“You put yourself out there in a public light that can be cruel. For me. I didn’t expect—” He exhales audibly. “Whatever happens, I will always be there for you, Pen. You understand that, right?”
A lump swells within my throat, and I swallow past it. “I do. And me too. We’re partners now.”
When August answers, his voice is deeper. “Partners.”
Fourteen
August
One of the benefits of playing for my team is that they charter private planes. Not every team does. Some have their own, some simply go with a commercial carrier, but it’s nice not to have to go through TSA or cram myself into a regular airline seat—often only the top players get first class, and definitely not college players.
A hired car takes me from the hotel straight to the tarmac. I grab my bag and head up the boarding stairs. None of the other guys are around, which feels off, and I’m starting to worry I got the times wrong. Jan has been on me to hire an assistant, and I’ve dragged my feet about it. I had one in college, but he was doing it for credit, and it felt weird as hell at the time. Sure, I needed the help, but part of me always felt two steps removed from other students as it was; having an assistant made it more so. But this is my job now. I already have Gracie, my nutritionist, Hakeem, my trainer, and a fleet of team staff on hand. Might as well take the next step.
Such thoughts distract me enough that I don’t initially notice the plane is full when I walk into the cabin. Someone snickers. I stop short.
“What the fuck?”
Laughter erupts, giddy and gleeful as a plane full of big-assman-children double over in their hilarity. The fuckos have veils on. Glittery tiaras that barely fit their big heads.
“The groom has arrived!” Jelly calls out.
Everyone cheers, or catcalls—it’s dead even. In the center of their chaos, Rhodes clutches a human-sized stuffed chicken dressed up like a bride. He wiggles enticingly as he does a little gyration of his hips.
“You’re all nuts,” I tell them, trying not to laugh.
Our coaching staff are hovering along the edges of the mayhem, snickering into their hands. Jay, my offensive coordinator, has a row of pink pearls draped over his thick neck.
I glance at Coach and arch my brow. “What, no crown for you?”
“Nah, son, that’s for you.” He looks downright evil as he holds out an oversize gold crown with fake jewels on the ends that looks like he raided from a Burger King.
“Oh, hell no.”
Jelly jogs over, a glass of champagne in his hand. “Damn, Rook, why didn’t you tell me you were getting hitched?”
“Because I don’t live in the 1890s?”
He slaps my shoulder fondly and thrusts the glass into my hand. “If I had known, I’d have given you some tips. Monica says—”
“Monica says,” everyone intones at once.
He doesn’t even look back as he flips them the bird. “As I was saying—”
“Jells,” I interrupt. “You getting married too?”
He blanches. “Hell no. Marriage terrifies me.”
“Then you can’t give me advice. Neither,” I say over him, “can Monica, as I know she’s never been.”
“Spoilsport.”
In truth, my pulse has kicked up in a powerful rhythm of sheer guilt. I’m lying to my guys. But someone might talk, and I can’t risk it. Still sucks balls. They did this for me, albeit to torture me as much as to celebrate.
Inadvertently, I catch Coach’s eye. I don’t know what he sees in mine, but he lifts his glass.
“To the groom-to-be and his lovely fiancée.”
Everyone cheers.
