Page 90 of Just Playin'
By the time he pulls back, I’m as woozy as a drunk after a night out on the town.
“I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”
I think I nod, but don’t quote me on it. I can barely stand upright.
I gingerly lean over the railing when Elvis calls my name. When my eyes land on his, he smirks a wickedly devilish grin. “I like your shirt.”
“Why thank you.” I curtsy. “I made it myself.”
After a final wink, he spins on his heels and sprints to Coach James, picking up his helmet on the way. Coach’s face pales when Elvis hands him my phone, but he’s not upset for long. The natural beige coloring of his cheeks shifts to a vibrant red as he approaches Coach Salter standing on the sidelines.
Recognizing his game is about to be cut short, Coach Salter makes an excuse to leave the field. His hasty exodus is stopped by two security officers just before he enters the stadium tunnel. He should consider himself lucky. Coach James looks minutes away from turning this game of football into a boxing match.
My heart warms when Coach James shifts his eyes my way. He dips his chin, his gratitude coming without words. I return his greeting before accepting the seat the gentleman next to me is offering. I could find my own seat, but since I don’t trust my legs to keep me upright, I’d rather not.
“It is a cool shirt,” the fan praises.
With a smile as bright as a moon on a cloudless night, I drop my eyes to my shirt. I saw this slogan in a kick-ass reading group I’m a part of and thought it was highly appropriate for tonight. Its lettering is a little wonky since I painted it while we were in transit, but its message is imperative:
Unless I’m sitting on your face, my weight is none of your business.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Willow
My lungs haven’t secured an entire breath the past thirty-seven minutes. Coach James had enough proof to force the opposition into forfeiting the game, but at the request of Elvis and his teammates, he allowed the game to continue as scheduled. Let me tell you, it has been a nail-biting thirty-seven minutes. It took everything the 69ers had to swing the game in their favor, but they did it. After a grueling twelve minutes in sudden-death overtime, Foster moonwalks across the end zone, and the crowd leaps to their feet.
“Yes!”
I hug Skylar, whose impressive rack saved her from prosecution, before turning my affections to anyone willing to hug a stranger. My excitement is too extreme to care that I’m getting friendly with football freaks. I’m one of them now, so I can’t exclude myself from the festivities.
I stop celebrating the team’s win as if it were my own when the crowd’s focus shifts in a different direction. They all turn one way, the joy on their faces changing to wonder. I discover the cause for their slackened jaws and wide eyes when I crank my neck in the direction they’re gawking. Elvis has once again climbed the railing, except this time, he’s on our side of the fence.
Fans slaps his back in congratulations as he spans the distance between us. I lick my lips, assuming his hurried steps are spurred on by his eagerness to reacquaint our mouth. They are, but that’s not the only thing encouraging his swiftness.
After returning air to my lungs with nothing but his mouth, Elvis shifts his eyes to Skylar. “How did you go?”
The love hearts bouncing from her eyes double under his watchful gaze, but she plays it cool. “We’re good to go.” She grimaces like she got a bit of vomit on her shirt. “If you can get her there in thirty minutes.”
“Challenged accepted.”
Stealing my chance to ask what the hell is going on, Elvis seals his hand over mine before hightailing it down the stairs. Skylar follows closely behind us. It’s lucky we’re fit, or we would have died from Elvis’s grueling pace.
I take a step back, squealing, when Elvis’s car comes shrieking to a halt in front of us not even a second after we burst through the back doors of the stadium. After tossing me into the back seat—yes, he tossed me in there—Elvis demands that Danny scoot into the passenger seat. While he does that, all legs and arms, Skylar drags a damp cloth down my painted cheek.
“That better be water.”
She giggles, loving the fret in my tone. She shouldn’t be laughing because I wasn’t joking. I don’t care how much I love her; if her spit is on my face, there’ll be hell to pay.
As Elvis zooms out of the parking lot too fast for his car not to become airborne, Skylar dangles a travel-size pack of wet wipes in front of my face. It eases the tension in my shoulders, but it does nothing for the knot in my gut. I’m as confused as hell and not ashamed to admit it.
“Will someone please tell me what is going on?”
They all talk at once, meaning I get nothing but blasted eardrums.
I swipe my hand through the air, silencing them in an instant. “One at a time.”
Skylar is the closest, so you’d think my eyes would go straight to her. They don’t. They seek Elvis’s in the rearview mirror.
