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Slipping Through My Fingers – ABBA

Addie

P layers swarm the table like vultures, behaving like they’ve never been fed in their lives as they fight over smoothies. Tommy, the backup quarterback, hip checks a rookie for the last berry blast smoothie—a crowd favorite—and I give him a look from across the table.

He shrugs. “Last one without strawberries.”

I shoo him away, but I can’t argue with him since he’s highly allergic to the fruit.

Regardless, we can’t tackle rookies for pre-workout drinks, even if it does stroke my ego.

Staff hustle and bustle through the large conference room, completing last-minute tasks as players arrive for training camp. Every time someone enters, my head turns, hoping for a head of dark hair, paired with a cocky smile. And every time it’s not Declan, my foolish disappointment grows larger.

It’s insane behavior to have spent the last few weeks thinking about him, but when your only source of companionship is a five-year-old who loves stickers, a beat-up record player, and your doodle notebook, you find your mind wandering. Especially when it can wander to men with piercing blue eyes and biceps that seem to bulge in every shirt he owns. I didn’t notice before our impromptu picnic in the park, but after doom-scrolling his social media, it’s now a fact I will never forget.

His arm muscles consume half of my daily thoughts—I am unwell.

Ben, the head nutritionist, directs hotel staff on where to place the steaming trays of food while I keep the wolves at bay, taming them with smoothies and when that doesn’t suffice, glaring at them until they cower. The food was meant to be served twenty minutes ago, but the kitchen is behind, and we’ve had to scramble.

It wouldn’t be the first day of training camp if there wasn’t a hiccup.

Dozens of containers, full of pasta, chicken breasts, salads, and more, line the tables against the back wall. It’s the culmination of weeks of my time—planning the meals, ensuring the food was ordered, and that each player with dietary restrictions has what they need.

“You’re relieved of smoothie duty,” Ben says, appearing at my side. He’s flushed, his bald head glistening with sweat from running in and out of the kitchen. We place the remaining smoothies at the end of the table, and he returns the industrial blender to the kitchen.

Players fill the room, and my heartbeat skips when a head of dark wavy hair saunters through the doorway. My cheeks heat when his gaze lands on me, and a colossal smile blooms on his face.

Fuck .

Heart-skipping and core-clenching reactions are not appropriate responses to men you work with.

Declan crosses the room, pulling a trolley full of boxes behind him.

Oh my god, is he coming over here?

My question is answered when he skids to a stop right in front of me. I am only a woman, so my eyes drop to his arms, where his t-shirt hugs his muscles gloriously.

I’ve worked with hundreds of players over the years, and I have never been affected by arm muscles. One kind man feeds me a cheeseburger, and I start daydreaming about him. Is this a new low?

Those bulging muscles flex as he runs his fingers through his hair.

“Hi.”

Good job, Addie. No mention of muscles. A normal greeting.

“How are you? Any more dates you need rescuing from?” he teases, then tugs at his wagon. “I have your getaway wheels right here.”

“I’ve sworn off dating.”

“Oh?”

I nod erratically. “Yup. Clearly I’m doing something wrong.”

“Or they suck,” he deadpans, which pulls a small laugh from my chest. That could be it. “You shouldn’t give up. Never know when the right person will walk into your life.”

Butterflies flutter around my lower stomach, so I scramble for a safe topic.

“How was your break?”

“Uneventful…Besides our little picnic. That was very fun. How was yours?”

“Well, I still worked.” I make a face, and he laughs. It warms my chest like soup on a cold evening. “But I found a small record shop and I bought an old ABBA album on vinyl.”

I don’t share that I cried for forty-five minutes after “Slipping Through My Fingers” played because I thought of Nora growing up, or that I also found an old Justin Bieber CD that I screamed to this morning on my way to the hotel.

“You like vinyl records?”

“Love them.” I think of the collection in our living room, the one I’ve spent years building. Some are old, others are new, but each is well-loved. “I like to put a new one on every morning while I get ready.”

He smiles softly, but our conversation is cut off by his friends barrelling toward us with varying levels of excitement on their faces.

“Declan, give us our boxes!” Henry Parker screams, launching for the red canvas wagon. The wide receiver wastes no time digging through the boxes, but huffs at the nondescript cardboard. “Which one is mine?”

It’s more of a demand than a question.

Jack Walters, an offensive lineman, and Deon Adams, the starting quarterback, stand on either side of Henry. All three wait impatiently. Deon waves quickly, a smile flashing across his face for me, before he returns to glaring at Declan.

“I am the decider of when you get your boxes, and I have decided I don’t like this attitude,” Declan says, staring them down. His hands land on his hips, and if he wore calf-high socks, he would have the exact energy of a middle-aged man in a hardware store surveying the lawn mowers.

I stifle a laugh with my fist when Henry’s eye twitches.

“You will give me my box,” Deon threatens, stepping forward and pressing a finger on Declan’s chest, “or you will never get to see Gordie again.”

“That’s not the threat you think it is,” Jack mumbles. “Can I please have my box, Declan?”

“Why, of course.”

Declan lifts one of the cardboard boxes from the trolley. I shouldn’t linger—I do have a job, after all—but I’m morbidly curious about the boxes and why Henry and Deon’s panties are in a twist over it.

He extends the box to Jack, who wears a goofy, excited smile as he rips open the cardboard and pulls out a massive bag of beef jerky.

“I love that girl,” he whispers to himself, but my focus is locked on Declan, whose face falls. Only for a millisecond, but it happens.

