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I don’t love that she’s secretly wishing for their losses, but I’d probably be the same if I were about to marry the man I love and the only thing standing in the way of our wedding was football season.

Then again … maybe I wouldn’t. I really can’t stand to see the Thunder lose.

“I can’t believe we lost against the Panthers—again,” I answer.

“We still have a chance to make it into the playoffs,” she says.

“Don’t act hopeful, little missy. I know you’re a defector.”

She laughs. “I just want to be Declan’s wife and start our life together.”

“I get it.”

My life is going to be so different when Winona moves out. But I want her happiness more than I want my comfort.

“What about you and Marcus?” she asks.

I think she’s about to ask me if Marcus and I talk about a future together, at which point I will spill everything. There’s a limit to how far I’ll take hiding things from Winona. The fact that I’ve hidden anything from her already kills me. We don’t keep secrets.

I’ve gotten so used to pretending Marcus and I are dating, the lines have become blurry—especially since my feelings have turned very, very real.

But Winona doesn’t ask me about our future. Instead, she asks, “Have you seen Marcus since Thanksgiving?”

Declan, Marcus and a few of the guys came to my parents’ home for Thanksgiving. Mom and Dad were thrilled to host a bunch of Thunder players again. I spent the day toggling between happiness that I got to spend the holiday with Marcus and sadness that our future Thanksgivings might not include one another. The irony isn’t lost on me that I met him a year ago on Thanksgiving, where he made the world’s worst impression on me.

At that time, if you had asked me, I would have said I hope Marcus Delaney never darkens my doorstep for another Thanksgiving. But here we are. I’d like him to darken my doorstep, my living room, my kitchen, and practically every other part of my home, holidays and every day.

“We haven’t seen one another. But we’ve texted and talked.”

“You two are weird.” Winona shakes her head. “Do we need an intervention again?”

“We most definitely do not need an intervention. You and your tight end have done plenty.”

She laughs. “My tight end. That still sounds funny.”

I laugh along with her. “I’ve missed you.”

“I miss you too,” she says. “But tonight it’s just us girls.”

Declan reserved a room at the SongTeller hotel for us. Not a room. A suite. Loretta just about peed herself when I told her.

She went on about how no one loves Dolly Parton more than she does, and she should get to come with us to stay in the hotel Dolly designed. If it were me, I’d be tempted to take Loretta. But this is Winona’s day and we’ve got three queen beds with six women.

We pull up in front of the pale stone, eleven-story hotel. Bright magenta awnings decorate the windows on the lower few levels. The entrance has a gold marquee with a massive stylized, colorful, artistic rendering of a guitar rising up above it.

We drop our car off with the valet and Syd pulls in behind us. Once we check in, we take the elevators up to the suite on the third floor. When the bellhop opens the door for us, half my friends gasp. The room is what I’d call opulent whimsy—colorful, feminine and a bit over-the-top, just like Dolly.

We walk in and everyone starts moving through the suite, talking over one another.

“Look at this!”

“We’ve got two showers!”

“Awww, look at the writing on the wall.”

“There’s a record player with Dolly’s albums!”

We tip the staff who brought our bags up and then the six of us fall onto the three queen beds in the bedroom, chatting and laughing.