Page 36 of Last Slice of Pie

Me: They asked me about you.

I don’t want to complain to him. None of how I’m feeling is his fault, but he needs to know what’s going on.

Bryan: Why? I thought this was about the gift guide?

Me: It was, but they still asked. Don’t you know . . . I’m the mystery girl.

I’m certain he can hear the sarcasm through my words, and I feel a little bad, but not that bad.

Bryan: I’m sorry.

Me: Don’t be. I handled it.

Bryan: Okay. I’ll let our publicist know in case she gets called on it. I’m sure it’ll happen again.

That’s just what I’m afraid of. I know he would understand how I’m feeling if I tried to explain it to him—after all, he would be first in line to be defensive if he felt his hard work and efforts were being characterized as the result of someone else’s efforts—but I don’t want to overreact or make him feel bad because of who he is.

Me: Is there anything I’m not supposed to say?

Bryan: No. Say whatever you want—I trust you. Besides, maybe it will help sales . . .

Ugh.

Me: Maybe.

Peach Pie

THINGS HAVE ALREADY started changing. I can tell, my teammates can tell, the coaches can tell, and hell, even the media can tell. It’s not I’m playing different, at least I don’t think I am. The season is still the best it’s ever been, but they’re all looking at me differently, curiously, like they’ve never seen me before, and it’s strange.

Most people don’t realize there’s an actual media policy we as teams in the league are required to adhere to. Every year, at the beginning of the season, the public relations staff holds a meeting that outlines the details of the policy and the expectations, and this year, they’ve increased open locker room periods to four times a week. The sessions don’t last long, but it’s long enough to have people who are not on the team walking around and being up in our business.

We are not allowed to say or do anything that could jeopardize the image, integrity, or balance of the team, and that includes being rude and ignoring them. Mostly, they steer clear of me. Over the years, I’ve built a reputation for being a man of few words, and I’m fine with this. I’ve always subscribed to the philosophy that actions speak louder than words, and everything I need to say, I say on the field. But still, when they’re here, I play the media game. I smile, nod hello when needed, and if I’ve had an exceptional day, I’ll stop and chat. But, that’s rare. Over the last two weeks, however, I’ve seen them eyeing me differently. I know they’re interested in Lexi, but it’s more than that. It’s like they smell blood in the water and they’re circling.

Just the thought of Lexi has my heart thumping in my chest, and I smile. These smiles are small and mostly inward, but all of them are involuntary and make me feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Instead of the ding of the metronome causing me to salivate, it’s the thought of her. Lexi—smile. Lexi—smile. I just can’t help it.

We’ve talked every night this week, and we’ve texted throughout each day. While eating an orange cream pie she mailed to me, I’ve completely rediscovered who she is, and I’m even more fascinated by her than I was before. The only problem is that the calls are starting to leave me unsatisfied. I want to touch her, feel her, and taste her again. That one kiss wasn’t enough, it isn’t enough, and I’m going crazy. Sometimes I want her so badly, my mouth goes dry when I think about her—like right now. I should be focused on the game, but all I can think about is getting it over with so I can get back and get closer to her. One week down, one to go.

Jack sits on the bench next to me and quickly pulls off his helmet. There are five minutes left in this away game against the Dolphins, we’re up twenty-four points, and our defense has just taken the field after a three-point field goal. For being December, it’s hot as hell, and sweat is dripping off us like it’s late summer.

“You see Slendenski out there,” he snaps, waving his empty hand toward the field. The people in front of us have shifted to give us a view of the game. I glance across to the opponent’s sideline, but I don’t see him.

“Yeah, I saw him.” I picture his face on the line, snarling, almost as if foam wanted to come out of his mouth, and I cringe in disgust.

“I swear, if that asshole spits on me or tries to bite me one more time, I’m going to lose my shit. He has got to be the dirtiest player in the league, and I can’t stand that guy.”

I shift to look at him, and Jack’s face is beet red with anger. He’s so mad. “Dude, relax. It’s almost over, we’re done playing this team for the season, and you don’t have to see him again.”

“I know, but it’s just so bad. Have some fucking respect for other players. We may play on different teams, but we’re all in this together.”

People are moving around us as the Dolphins offense moves. Other team members, sideline assistants, coaches, and those who see or hear Jack instantly give us a wide berth. I can’t help but chuckle at his outrage, and his sharp gaze flips to me. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”

My grin grows even wider. “Do you remember last year when we were at the Sports Network awards show and he was nominated for the top ten defensive linemen award?”

“Yeah, so? His sportsmanship sucks, so there was no way he was going to win it.”

“I know, but that’s not the point.”

“Well, then get to the point.” All around us, the crowd cheers, and we both turn to refocus on the game.