That gets the laugh I was hoping for as the scrum moves on to go talk to Linc. I take the break to head to the showers, whereI quickly wash up so I can go home and not completely smell like I played a three-hour football game.
When I get back to my locker, it’s only the players left, which allows me to fully relax.
“Great game today,” I say to Linc, patting him on the back before I take a seat next to him.
“Same to you,” he says. “Ainsley and I were going to go out to dinner later. You and Gabi want to come with?”
That could put a damper in my postgame plans.
“Yeah… I can… let me see if…”
Linc laughs at my stumbling. “Our reservations aren’t until seven. You’ll have plenty of time for whatever you’re planning.”
“How’d you know?”
“I’ve been in your shoes before,” he says as he stands up from his seat. “That first game when you see your girl in the jersey? It does things to you.”
Ain’t that the truth.
I grab my phone, but before I can send the message to Gabi, I see that I have one.
Future Wife
Straight home. We need to talk.
“Oh shit.”
Linc looks over to me, confused by my outburst. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I say, holding my phone to him. “But I think I fucked up.”
“You were playing a game. How could you do that? That’s impressive, even for you.”
“I’m not sure. Any idea what it could mean?”
Linc reads it and even looks closer for a second read. “I have no clue. But I’m going to go on a limb and say that you’re not coming out with us.”
I rack my brain, trying to figure out what I did. “What do I do?”
“I don’t know. But whatever she’s craving recently, get it before you go home. A text like that? You’re going to need as many brownie points as possible.”
Armed with brownies from the bakery that she had in the cooler, a cheeseburger she asks for at least once a week, and the sour candy she’s started buying in bulk, I cautiously walk into the house from our garage entrance, which leads into the mudroom before I hit the kitchen. The house is silent, which is strange. There’s usually some kind of noise. Music. The television. An appliance running. The eerie quiet makes me even more nervous.
“Gabi?” I call out as I kick off my shoes.
“Living room.”
I really am in trouble. I spent the thirty-minute drive home going over every word I said to her last night, the texts I was able to send her before the game, and then, what I said postgame in the interviews. Nothing is sticking out to me, which is maybe worse than knowing that I fucked up. But even with my pitstops,I can’t figure out what I did or said. I slowly walk across the kitchen, and when I first get eyes on her, a cold chill goes down my body.
She’s sitting on the edge of the couch, legs spread because that’s what’s comfortable for her right now, and her crossed arms are resting on her stomach. Her eyes are intense and staring right at me, waiting for me to walk into the room. She still has my jersey on—I’ll take that for a small win—and I don’t see her bags packed. Second win.
But otherwise? Gabi ispissed.
“Whatever I did or said, I’m sorry,” I say as I hold out my peace offerings. “I was wrong and you were right. I also brought you snacks.”
Not even a hint of a smile. I’m cooked.
“What the fuck was that?”
