Chapter 2
Grace
Asmiling man the size of a small oak tree walks toward me in the stands. “Hi there! Gracie? I’m Joe. I’m supposed to take you back to the Family and Friends Suite.”
My heartbeat rockets up, and I feel its pulse in my ears. “Oh, thank you. It’s Grace, actually. But an escort really won’t be necessary, I don’t want to waste your time. I can just go out the front and wait.”
“I can’t recommend that, Miss. Even if I didn’t have very specific instructions from Mr. Thompson to bring you to the suite, we take security precautions pretty seriously for wives and girlfriends, so?—”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I start tapping my foot, a coping mechanism I learned after years of stuttering throughout childhood. “I’m not his girlfriend, or wife, actually. I’m a friend…erm, well we haven’t talked in a while, so…. But don’t worry, I’m not a stalker or anything. We grew up in Ohio together. I knew him as a kid, pretty well, so he knows me. We used to date. But now we don’t. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
Joe looks at me the way I look at hardware store employees: lost and confused.
I scan the sky, hoping to find an alien who can beam me up into space so I can avoid this conversation. “Um, sorry, actually yeah, it’s totally fine for you to bring me back there. I’m sure he’s busy anyway, so I might just end up leaving upon my arrival.”
Upon my arrival? Really, Grace? Who am I, a Founding Father? I want to sound calm and collected, like the thirty-year-old woman I am. Instead, I sound like someone from the worst local improv group anyone’s ever seen playing the part of Casual Adult Woman.
Joe tilts his head, blinks a few times, then finally nods. “Alrighty then. The elevator is on the right there.”
I sigh as he keeps a close eye on me. I’ve made a terrible first impression on Joe. As a recovering people pleaser, I’m confident this interaction will haunt me at 3:00 a.m. two weeks from now.
He leads me into a spacious suite where other girls are waiting. Actually, “girls” is an incorrect descriptor; this group of women must be models. They’re beautiful. The room is all lacquered lips, short jersey dresses, and spiked heels. Honestly, I’m taking notes.
Picking awkwardly at my nails, I do the only thing one does when in a new situation where you know no one—try to look Booked and Busy. My personality becomes walking around, touching random items and gesturing at things. Those heavy black curtains over there?Fascinating. I must touch them and feel the velvety fabric. The reflective silver cocktail table?Sosturdy—it can even hold my elbow!
While acting like an absolute weirdo and flailing my hands directionally like some sort of muppet, one of the filtered-but-in-real-life models waves at me. I turn to look behind me—because surely she’s not waving atme, a mere plebeian amidst a sea of queens—but there’s no one there. Swiveling my head back around so fast I nearly pull a neck muscle, I make eye contactand wave back. She beckons me closer, and I walk at what I hope is a normal pace over to this gorgeous angel.
“Hi, I’m Grace!”
“Hey! I just wanted to tell you that the WAGS suite for the opposing team is down the hall to the left,” she announces.
“Oh…I’m, I’m supposed to be here. The Security Man? The big one?” I raise my right hand as high as it can go above my head in an attempt to demonstrate his size. “I guess they all might be big. Okay. He’s like, six four, curly brownish-gray hair, green eyes. Honestly, kind of cute for his age. Anyway, that man brought me here because I know a player.”
“A player?”
I shift nervously, rocking back on my heels. “Yeah. Danny—erm, DT.”
“You know DT?”
“We’re old friends.” Tugging on the sleeve of my sweatshirt, I mumble, “It’s kind of a long story.”
Her perfectly laminated eyebrows raise. “But you’re wearing Florida Sharks colors.”
“Ah, I can see how that’s confusing. I’m wearing these colors because I like the Sharks. My mom was originally from Florida.”
What is actually wrong with me? Am I having some sort of stroke? I should’ve never let Officer Oak Tree bring me to this place where average-looking people go to die.
Just as I start to formulate my explanation of the complicated twenty-year history I have with the team’s starting wide receiver to this stunning and bewildered WAG, I hear a voice I’ve only heard on televised post-game interviews I couldn’t avoid over the past ten years. His voice may be deeper, huskier now, but I would recognize it anywhere.
I slowly turn around and see a tall, grown man wearing a fitted gray suit and black loafers staring at me with familiar hazel eyes. His thick, black, wavy hair is longer on top of his head,tapering into a soft fade on the sides of his face. He’s smiling his Big Danny Smile behind a neatly trimmed, short beard.
Looking closer, I check for the tiny gap between his two front teeth. He always wanted to bond them together, but I told him it gave him character in an otherwise stupidly perfect face. I’m happy to confirm he’s kept it, despite the money and fame.
Shifting my gaze away from his mouth, I focus on the small, white scar near his temple, which he got from falling face first into the rocky creek behind our houses. We blamed Charger for that one, saying Danny chased after him when he saw a squirrel. In actuality, I bet Danny five dollars he couldn’t make it across the creek without his shoes on.
I’m so lost in him, in the memory, that it takes his voice to pull me back to the present.
“Gracie?”
