Page 19 of Fumbled Into Love

Maren shoots me a glare. I throw my hands up in defense. “You’re right. Hot sauce is important.” I draw out the words to let the sarcasm sink in.

Sawyer covers a laugh with a cough and busies herself with the veggie tray. Maren stomps off to take photos of the pre-game program playing on the TV.

“What are you doing?” I ask as she fiddles away with her phone.

“Posting on Jack’s Instagram,” she says casually, and I peek over her shoulders to find her drawing hearts around Jack’s name on the photo. “Gotta give the people what they want.”

Sawyer bursts out laughing. Between breaths, she asks, “Yourun his fan account?”

“Of course. I am his biggest fan.”

“Does he know?” I ask.

I follow the account—by her request—and last week, she posted a photo of half-eaten chicken wings with the caption,hot hands eating even hotter wings.I spent an hour trying to figure out if Jack had a stalker.

Lo and behold, it was his wife.

“No.” Maren smirks. “That’s half the fun. He has no idea, and I’ve tried to tell him, but it's sofunto hear him talk about the account and the mystery owner. I don’t think I can stop.”

As we settle in before kick-off, my thoughts flicker to the bouquet sitting on my dinette and the fancy French macarons I’m afraid to eat because I’ll love them, and then they’ll be gone.

“What kind of call is that?!” Maren screams, stomping over to stand in front of the TV. “Do you need glasses, ref?” She spins to me, jerking her hand toward the screen. “Nathalie, offer the poor man your glasses. He needs them if he’s making such an outrageous call.”

I lift my glasses, momentarily blind, and once she’s satisfied her insult was heard by the universe, Maren sits down. Right in time for Deon to jump onto the screen, his green eyes full of focus and determination behind his helmet. His jaw ticks, the only outward sign of frustration, and I track it.

I’m not delusional. I know this whole ordeal isn’t going anywhere.

He’s Deon Adams, and I’m, well, me.

We live in two different realms.

I’ve held the morsel of physical attraction painfully tight to my chest because nothing good comes from hopping into bed with a man like Deon Adams. That’s all it is, too: physical attraction. It’s impossible to have a crush on a man you barely know outside of a questionnaire you forced him to fill out, and he ignored a third of the questions.

The fourth quarter begins, and Deon trots onto the field, joining the huddle of players and clapping his hands. They line up, and Maren describes the offensive play for my benefit.

She groans, and based on tone alone, I know they fucked up. Do I know how they fucked up? Not at all, but I know how to decipher Maren’s sighs.

I wish I could boast about my knowledge of the inner workings of football, but I’m not that girl. My father lovesfútbol,and until I met Sawyer and Maren, I had never attended a football game. There are three reasons I go to the games: to hang out with Maren and Sawyer, watch men run around in tight pants, and eat my weight in nachos.

“This is nerve-wracking.” Sawyer grimaces as the clock begins to run down, and Seattle is tied with Tampa. The defense takes the field, and even I understand what’s on the line. They need to score.

“They need a three and out,” I say hesitantly, hoping my memory is right.

Maren spins, a massive smile overtaking her face.

“You remembered!” She claps and turns back to the screen. The ball flies through the air, and a player catches the ball, running in the opposite direction.

“Uh… I think they’re running the wrong—”

“Interception!” Sawyer and Maren yell. They leap from the couch, and Maren whistles as Jack pops onto the screen. She scrambles for her phone as the camera zooms in for a close-up. Jack is squinting slightly, and he looks imposing. “His fans are going to love this.”

Maren and Sawyer celebrate, but I track Deon, mesmerized by the small smile that creeps onto his face as Henry drags him into a gripping hug.

“Deon asked me to be his fake girlfriend,” I admit as Sawyer and Marencelebrate.

Maren whirls. Sawyer screams. Faster than lightning, Sawyer barrels back onto the couch.

“Deon Adams asked you that?” Maren asks. Her brows nearly touch her hairline.

---