“I think you’ve been drinking your own Kool-Aid, sis. Our subscribers are here for catty dunks on their favoritebad boy from a sassy Quarterback Princess. They don’t want girlfriend softballs.”
“That is so mean. I did not throw girlfriend softballs.”
“Let’s see, and I quote, ‘K-Brad isn’t cocky. He simply doesn’t want to disappoint everyone.’ What the everloving fuck does that even mean, Mellow?”
“It’s the truth,” I argue softly, anxiety creeping up my shoulders.
“What are you, hismother?” Lindsey drops her head back with a loud groan. “Even I wanted to gag at that one.”
“It just came out!” My voice goes high, then I put my drink on the table and drop my face into my hands. “I got too close. I know him too well. I know how he feels, how important all of this is to him. And he’s such a sweet daddy…”
I want to kick my own ass at this point.
“Like I said, it was great while it lasted.” Lindsey takes a long drink of her tequila, finishing the tumbler. “Hell, it was even fun. You can be really funny when you’re pissed.”
Pulling my legs to my chest, I rest my chin on my knees thinking. “There has to be a way to get my mojo back. I have to be able to make roasty jokes without feeling these feelings.”
“You’re in love with him, and that bitter edge isn’t coming back any time soon.”
“Stop saying that.” I cut my eyes at her, and she tilts her head, turning her phone to me so I can read what I said on the screen—thanks, TMI, you assholes.
“Quarterbacks don’t hear the crowd when they mess up, they hear themselves.”
Shaking her head, she points at the pullquote. “It’s like you turned into a box of tampons.”
“He cares a lot!” My chest is tight. My stomach is in knots, and I can’t keep defending him. “I don’t want to read any more about it.”
My phone lights up with a text, and I expect it to be him. Surprisingly, it’s Chet Arnold.
Chet
Come on, QP, let’s give it another shot. You clearly need me to get you back on your game.
“Oh, look! Chet thinks I’m off my game because I’m missing him.” My voice is sarcastic, and I turn my phone for her to see. “Should I say yes this time?”
“Yes!” She almost gags on the words. “Tell him you’ll do the collab! Maybe he’s right and his catty influence is all you need to get your head on straight again.”
“My head is on straight, and I see clearly.” I lift my chin, my chest filling with indignation. “I don’t like dogpiles.”
“So don’t dogpile. Be the cat with sharp claws spitting hot takes.”
Inhaling slowly, I’m not feeling great about that position either. I look at my laptop, the Saints headlines filling the screen.
“At least they won.” It’s impossible to be shitty about that. They’re halfway to the playoffs, and even if it sounded like I was kissing his ass, Knox played as well tonight as he did against the Cowboys. “Aren’t we the fans? Don’t we want them to succeed?”
“Yes, but we can also be honest about room for improvement.”
“You asked me once before what happened when he started winning.”
I smile, thinking about those early days, when Knox showed up here demanding answers. I think about our conversation and what I truly believe.
He’s his own thing. He’s different from his brother or hisdad or even his grandfather. Knox Bradford is the next Bradford football legend.
“I don’t like that face.” Lindsey circles her finger around my expression. “Tell Chet yes, and we’ll set up the chat. The guys are headed to Minnesota, and you’re getting back in the saddle.”
I don’t comment, and I’m not making any promises.
But I do reply to Chet.
