“I can’t believe you’re hitched,” Garrett Hayward says. His disbelieving tone should offend me, but I’m working on smiling. On talking.
“Yeah, how’d that happen?” Tru Kelley asks. He’s forward on and off the field, apparently. “Where’d you even meet her?”
“We grew up together and recently reconnected.” There. That’s true. It even sounds believable.
“Recent? Like, how recent?” Tru asks. “’Cause now you’re married.”
“I’m never getting married,” nineteen-year-old Wade Turner says. “Wait. Is your girl like … pregnant? My mom said if I get a girl pregnant, there better be a ring on her finger.”
“Gah—no. Stella isn’t pregnant.” Impossible.
“But you’re married?” Tru says.
I choose smiling over talking this time. Where’s Lucca? Maybe he isn’t the most obnoxious guy on our team, after all.
Stella
Fran Fairchild grabs a hold of my arm and shakes. “Tell us all about you and Roman.”
“We’re all still soaking in that The Graveyard is married,” Rosalie says.
“I didn’t think Roman left his apartment,” Sarah, Devon’s wife, says.
And if I hadn’t promised Roman to smile and talk, I might scowl at her. What can I say? I’m picking up my husband’s bad habits.
Rosalie takes a quick glance across the room at Zevulun Hayes, whom I think she must be dating. First my wedding day, and now she’s here, at this team meeting, blushing every single time the man looks her way. “You guys have been dating since high school. Right? Long distance.”
“Maybe.”
That answer only gets me some confused stares.
“Yes.” Then I shake my head. “No. Sort of. It’s complicated. Roman …” I say, drawing out his name. “Has been in love with me forever.”
“Forever?” Fran says.
“Forever.” I swallow past the lump the lie has formed. “He tracked me down a month—a year—ah, one month and one year ago.”
“So sweet,” Fran says. “How’d he find you?”
“Ahhh.” The noise hums from my lips. “Work.”
Rosalie’s brows knit. “You work for the Red Tails?”
Oh crap. Come on, Stella. Think before you just let random words fall out of your face!
I clear my throat. “No. Um, my work. He found me at my work.”
“Oh,” Rosalie says. “Where do you work?”
Crap.
“My work one month and one year ago.” I hiccup, licking my lips and keep on going. “I am currently an unemployed ceramic artist.” I laugh, but it sounds as real as I mean it—not at all. “I used to work for a dish manufacturer. Roman needed … plates.”
“Plates?” Fran says, as if the word is too dull. “I thought he came looking for you?”
“He did. Me and plates.”
“Plates,” Rosalie says.
