"He is," I said, realizing that I believed it wholeheartedly. "He's the best thing that ever happened to me, at least."
"Then we should go to the mountains. See your house and meet your husband," Dad said, grabbing a hunk of carrot from the corner of my cutting board.
My parents had been together since they were in college. They'd been through most of their lives as a team.
"Why do you think you two work so well?" I asked. They were definitely in love—they looked at each other like the other could do no wrong. And they vocalized their love all the time.
"Everybody wants the love story, but nobody wants the dirty socks that come three years later." Mom poked at the chicken in the pan on the stove. "Or sometimes, three months later. But, sweetheart, when you have a true love story, you don't care about the dirty socks today, tomorrow, or three years from now. It's never about the socks."
"Sloan and I have talked about how there's the good part and then the not-so-great part of things and experiences. Like The Strip at night is so pretty with all the lights, but during the day, it looks like someone is trying way too hard to convince us it's just as good," I mused.
"It's the same place, just different. Doesn't make it better or worse. Yeah, the lights are pretty until you're tired and want to get some sleep. Then they won't stop flashing." Mom reached into the cupboard to grab a stack of plates. "Then Vegas during the day, when it's quieter, sure sounds like a better deal."
"You think?" I hadn't thought of it like that.
"Sloan and I talked about how the stage before the show was so boring and only a collection of wood and metal, but it’s peaceful. Calm, even," I said. "And the field before the game has a feeling of gentle excitement that swells to full volume during the event." That gentle excitement made a person's stomach flutter with anticipation. "I'm in love with Sloan," I admitted. "I really am."
Mom raised her eyebrows. "You weren't aware of this? I think the entire country has been aware of this for some time now."
"Yes, I, uh… I guess I hadn't been ready to admit it. I suppose I need to tell him that."
"Third time's a charm?" Dad asked.
I nodded, because I wanted the professional football player, the guy who encouraged me to go outside and try something new. The guy who shared parts of himself with me that weren't for everyone else. I didn't want only the parts of him that were safe. I wanted the whole man.
"I'm so proud of you.” Mom's eyes misted. "You've really blossomed into yourself."
Mom was right. I wasn't stuck in the back, watching everyone else move ahead anymore. I was leading the way, and I had a pretty exceptional man right there with me.
"You deserve this kind of love," Dad added, putting his arm around Mom's shoulders.
We settled in to eat dinner, and the murky water I'd been treading seemed to clear. I knew what I wanted. Understood that with Sloan, we could change the rules, and it wouldn't change anything. Because at the end of the tour or the season—we were in love with each other.
If he'd just freaking call me. Or text me. Or something.
Unfortunately, Mom's rule of no phones at the dinner table even applied to pop princesses waiting for their husbands to call.
When my cell chimed from the counter, I practically dropped my fork, standing so quickly.
"It's probably Sloan," I said as a way of explanation for my quick maneuvering to the counter.
It wasn't Sloan.
Emily had sent me a link, and while links could wait, out of habit, I clicked on it.
The world turned topsy-turvy because there was Sloan filling the screen with the perpetual smirk I loved so much.
Sloan staring at me from the Stallions social media account, sitting next to T.J. in the middle of the locker room, with Darius on his other side, and the rest of the guys behind them. T.J. held a guitar and strummed the opening chords to Ingrid Michaelson'sThe Way You Are.
The same song I sang to the engaged couple the night Sloan and I got married. Damn, I choked up and didn't even try to stop the tears from falling.
Sloan couldn't find the pitch, but he sure as hell tried.
As he sang off-key, T.J. kept him going with the melody on the guitar, and the guys all behind him tapped out the percussion like they were backup musicians and not professional football players.
Then Darius slid the blank poster board away and there in bold letters, it read:
#Slaya
