Page 134 of Against The Rules

I’ve never been so distracted while warming up. I keep searching the sidelines, where groups of cheerleaders warm up, running through their routines and stretching.

I don’t see her.

“She’s not here,” I mutter.

“What?” Jacob asks. “Dude, you need to focus.”

“She’s not here,” I repeat, jogging to a group of cheerleaders, ignoring the pass as it sails by my head.

The two redheads turn towards me, trading nervous looks.

“Where’s Savannah?” I bark at them.

“We don’t know. Her locker was cleared out when we got here.”

“Like she never existed,” one whispers. “Like she got caught selling nuclear secrets.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re not supposed to talk to us,” the other hisses.

“They fired her.”

The redheads stare at me. I can hardly tell them apart, even though I’m fairly sure they were in Vegas.

“That night in Vegas, I married her.”

“Oh my god,” one breathes. “I knew she had a nuclear secret. See, Ashley?”

Ashley glares at her, then her eyes go wide. “That was you! That’s why you look familiar. Wait—you two got married? You’re married?!”

“Ashley, Tiffany,” an older woman yells from the stands. “Back in position.”

I’ve never met the woman, but I know who she is.

I point a finger at her. “You.”

“Good riddance to her,” Rebecca says, smiling nastily at me. “She brought down the whole team.”

“You know nothing about what it means to build a team. Lucky for me, though, I know the owner of this franchise pretty well. I can’t wait to have a little chat with him about how you’ve treated a player’s wife.”

She pales, and I curb my middle finger before I have time to use it.

I don’t know the owner at all, other than shaking his hand a few times.

It was worth lying to see her break a sweat, though.

“Fuck.” I run off the field, trainers following me. “I’m not hurt. Give me a minute. I just NEED A MINUTE!” I roar.

They back off, alarm on their faces. Shit.

“Sorry. I just need a minute,” I repeat, feeling like an asshole. A minute later, I’ve got my phone out, Savannah’s number ringing and ringing and ringing.

“Hi, this is Savannah Durand. Leave me a message.”

“Peaches, it’s Ty. I just heard what happened. I’m so sorry, that’s not—” My throat closes up, and I punch the wall with my left hand. “That’s not what I wanted to happen. I just want you to be okay. I’m sorry. I—I know how much dancing means to you.” I stare at the outline of Daniel Harrison’s portrait in the mural on the locker room wall. What would Daniel do? “I love you. Please call me when you get this. My parents are in town too, you know, here at the game, but I’d love to see you. If you want to see me, just—” I don’t know what to say. How do you apologize for getting your wife fired? I have no idea.

A beep sounds, the voicemail cutting off.

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