WREN
“Morning, handsome,” I said as I stabbed the speaker button on my phone. “You’re up early.”
It was the third week of preseason. The last week before seventeen regular season games began. The Reds were playing at home today, which meant Tatum and the team had spent the night at a hotel near the stadium. With kickoff at noon, we ladies had a five AM wakeup call. We had to be on the field by six to rehearse without spectators.
“I’m still in bed,” Tatum mumbled through the line. “Just wanted to talk to you before you went to work.”
Theo must have been in the room. We had decided that he wouldn’t lie to his boys and say that he wasn’t seeing anyone—especially since our relationship had taken a turn toward serious. But as far as they knew, I was Tatum’s nameless interior designer girlfriend, and we were keeping things private. Very private.
I unzipped the rolling suitcase that I used to tote my gameday gear to the stadium. “Sleep okay?” I asked.
“Like a baby.”
“You should get a little more rest.”
“I just wanted to hear your voice.” There was a rustle on his end, then the squeak of a shower turning on and the whir of a bathroom fan. “You gonna be at my end zone today, Little Bird?” he asked in a low timbre, probably trying to keep his voice from carrying out to Theo. Their second preseason game had been away. This was the first time that Tatum and I would be taking the field, fully aware of our proximity to each other. It would be the first time we took the field with all eyes on us for a reason other than football.
The rumors and speculation hadn’t died down. Paparazzi still hounded Tatum and loitered outside my apartment.
Maddox had switched from being Colette’s guard dog to mine. He told the journalists who called the firm looking for a scoop exactly where they could shove it.
I wouldn’t be judged on my technique or stamina when I strutted onto the field for our pregame performance. There was a new narrative. One that happened in a split second, then had been created, picked apart, clipped, and edited for mass consumption.
“I don’t know. We find out our field placements right before the game starts.” It was a little white lie. I knew exactly where I’d be positioned—close to him.
The four groups of cheerleaders typically rotated throughout the corners of the field during the season. But because of the media circus surrounding Tatum and I, the team wanted to continue the positive press and “speculative narrative.”
I didn’t want him thinking about me during the game. I didn’t want him worrying what I was doing or worrying about whether he was going to run into me again. If he thought I was on the opposite side of the field, I wouldn’t mess with his mojo.
“How’s your head feeling?” he asked.
Two days ago, I mentioned to him that I had a minor headache. He flipped out and wanted to call a team physician he was friends with or take me straight to the ER. It took me nearly an hour to explain that it was probably from breathing in paint fumes at a property I was working on. The guilt from tackling and knocking me out had weighed heavily on his conscience. I was more concerned about being on the field with him post-tackle than being back after getting benched for a concussion.
“It’ll be better once I grab my Dunkies before I head to the stadium,” I joked.
He yawned. “You and your coffee addiction.”
I double checked that I had all the pieces to my uniform, warm-up sweats, sneakers, and every cosmetic known to man. Last but not least, I grabbed my boots and poms out of the chair in the corner and tossed them in.
Tatum and I had managed to sneak in a midweek sleepover, but work with Colette James, local events as a Lady in Red, and Tatum’s workout and practice schedule kept us apart the rest of the week.
“What are you doing after the game?” I asked.
“Throwing rocks at your window until you let me up.”
I laughed. “You gonna climb the fire escape and sneak in my window?” With my salary from the design firm and the rainy-day money I made with the Reds, I could have afforded a slightly nicer apartment. But I loved the charm of my building. After growing up on city sitcoms, I shared the quintessential ’90s-baby dream of having an apartment with a fire escape ledge to sit on with a blanket draped over my shoulders, acting every bit the scorned lover.
“Well, now that I know that’s an option, I just might,” he said with a laugh.
My voice softened. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I really wanted him to try. “I’ll leave the window unlocked.”
Zipping up my Red Cocks warm up jacket, I grabbed my bags and headed out the door. I was still on the phone with Tatum, listening to him rant about something their shithead rookie ran his mouth about in a team meeting. I opened the ground-level door to the building and stepped into the dark pre-dawn air. Streetlamps glowed along the row of parallel cars, moths dancing around the light.
“There you are, pretty lady,” a smarmy voice said from behind a rusted silver sedan. The click of a camera shutter echoed throughout the empty street.
I shrieked, jumping at the sound. The handle of my rolling suitcase clattered against the sidewalk. I tripped, stumbling over the metal bar.
“What’s going on? Where are you?” Tatum roared in my ear.