“Because . . .” His stormy gaze was now locked on me. “I don’t know. I just didn’t expect you to go out of your way.”
“It’s me sending out his résumé to the corporate heads me or Mel will already be talking to. Not out of my way. Besides, what the hell else do I have to do with my time? May as well try to do something constructive.”
He sounded almost defensive about his desire to help, which sent a slight smile curving over my face. It was the second time I was seeing this side of Gavin—this desire to make a difference in someone’s life—and my heart sped just as fast this time around. Even faster.
“You’re really kind sometimes.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t change that you do kind things. Actions speak louder than words.” I held up the keys again, jingling them. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Now get the hell out so I can read and update that Instagram shit you started.”
I perked up. “What are you gonna post?”
“No clue,” he said, grouch tone in full effect. “My middle finger.”
“You should post a picture of the book on your chest. People are a sucker for a hot man reading. Nipples and pecs are bonus. There’s even an Instagram account dedicated to men reading on trains. Also, it’s so different from your usual persona that people will be shocked and share it.”
“So you admit to thinking I’m a hot man. Thought I wasn’t your type?” When I just snorted, Gavin smirked. “I’ll give it a shot. Maybe I’ll even post a reminder for people like you that my persona is some shit the media gave me.”
“Fair point. Although you play the part they cast you in really well sometimes.”
I waited for him to snarl something about me not knowing him well enough to make that statement, which was also a fair point, but he didn’t. He just rolled his eyes and jerked his chin at the door.
“Go enjoy my practice field.”
***
On the way to Jersey I felt awful. I’d been talking about this fan day business all week, and it had never occurred to me that I was rubbing Gavin’s incarceration in his face. While I pranced off to Rutherford in my skinny jeans and faded Yankees T-shirt—because why not wear the wrong sport to a major athletics event—he was trapped in that isolated mansion on the beach.
“I’m an asshole.”
“It’s his own fault he’s stuck there.” Jasmine rolled her big brown eyes at me. “He’s the one who beat the shit out of some random frat boy.”
“Good point.”
I didn’t mention that I’d started forming theories as to why. Theories about Gavin’s closeted bisexuality, and what may have been on that phone . . . I’d kept my mouth shut about that revelation. While Jasmine was my closest friend and I trusted her with all of my secrets, I couldn’t bring myself to share Gavin’s. Especially not that one. Especially since, when it came down to it, him beating the shit out of someone for recording a hookup or taking a secret picture of him still wasn’t okay. And I didn’t want to make it seem like I was making excuses for him.
We showed up at the training center early, but it was still too late to get a good parking spot. There were so many damn people that I was convinced it would be impossible to grab a place to stand behind the barriers, let alone somewhere visible enough for Marcus and Simeon to see me. Jasmine fretted over not getting to meet Marcus, and I dragged her through the crowd in an attempt to big-body my way to the barrier.
Despite my lack of football-player size, we made it. Before long, we hung over the black-and-silver barrier to watch the Barons practice in their black-and-silver uniforms. I wasn’t an expert, but they didn’t look like game uniforms. They were less padded and included white pants instead of the standard black ones with the steel-gray stripe running down the side.
“Do you see—”
“There’s Marcus!” Jasmine shouted, pointing. “Look—he’s the one running!”
I zeroed in on the figure sprinting across the field and saw the silver numbers announcing “22” were on his black jersey. I didn’t fully understand football, but I knew enough about the human body to identify that Marcus ran magnificently fast. His long, powerful legs pumped as a couple of players in silver jerseys trailed him. He didn’t seem to be holding the ball so—oh. My eyes flicked across the field where number 13—Simeon—was throwing the ball in an arc so beautiful that it seemed to cut through the humid air as it hurtled.
There was no reasonable reason why another person should be able to judge the distance well enough to catch that fast-flying ball, but Marcus did. He turned and jumped right before reaching the end zone, and did a midair backflip just as his pursuers went to slam into him.
“Holy shit!” I shouted at the same time as Jasmine screamed, “Fucking hell!”
Some couple with two young kids by their sides gave us serious stank faces, but I didn’t care. Either Marcus had picked the best possible time to be a show-off daredevil, or he was ridiculously talented enough to do things like that on the regular. Either way, I was suddenly excited to see more.
The other guys may as well have been black-and-silver shadows drifting around the field. At first, all I paid attention to was numbers 13 and 22—just as Marcus had predicted. I clapped wildly when he caught the ball once again and sprinted across the field like a goddamn gazelle. He dodged around guys twice his size, making it clear that, even though he dwarfed me, he was still one of the smallest players on the team. And that size difference made him fast.
He was a blur as he rushed towards the end zone only to throw a pass just as a couple of three-hundred-pound guys swarmed him. I thought it’d been a wild Hail-Mary type of pass, but it sailed into the waiting hands of one of the guys on his side with eerie precision.
The next few series of plays sucked me in. I whooped when Marcus caught the ball, screamed when Simeon soared across the field, and cried out every time one of them was tackled. Jasmine reassured me that they would never use full force during practice or a scrimmage, but I couldn’t help cringing.
It was no wonder that the careers of football players ended in their early thirties, if that. I couldn’t imagine how much abuse their bodies took. I didn’t want to think about how awful their daily living would be once they were too old to ignore all the damage they’d white knuckled through for their entire career.
“They’re so insanely athletic,” I said. “And it’s crazy how big I thought Simeon and Marcus were at the house. Now, they’re like . . . dwarfed by some of the others.”
“That’s why they’re so agile, though,” Jasmine said. “The only player who has both size and crazy speed is Gavin. He’s bigger, broader and meaner than some of the receivers, but he’s one of the fastest guys on the field when he plays. He will barrel through a three-hundred-twenty-five-pound guy like it’s nothing, and then outrun everyone around him. Try to picture that.”