The thought sends a blush screaming into my cheeks.
I caved and watched the game last weekend. I had no clue what was going on, but I had tunnel vision on number twenty-five when he was on the field. He ran into the endzone thing at one point, and then in celebration, he knelt and pretended to put a shoe on the foot of one of his teammates. It took me point two seconds to realize he was reenacting the glass slipper moment inCinderella—for me.
I admit, it made me a little dizzy to be remembered by him. The fact that he kept his word and followed through was another indication that he’s a genuinely good guy. None of that changes that he’s not a good guyfor me.
“Look at you. You’re bright red.” Philly presses her face closer to the screen. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
I roll my eyes and grab for my computer. I flip it around and show them the tabs I have pulled up. They’ve been up on my laptop all week. Am I torturing myself? Maybe initially. But the longer I looked at the pictures of TJ, and the more articles I read about him, the more certain I became that what happened on Friday night is all that’s ever going to happen between us.
“I’m only thinking that my relationship with TJ started and ended last week. I mean, look at this, you guys.” I start scrolling through pictures of TJ. There are shots of him in sinfully well-fitted tuxedos, out at different events, always with a different woman on his arm. Always laughing and being the life of the party. There are the photos of him in uniform at games, and then some of him wearing more casual athletic gear for what I assume are practices. In those, his white tank top looks painted on. His biceps don’t look real. And no one—I repeat, no one—should have leg muscles like that. They’re tree trunks. We’ve already established his impeccably peach-shapedderriere.
I’ve spent the week studying his face—solely because I need to describe the male main character in the book I’m drafting. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. I may or may not have also spent an hour gazing at his chiseled upper body, my eyes drinking in the ink he has tattooed across his chest and his upper arms. They’re intricate tattoos, and I want to know the meaning and significance of each and every one. I hovered over a link to an article that promised to give meEverything You Need to Know About TJ Wilson’s Tattoos, but in the end, I didn’t click on it. It feels too personal. Unfair that I know his identity and he doesn’t know mine. I’d want to hear the stories behind his tattoos from the man himself, which is my crazy-train brain talking, because I’m never going to see TJ again, except on my TV screen.
I ignored the article and stopped ogling pictures of TJ’s tattoos. Instead, I started dreaming up the backstory for my fictional lead character.
He’swho I need to keep top of mind. The man I’ve made up in my head who is going to steal the hearts of my readers with his sweet heart and playful sense of humor.
“TJ was the perfect man to give me a dose of inspiration. He got me past my writer’s block, and I’m grateful. But we’re not meant to be,” I tell my friends, turning the computer screen back in my direction. “Honestly, the thought of being in the public eye like him makes me break out in hives.”
“Understandable, given your history,” Bex allows.
“Exactly.” I shut my laptop with a satisfying click. A person can only take so much of a hot football player staring back at her before she goes a little crazy. “He wouldn’t want anything to do with me either.” Especially not when he realizes I bashed his career right up there with the rest of the entertainment industry. “Anyway! Thanks for coming to my TED talk about TJ Wilson and my whirlwind night of fun with him. Now that you know all the sordid details, we can all move on.”
“Can we, though?” Cassie’s voice rises in question.
“Cass!” I groan. “Let it be.”
She shakes her head, her gaze lit by the glow of her own computer screen, which is where I’d guess she’s looking right now. “No, I don’t mean to push you at him or whatever. If you say you’re done with him, then that’s good. But the River Foxes just posted something you might want to take a look at.”
A strange sensation fills my lungs, triggering a sixth sense. I know once I re-open my computer and see whatever it is Cassie wants me to see that everything is going to shift in this safe little cocoon I’ve built for myself.
I navigate to my generic account, the one that’s not associated with my real name or my pen name, and tap the River Foxes page, which, of course, I’m now following.
Sure enough, a new post went up ten minutes ago.
I read the graphic out loud, and my stomach pitches. “TJ Wilson is looking for his Cinderella.”
“What?” Philly shrieks.
“Hold on. I’m looking it up now too.” Bex sits cross-legged on her bed and pulls her computer into her lap, chucking a half-eaten carrot across her room.
I’m scanning the caption, even as my eyes are registering the thousands of likes and hundreds of comments that have been left since the post went up.
TJ Wilson, star running back for your Green Bay River Foxes, needs our help. He met a mysterious woman at the charity gala held at the stadium last Friday, but due to unforeseen circumstances, the pair had to part ways before exchanging contact information. We want to remedy that! TJ will be waiting in the Mezzanine at the conclusion of Sunday afternoon’s game to rendezvous with his mystery woman.
The woman in question has dark brown hair, a stunning smile, a quick wit, and enchanting hazel eyes—his words, not ours, folks! We’ll provide Prince Charming, but are you his Cinderella? To prove yourself, tell TJ one simple thing: What is he afraid of?
It’s been a magical season so far for the River Foxes. Let’s help one of our own make some magic happen off the field, as well, shall we? See you Sunday.
#bibbidibobbidiboo #fairygodmother #gusgus #jack #pagingcinderella #tjwilson
“Oh my gosh.” I cover my face with my hands, leaning back in the four-poster bed.
“Seems like your boy might be a little hung up on you,” Bex says, and when I open my eyes to glare at her, she’s smirking.
“He’s not my boy. He’s not my … anything!” I run my hands through my hair. “This is a disaster. What is he thinking?”
“He’s thinking you have enchanting hazel eyes.” Bex grins. “Guy’s a football player and a poet.”
