food on our plates. The red and white striped banners in front of Tony’s Pasta Palace are so close, less than a fifteen-minute walk from our building, but we do not eat there enough.
He’s in jeans today and has been since we went to Vegas. His ass looks nice in the fitted dark wash denim, better than the loose workout pants or basketball shorts he wears the most. A simple grey long sleeve t-shirt stretches at his shoulders. Ryland’s back side is a great view to have.
“What’s the Internet saying about us today?” Ryland slides a plate across the countertop to where I sit, waiting to be fed.
I push the side button turning my phone screen black and tuck it back in my pocket. “Nothing.” His fork stops midway to his mouth. Busted. With a sigh I answer, “I'm still a gold digger you married in a drunken night in Vegas. Your latest stunt in a career of mistakes fed by wild nights and alcohol.”
He flinches. Maybe I should have left out the “wild nights” stuff.
“Seriously, don’t read anymore. It will get worse when I join a new team, and you’ll get to a point you don’t want to get up in the morning.”
Little does he know it can’t be worse than a coworker from the fourth floor breaking out into tears as we rode the elevator together this morning. She yelled at me for stealing the sports industry’s most eligible bachelor from all the acceptable women in the world. Leaving the area sounds better each day.
I blow across my forkful of pasta and twirl it around to wrap up the cheese. “Have you heard from any teams?” Ryland’s been quiet the last few days when it comes to talking about playing.
“No. My agent says he’s talked with a few big named people, but most are still deciding on budgets and finishing their current season.” He chews a bite and sighs. "I’m still not sure I want to go back. I thought I did, but being reminded of the whole media circus has me questioning it again.”
If me reading gossip blogs will keep him from a sport he loves, I’ll never check another one again. “I won’t check the sites anymore, Ryland, but I don't see the difference. You check sports stuff all the time.”
“Those are game stats and industry stuff. Totally different.”
Another fork twirl, this one more condescending to match my words. “Uh-huh. That guy from Brazil getting the Nike deal was game stats?”
“No, that was industry related.” I chuckle at him until he finally drops the act and smiles. “Eat your pasta, Marissa."
So flippin’ bossy. Does he not realize it’s a fast track way to see my irritated side? “Ryland Bates, don’t make me stab you with my fork.” I point my empty fork at him and tap it in the air toward the table top.
It doesn’t have the effect I hope for. Rather than cower in fear, he laughs and shakes his head. “So violent.”
“Speaking of violence. Do you want to play Dragons Reborn tonight? We could finish up the quest from yesterday.”
We’ve been married a full four days now and life with Ryland feels much the same as before our impromptu trip to Vegas. Dinner with him, playing DR with him, rides to and from work with him. It’s a lot of Ryland. I love it.
It won’t last forever. Eventually he’ll go back to soccer and we’ll leave the area starting up a new routine for both of us. I've been warned practice days are busy and he won’t see me much, but evenings are mine. Fingers crossed it’s similar but switched from the routine we have now. Rather than Ryland driving me around and then waiting at home for me all day, I’ll be the one dropping him off at the field to come home and spend my days video chatting with Aspen and playing video games. On second thought, I might be the one who needs to find a hobby now.
“We can as long as you promise if the boys get online you won’t kill Grant for sleeping with Clare.”
“It was an honest mistake. My sword slipped.”
“Six times?” He raises an eyebrow with his question and his blue eyes tell me he doesn’t buy it.
In his defense it’d be more believable if I hadn’t been laughing manically as I slashed at Grant last night.
I finish my last bite scraping the remaining alfredo sauce from my plate to make sure I get it all.
“I am going to miss the food,” Ryland muses more to himself than me.
“Tony’s is the bomb.” I need to make sure we eat it at least one more time… this week.
He picks up my empty plate with his, turning to the dishwasher. “No, the food in general. This is not exactly what you eat when you’re in training.”
“You can’t eat Tony’s?” That sounds criminal.
He laughs and closes the dishwasher door, pushing a button to start a load. My man is great. “No, I’m pretty sure tonight we ate enough carbs to last me a month. Even with all the running.”
I roll my eyes at him, but his back’s still turned and he doesn’t see. “You need carbs for energy.”
