Oh boy.
I refocus on Donald Marks, the head of the visual arts department, who came over right away to congratulate me in person, but the urge to run over and tell James the news is almost overwhelming. I want to tackle him and kiss him right against the wall, but I’m sure that wouldn’t be considered appropriate fancy art gallery behavior.
“He’s an excellent contact to have,” he continues, gesturing across the room. “I’ll introduce you two later so you can talk more in depth about this. Are you considering a future in sports photography specifically?”
“Maybe,” I say, and the best part is, I’m not lying at all. I could do that—or I could do anything in the world. For the first time since I was a little kid, the whole world is open to me; I don’t have promises to worry about breaking. I’m free. “I really love the atmosphere of sporting events.”
“That’s important.” He smiles, breaking eye contact to look over my photography again. “Truly excellent work. I’m sorry that we didn’t have you in our department.”
“I’m starting to realize what I really want.”
He nods. “I’m glad, Ms. Wood. Do stay in touch.”
The moment he wanders away, Izzy darts over to me, James on her heels. She has a cup of wine in her hand, which James deftly takes away before she can gulp it down.
“Hey,” she protests, crossing her arms over her lilac velvet dress. “No fair.”
He hands the wine to me instead. “After the stunt you pulled at that party last weekend? You’re lucky Mom and Dad let you out of the house.”
I take a sip, but I don’t taste it. I’m practically vibrating with excitement. “Hey.”
He kisses me quickly. “How’s it going so far?”
“It’s actually kind of amazing.” I reach out and take his hand. “I have to talk to you.”
Izzy looks between us, raising one dark eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”
“Why don’t you go bother Coop,” James says dryly. “It looks like he’s trying to chat up that poor girl over there.”
Izzy looks over her shoulder. Cooper is leaning right next to a beautiful watercolor, gesturing with his wine cup as he talks to a young woman. She doesn’t seem that interested anyway, but I have a feeling Cooper is about to strike out thanks to Hurricane Izzy.
“I’ll bet I can make her think he has an STD,” she declares.
“Wait,” says James, but she’s already striding across the room. He sighs, turning to me. “You look beautiful, by the way. Who are the flowers from?”
“My mother.”
“That’s sweet. My parents have a bouquet for you too.”
“She’s over there… talking to your mom,” I say as I realize what I’m seeing. “Oh God. She works fast.”
James glances over. “I think that was my mom, actually,” he says. “She’s been dying to meet her. But what’s up?”
“My mom talked to me before the show started. She’s selling the diner.”
He pulls me into a hug so quickly I nearly spill the wine on the floor. “No fucking way!”
“Yes!” I hug him back, unable to keep myself from laughing. We probably look ridiculous, but right now, I don’t care. The whole gallery could stare, and I wouldn’t give a shit. All that matters right now is him. “Yes. She’s selling it.”
His grip on me tightens. “Princess. Please tell me that means what I think it means.”
I pull back far enough to kiss him. Even in heels, I’m up on my toes, cupping his neck with my hand. I look into his ocean eyes, and I see a million possibilities. A future we can share. I see love and desire and everything I thought I couldn’t have, in between shades of blue.
“Yes,” I murmur against his mouth. I grin, feeling him smile in turn. “Wherever you go, I’m following.”
48
JAMES
EPILOGUE
April, Two Months Later
Bex kisses me again, panting softly against my mouth. “Wait, baby. Wait. When does the show start again?”
I keep fingering her, scissoring the two fingers inside her as I slip my thumb against her clit. She gasps, her next protests lost. She’s right, we need to get back to the waiting area—the producer who came by before we slipped away warned us that it was almost time for the televised portion of the draft—but I can’t help myself. I want her to come, I want us to be the only ones in the whole crowd who know what we just did. My family is probably wondering where we are, but whatever. They can wait.
What matters right now is making my girlfriend feel good.
She clutches at my arm, but doesn’t try to move me away. I kiss her neck, resisting the urge to give her a visible love bite, and work in a third finger. I swallow her moans even though I wish I could make her scream; it’s good enough to feel her clench around me, shaking as she comes. I ease out my fingers, letting her down from where I’d pushed her up on her tiptoes against the wall.
“Holy shit,” she murmurs, looking a little dazed.
I kiss her again. “Fucking gorgeous.”
She shakes her head as she rearranges her dress. “I can’t believe you just did that. We’re about to be on television!”
I lick her slick from my fingers, relishing in her taste. “I have it worse. I’m hard as hell and just have to live with it.”
She shakes her head. “No way. You got yourself into this mess, I refuse to feel sympathetic.”
When we look presentable again—although my shirt is a little wrinkled, and Bex insists her hair doesn’t look the same—we peer out of the supply closet. The coast is clear, so we walk out, trying to look casual.
“I’ll go around this way, you go around the other way,” I say. “If anyone asks, I got caught up saying hello to some old teammates from LSU.”
She rolls her eyes fondly. “I’m just going to say I was in the bathroom.”
Ironically, I do run into a couple of people I know on my way back to the waiting area, so when I do manage to get back to my family, Bex is already there, deep in conversation with Sebastian. She’s still a little flushed. I wink at her as I sit down.
She rolls her eyes, waving her hand at me.
“How are you feeling?” Dad asks.
We haven’t gotten back to the place we were before, but things are a lot better than they were back in January. Even though we don’t view football and this career exactly the same anymore, he’s still my father, and I want him by my side for moments like this. He understands, better than anyone else, what I’m about to embark on.
In less than an hour, Bex and I will know where we’re moving after graduation.
For a while, all the talk seemed to be about San Francisco, but there are rumors that Philadelphia might trade up to get a better first-round pick to take one of the three really good quarterbacks on the board—me, the guy from Alabama who beat me back in January, and the QB from Duke. Back when I won the Heisman, there was no doubt I’d go first in the draft, but the loss in the championship game screwed with that certainty. I don’t mind; there’s no guarantee that where I start out will be where I spend the majority of my career, but the hope is that whichever team takes me is willing and ready to build a team around me that can win. I’ve tried not to think much about the specifics, because it’s not like I can pick, but it would be great if we didn’t have to be the only ones in either of our families to live all the way across the country.
“It’s starting,” a producer says, speaking to the room at large. “As a reminder, we’ll be cutting between this backstage waiting area and the stage, so remember you’re on camera. If you get the call, first and foremost congratulations. Remember to answer the call and then follow the green arrows to the stage to be introduced. The live feed will be played up front on the TVs.”
I look at my dad, taking in a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
He squeezes my shoulder, rocking me slightly. Honestly, I think he’s more nervous than I am.
As the feed goes live, Bex holds onto my hand.
The San Francisco 49ers have the first pick. They take the quarterback from Alabama.
The New York Jets have the second pick, and they take the best tackle on the board.
With the third pick, things get interesting. Philly trades up from the slot at sixth, offering Houston a slew of picks in the later round.
I know, deep in my bones, the second they announce the pick is in, that they’ve chosen me.
My phone, resting on the table before us, rings. I’m frozen for half a second, but then I feel Bex dig her nails into my hand, and that prompts me into motion. I pick it up, clearing my throat as I say hello.
“James,” my new coach says. “Welcome to the Philadelphia Eagles.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You ready to work?”
I meet Bex’s eyes. She has her hands clasped over her mouth, probably to keep from screaming while I’m on the phone. God, I love her.
Philadelphia. We can work with that.
I wink at her.
“Yes, sir.”
AFTERWORD