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I try to imagine Cass’s reaction when she sees how the world is interpreting this shoot. I consider witness protection. She’s going to literally hunt me down like the public perception is my fault. As if I would want to perpetuate the idea that we are a couple.
“Forget about it, Delaney. It’s all for the cause, right?” Treyvon says.
“How come no one’s shipping any of you?” I glance around at the other guys who had shoots on the same day.
“I guess we didn’t give off that head-over-heels vibe you and Cass did,” Keller says with a straight face and a shrug.
“We were trying to sell it,” I say. “We had to work overtime to put on a show for the camera. If you could have heard the things she was saying to me under her breath …”
Treyvon cracks up. “Man, she’s got it bad for you … and that ain’t good.”
The whole room joins in, laughing at my predicament.
“I’ve got to go,” Declan says.
He’s the only one taking this seriously. After what he went through with social media, I can see why he’s not laughing. He and Winona were dragged through the mud.
“I’ve got to make sure Claudette has everything prepped for tonight,” Declan says.
“See you in a bit, O.C.,” Keller says to Declan. “Want me to pick anything up?”
We’re all going over to Declan’s for a barbecue tonight. He’s definitely trying to help this year’s team bond, but I know him. It’s also his way of getting us all together off the field for no other reason than to hang out.
“Anyone need a ride?” I ask.
“All aboard the mom van!” Treyvon shouts, and then he smiles a puppy-dog smile at me.
“Yeah. I got you a car seat, Trey,” I say back.
“Does it come with those dangling toys? I love those things.”
I chuckle and grab my keys out of my locker. Keller and Trey follow behind me. We drive down the old country roads leading back toward Waterford. On our way through one of the more affluent neighborhoods, a certain house catches my eye. It’s not just any house. It’s an old Victorian with staggered rooflines, turrets, a wraparound porch and scrollwork detailing. I’ve passed it before, but tonight, in the golden hour, it looks like it’s straight off a page of Architectural Digest.
I slow down without even realizing. There’s a For Sale sign in the front yard.
“Maybe go more than twenty miles an hour,” Keller says.
“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry,” I say, depressing the gas pedal lightly, lingering just a beat longer to take in the house.
The property sprawls out around the home. Mature trees. Well-kept. The next neighbor is a few parcels over. The roads curve through the neighborhood, so nothing’s cookie-cutter. Each home has its own personality and plenty of grass around it. Some lots are intentionally vacant, almost like private parks between homes.
I’ve been living in one of the condos Declan’s dad built on the outskirts of town near the Home Mart. A lot of the guys bought houses when the practice facility went up. I didn’t see anything that called to me, so I decided to bide my time.
This house, though? A man could build a life in a house like that.
“I've always wanted a Victorian,” I say quietly.
Keller glances out the back window and Treyvon bends a little so he can peer out my side window from his spot in the front passenger seat.
“That screams money pit,” Treyvon says.
“It screams Preserve me,” I retort. “It looks well-loved. The owners probably have poured a lot into keeping it that pristine.”
“Old homes are a lot of work, QB,” Keller says. “It’s a beauty, but it will need a lot of ongoing TLC from whoever buys it.”
“Always going on the rescue missions,” Trey says.
He’s probably talking about the few relationships I’ve had since we were in college and drafted together. The trouble with knowing someone all the years Trey and I have is that you can’t reinvent yourself. I’m not like The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, Madonna or Beyoncé. I have baggage. And I have Trey to constantly humble me with the memories.
