Page 55 of Bae

I learned that from Braeden.

Everyone was clamoring for a look at her. Some speculated she came against my wishes, and that’s why she was hiding. Others thought she was hiding because she was hiding a bump. Some said she was too scared to show her face.

Since when did the game become about what the wives of the players were doing? Why was it about their clothes, their ability to pump out kids, and where they sat at games?

This was football.Football.Not a fucking soap opera.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered and handed B his phone.

“I asked Ivy if everything is okay up there.”

“What’d she say?”

“Said it was all good.”

Rimmel didn’t seem upset in her texts, so maybe she didn’t know the stir her presence but lack of being seen caused.

I pulled up my phone and shot out another text.

You and Ivy leave the stadium a little early. Less traffic. We’ll meet you guys at the hotel. I left a key at the front desk 4 you.

I didn’t want Rim hanging around, waiting for me after the game.

See you then.

“We’ll meet at the hotel after,” I informed B.

He nodded. “Smart.”

I leaned my head against the locker and shut my eyes. It seemed only seconds passed when Coach was yelling for us all to hustle back to the field. As we went, the familiar thunderous and echo-y sound of the crowd hummed around us. It served as a surge of adrenaline and signaled to my conditioned brain it was game time.

I knew Rim was okay in the box. My parents were with her, and security in that area was tight. People could talk shit online all they wanted, but it was just words.

The game resumed, and I jogged out on the field and called a play. My teammates and I fell into position; the ball was snapped into my capable hands. In the span of a few heartbeats, I scanned the players, looking for an opening. I bypassed one because dude was seconds away from getting trampled.

Hopping on one foot, I pulled my arm back, feeling the usual tingle in my muscles as I prepared to launch the ball.

I saw my opening, releasing the ball.

It spiraled perfectly right down the field. My receiver leapt up and caught it, the football folding right into his waiting hands. He turned and launched forward, rushing down the field.

I watched, hoping for just another step, another yard.

Finally, he was forced out of bounds, but not before he managed to advance us near the end zone.

The crowd went nuts, cheering and screaming. B came rushing up to smack me on the helmet. “That was a sweet-ass throw, Rome!” he yelled.

I spit out my mouth guard and grinned.

Along with our other teammates, who were celebrating, I turned to regroup. I leaned in to call another play.

“What the fuck?” Trumbly muttered and glanced up out of the huddle.

The rest of us followed suit when we noticed the same thing. The crowd was still going nuts. Now don’t get me wrong. There was always cheering and a roaring crowd at games, at all times.

I’d just thrown a sweet pass and got everyone’s juices flowing, but it should have died down some by now. They should have been anticipating the next snap; they should’ve been holding their breath for a touchdown.

Why weren’t they?

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