“I wasn’t talking about Lana.” He smirks, goading me.
“Just because you’re one of my best friends doesn’t mean I won’t rearrange that pretty face of yours.”
“Always so quick to violence.” He chuckles, straightening. “What time did she say she’d be here?” He tips his chin in the direction of the stands.
“She didn’t. Though I hoped she’d be here early enough that I could see her for a minute.”
“Wow. You really do have it bad.”
“Fuck off.”
“I mean no disrespect. I’m just... surprised, is all. You haven’t exactly been the kind of guy who obsesses over one specific woman.”
“Well, Maisie isn’t just any woman.”
“Of that much, we can agree. I may not know her well, but even I can see she’s a rare breed. And fucking gorgeous too.”
“Careful.” I give him a quick look of warning.
“Relax. You know I’m not one to piss in another man’s Cheerios. Just saying, she’s stunning.”
“You don’t have to tell me that. I’m quite aware.”
“Stewart. Franklin. Get your heads out of your asses and let’s go.” We turn in unison to see Coach glaring at us from across the field, the rest of our teammates already heading back into the locker room to pad up.
“Sorry, Coach.” Joey snickers under his breath. “Come on, brother. Time to get your head in the game.”
I nod once and then follow my friend and teammate across the field, looking up at the stands where I know Maisie’s seat is one last time before disappearing inside the tunnel.
“Where the fuck are you?” I grumble to myself as I call Maisie again, only to get her voicemail for the third time.
The game ended an hour ago. That I could tell, Mais never showed. Though to be fair, it’s not like it’s easy to pick out a singular face in a crowd of thousands. Even still, I have to believe that if she were there, she would have stayed after the game like most family and friends do. And yet, as I exited the locker room onto the field following the game, she was nowhere to be found.
I’ve been texting and calling her for the last thirty minutes, but she’s not answering. A part of me wonders if maybe she changed her mind about us—and who could blame her if she did? I haven’t exactly made it easy on her over the last couple of years. But an even larger part of me is convinced that isn’t it. That something’s wrong.
After the fourth call with no answer, I decide to call inthe big dogs. If anyone knows where Maisie is, it will be Charlotte. And as luck would have it, I just so happen to have her number.
Pressing on her contact, I hold the phone up to my ear, damn near praising the heavens when she answers.
“Char, it’s Mac. Have you seen Maisie?” I don’t waste time with pleasantries, my worry outweighing my etiquette.
“Hello to you too. And do I want to know how you got my number?”
“You gave it to me a couple of years ago. But that’s not important. I need to know if you’ve seen Maisie.”
“Not since this morning. Why? Isn’t she with you?”
“No, she isn’t, and I can’t get a hold of her.”
“Weird. She came by earlier to borrow a football shirt from me. Said she was planning on going to your game today. I felt awful about not being able to go with her.”
“Well, from what I could tell, she never showed. I haven’t seen her, and she’s not answering my calls or texts. Do you think she bailed since no one could go with her and she didn’t want to go alone?”
“I guess it’s possible. Though, she didn’t give me any indication of that. Let me try to get ahold of her. I’ll call you back.”
Before I can say anything, she ends the call.
Five brutal minutes pass before she calls me back. Five minutes that I spend pacing, staring at my phone, willing Maisie to answer me. She doesn’t.
