Page 157 of Off Camera
“Yeah.” I rub my jaw, smiling at the memory of the late nights when I was in the guest bedroom, wide awake because I couldn’t stop scrolling through the Thunderhawks’ Instagram feed. Typing then deleting messages to her, too chicken to actually send them. “There was more cursing back then, though.”
“I like being in your spaces,” Avery says. “I like seeing the parts of your life I only had glimpses of. I like putting names to faces, and I like to imagine you were thinking about me in all the moments I was thinking about you.”
“I was. Spitefully, of course, but I was. And I have no plans of stopping anytime soon.”
“Good. You’re going to include me too, right?”
“Baby. You’re going to be fucking sick of me soon.”
“Doubtful. I’ve always been a little obsessed with you, Duncan. It’s about time you caught up.”
FORTY-FIVE
AVERY
“Thankyou for letting me be here,” I yell in Reid’s ear as the players take the field. “I’ve never been to the Super Bowl before.”
“Just wish I could’ve gotten you to wear a Titans hat,” he yells back, knocking the brim of my Thunderhawks cap. “I’m still half afraid you’re going to sabotage me.”
I laugh and elbow his ribs. “No way. I’m so excited for you all. You might have lost one part of our bet, butthisI hope you win. I hate the Pistons.”
“There’s my caring girlfriend,” Reid says, dropping a kiss to my cheek. “Be honest: you’re just excited to hear your damn song on our page again if we win. I really should’ve added stipulations to your victory earnings.”
“I’m a little excited,” I admit. “It’s going to drive in so many new fans for us. I should be thanking you, really, for thinking you’re better at your job than I am.”
“You know I think you’re fantastic. The best in the league.” He tugs on the jersey I’m wearing, the oversized one with Dallas’s last name on the back. Maven bedazzled it with jewels and rhinestones, and it felt wrong not to show up in at leastsomeTitans gear. “I’ve never wanted to be an athlete before, butseeing you have some other guy’s last name on your back makes me want to hit the gym and try out for a team.”
“Is that jealousy, Duncan?” I ask, wrapping my arms around his neck. There are only a few minutes left to indulge in physical affection with him before he needs to buckle down and do his job, and I can’t help but touch him. To let everyone in the stadium—all one hundred thousand people—know he’s mine. “I like when you’re possessive.”
“Can’t be jealous when I know you’re going home with me.” His hands settle on my waist, fisting the polyester between his fingers. “Thank you for coming out here. Thank you for supporting me and my friends. I know we’re both competitive people, but it wouldn’t be right if you weren’t here to celebrate.”
“We should be thanking Maverick. He’s the one who chartered a private jet and flew us out here.” I pause and tip my chin up, our eyes meeting. “You know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I love seeing you in action, Reid, and I’m always going to support you.”
“Speaking of which.” He taps my hip and his hands fall away. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“What do you have up your sleeve?”
“Come here.”
He leads me to the tunnel and the crowd of people congregated there. I see folks dressed in suits and slacks, their attire out of place in a stadium of football gear. We reach two women deep in conversation, and when Reid clears his throat, subtly trying to get their attention, they both light up at the sight of him.
“Reid,” the first one exclaims. She bends down to hug him, her heels helping her tower over his six-foot-one frame, and he’s careful to only touch the top of her shoulder with a friendly pat. “There you are.”
“Sorry we’re a few minutes behind schedule,” he says, pulling away and smiling at me. “I was showing Avery around. It’s her first time at the Super Bowl, and I want her to get the whole experience.”
“No apologies needed,” the second woman says, fixing the collar of her blazer. “It’s our first time here too. Knocks the NBA championship right out of the water.”
“Sweetheart, this is Barbara Jones, the NBA commissioner, and Susie Cartwright, president of the Washington Ducks,” Reid explains, and I beam.
“It’s so nice to meet you all,” I say, shaking their hands. “And congratulations on the championship, Susie.”
“The first of many,” she says, exchanging a look with the commissioner. “I’ll admit we’re here under somewhat false pretenses. I met Reid at a luncheon two years ago and spent forty-five minutes trying to poach him from the NFL over to the NBA. I wasn’t successful, obviously, but the whole time we talked, he kept mentioning this woman who ran the Baltimore Thunderhawks’ social media accounts.”
I turn and look at him. “Two years ago?”
“I know,” he says sheepishly. “When I ran into Susie a couple months ago, right at the beginning of our bet, she asked how you were doing. I admit I might have planted the seed of you switching leagues out of spite. But with everything that happened this season, with the goals you’ve told me about and the ways the NFL has made you feel like you belong in a box, I thought maybe there’s something better out there for you. Something that doesn’t shove your talent away, but welcomes it.”
I swallow and glance at the three of them. “What are you saying?”