Jack sits at the closest table and unpacks the box, organizing his snacks into piles. It reminds me of Nora on Halloween, categorizing her candy into piles. Deon gasps when Jack pulls out a large bag of pretzels, then spins to Declan.

“Please, please, please.”

Deon receives a box after his begging and wastes no time ripping it to shreds. He whoops when he has an even larger bag of pretzels. Henry is the last to cave on the pleading, but he wears a pleased smile, face covered in cookie crumbs, as he works through his box.

My staring has become weird, so I return to the buffet of food, and instead, stare from a respectable distance. They begin trading items, fruit snacks for Gatorades, and protein bars for Cheez-its. There is a heated debate between Deon and Jack about a third bag of pretzels, but they’re excited and having fun.

Well, everyone except for Declan, who sits at the table, but couldn’t be farther away from the joy. It’s obvious from here—his lowered head and forced smiles when one of them laughs.

He’s putting on a face. The same mask I’ve seen slide on when he talks to a fan or a reporter.

Do his friends notice how unhappy he is, or are they blinded by the plastic smiles?

My eyes rarely stray from his table the entirety of lunch service.

Where’s the smile from our picnic? The one that stole my breath away?

He spends another ten minutes at the table, chatting quietly with Henry, before he rises and collects the wagon. None of his teammates bat an eye when he excuses himself, and for a split second, anger strikes my chest.

They’re all so caught up in their worlds, they can’t see what’s right in front of them.

But maybe I see it more easily than most, because when I needed someone, there was no one to be found.

There is something gut-wrenching about the look on his face when our gaze connects, and when he exits the ballroom, I’m hot on his heels, intercepting him before he reaches the elevator.

“Declan!” He pauses in front of the elevator in the lobby of the hotel, but doesn’t say anything.

We stare at each other for a long moment, and my choice to chase him down is validated when his slumped shoulders straighten and his lips tip up into a disingenuous smile. He can hide behind the smile, but he can’t conceal what’s swimming in his eyes: Disappointment.

I’ve seen it enough in the mirror to recognize the old friend.

“Are you alright?” I ask when the silence grows uncomfortable.

His eyes flicker across my skin, and then the mask falls, and the heartache reappears. The question breaks the dam holding Declan’s words back.

“They all asked me to give them their boxes, but no one got me a box. And it shouldn’t upset me, but it does because they all thought about them, but no one thought about me except to give them the boxes.”

How long has he been waiting for someone to ask him if he’s okay?

I can’t spend too long on the thought because he continues.

“My feelings are hurt,” he says, mostly to himself, “They had me help plan the boxes and then surprise each of them, but no one thought, ‘I wonder if Declan would want a box?’”

That was the most confusing run-on sentence I’ve heard recently, and Nora loves to go on long storytelling tangents where she just talks and talks with no end in sight.

“Box?”

He looks up, slightly surprised, like he’d forgotten I was standing right in front of him.

“Jack, Henry, and Deon’s wives made them care packages for camp. I helped pack them at Book Club and then brought them here so they would all be surprised.” His voice drops. “I-I thought maybe they would surprise me, too.”

My heart cracks at the disappointment on Declan’s face.

I haven’t seen him since our picnic in the park after my date from hell, but there’s something about him that reminds me of Nora—so full of emotion, but struggles to process it all, and doesn’t know how to put a word on what he’s feeling. I think now might be one of those moments where he can’t process on his own.

“I’m sorry. I know—”

“They didn’t mean to upset me,” he blurts, like I’m ready to lay down judgment on his friends.

“But they did.” I don’t know what part of my brain possesses me to lay a hand on his arm—the cavewoman who wants to know how his muscles feel or the friend who is worried about him—but when I touch him, his muscles melt.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” he says, shrugging like it’s not a big deal that his friends didn’t recognize he’s upset.

“I noticed.” He gulps, but says nothing, and the energy surrounding us grows heavy. “I’m here—if you need someone to talk to.”

I make the offer, and I mean every word. There was no one around to talk to when I needed to just let it all out—vent until the weight was light enough to stand again. We may be coworkers, and maybe he doesn’t see me as anything more than one of the nutritionists, but I can be his friend, even if he isn’t mine.

I’m wrapped in a tight hug before I can register his movement, and the embrace is comforting, like a warm blanket on a cold night. It’s over far too quickly for my liking, but when he smiles again, it’s a real one. Small and unsure, but genuine. The sight of it feels like a victory somehow.

“You’re a good person, Addie. Easy to talk to.”

My chest flares with warmth from the compliment, and the smile aimed at me.

God, he’s handsome. Broad shoulders and toned muscles. Deep, wavy hair and mesmerizing blue eyes. A sharp jaw paired with soft lips.

He’s the muse the Greek sculptors would chisel into marble to eternalize his beauty.

The elevator dings, and he steps inside, pulling his wagon. It’s nearly closed when he calls out, “You have a sticker on your hip.”

The doors slam shut and my eyes fly to the side of my ass, just below the hem of my polo, where a glittery rainbow sticker is plastered to my work pants. I peel it off, silently promising myself that Nora will never get another sticker book ever again, when I pause.

He only could have noticed the sticker if he was staring directly at my ass.

It’s unhealthy how quickly my heart beats in my chest at the thought he was looking at me.

This is not good.

I’m halfway home when I notice a superstore and pull into the parking lot before I can change my mind.

Declan deserves to feel special, too.