Page 70 of The Longshot

“What’s that look for?” she asks with a cautious look on her face. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” I tell her. “That you’re going to need to give me the address to where Crawfield plays.”

“Excuse me… pardon me… sorry, can I just get by?” I’m left profusely apologizing as I squeeze my way through the bustling crowds of people waiting outside of Crawfield’s stadium.

I’m no stranger when it comes to pushing my way through a crowd. Most of my teen years were spent taking the train into London to watch my favorite bands at Wembley. But little did I realize that Crawfield Football Club was practically the One Direction of the town.

Everyone is decked out to the nines in some sort of Crawfield merchandise, and don’t even get me started on just how many jerseys I’ve seen with “Wilkinson” on the back. Quite frankly, I’ve lost count.

It’s astonishing—thinking about how much of a big deal Gary is around here. People really love him, look up to him, and truthfully, I can see why.

He’s got a good heart and, hopefully, an even better rebound rate.

“Um, excuse me?” I finally manage to squeeze my way towards the front of the crowd, catching the attention of a lady who supports the staff members with scanning tickets.

“Hi,” she cheerily responds with an American accent, placing both of her hands on top of her very pregnant belly. “How can I help?”

“I’m sorry,” I can’t seem to stop myself from apologizing. “Is there uh—any way I could buy a ticket? I know it’s last minute, but I really need to see this game.”

Her face drops as she flashes me an empathic frown. “I’m so sorry,” she speaks. “But we’re all sold out. We’ve been selling tickets like crazy. But I’ll tell you what, give me your number, and I’ll make sure you get tickets for the next one, I promise.”

Well, shit.

I’m left ruminating on what to do next when my eyes steer off course and gravitate towards the green of the pitch, where not only can I see the team starting their warm-ups, but amongst them, I can see a familiar frame with the word “Captain” branded around his arm as he leads the team—Gary.

God, it’s only been forty-eight hours since I’ve last seen him, but oh, how I’ve missed his face.

“Let me guess. You’re here to see, Wilks?” My attention is pulled away as I’m met with a look of sexual mischief.

“Uh, yeah.” I reluctantly agree, taken aback by her ability to hone in on my gaze so intently. “I wanted to watch Gary play, but that's okay,” I admit. “I know it’s last minute, and there’s no denying just how busy you guys are?—”

“Gary?” Her eyes light up as a suspecting grin spreads across her full lips.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Sorry.” I’m reminded of the fact that no one around here seems to call him that. “I meant to say, Wilks. I’m just… not used to calling him that, that’s all.”

“Are you, by chance, Chelsie Windsor?” The woman says my name like she’s heard it before. Like she knows exactly who I am. I run her face through my mind hundreds of times, yet I still can’t seem to place it.

Have we met?

“I’m sorry.” She apologetically raises her hands, visibly picking up on my confusion. “That was extremely stalkerish of me. My name’s Delaney, maybe Wilks… Gary,” she corrects herself. “Has mentioned me? I’m dating his Coach—Warren Park.”

Delaney.

Gary’s alleged sister.

The supposed cake dropper.

His easy scapegoat.

How could I forget?

I’m left nodding eagerly as a way to suppress the urge to laugh. “Yes, Gary did mention you. It’s so nice to finally meet you, Delaney. I was the one who made the cake for your baby shower. Congratulations, by the way.” I gesture towards her swollen tummy.

“That was you?” Her eyes widen in delight. “Oh, it was delicious. I’m still dreaming about it to this day. Wait, so does that mean Ruby is your?—”

“Sister,” I finish her sentence. “Yep, that she is.”

“Wow.” She scans my face, delight in her eyes. “I thought you two looked alike.” She folds her arms on top of her stomach. “Small world, huh?”

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