Page 24 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
KAYLA
I can see the Outlaws’ stadium from a mile away.
Or at least a few blocks.
The car is stopped at a light, and I get my first full look at the stadium in the middle of downtown, all shiny with towering banners flapping in the breeze. A stream of fans is already filing in, even though first pitch is two hours away.
Two hours away!
And I hate how cool it looks.
A part of me can tell already that it’s a little too perfect, a little overly manicured—like someone built a ballpark inside a Porsche showroom.
But still. It’s a far cry from the Mudflaps' stadium, where the concession stand was patched with duct tape until we renovated over the winter.
Our stadium is a work in progress, but this place looks like a dream.
A dream with Aldridge’s fingerprints all over it.
That’s what we call a nightmare, remember?
We pull into a VIP parking lot, and I see the Mudflaps bus parked nearby, the logo on full display. That stupid fish with that stupid mullet makes me let out a pained laugh. And yet … it’s growing on me.
Kind of.
At least, I hate it less than I used to.
Yay, progress!
Scottie’s next to me on her phone, and my own vibrates. It’s Sean, answering my “How did it go?? I’m thinking about you!” text.
SEAN
Practice with Otto went well. Now he wants to take me and my parents out for lunch. I feel like an 18yo recruit.
KAYLA
Aw, I bet you’ll look so big and handsome in your daddy’s suit! Remember, the little fork is for shrimp, the little spoon is for dessert.
I’m so glad it went well! How are you feeling? Has he given you any indication what way he’s leaning?
SEAN
He seemed pleased. And the fact that he’s sticking around to meet my parents is a good sign. They don’t stay to talk to families when it’s a hard no, in my experience. They’re usually halfway back to the airport before you’ve unlaced your skates.
KAYLA
Keep me posted. I’m rooting for you.
SEAN
That’s nice of you. Thanks, Kayla.
KAYLA
That’s not lip service, Cap.
I snap a quick selfie and send it before I can talk myself out of it.
SEAN
Where did you get an Arsenal jersey?
KAYLA
It’s not just any Arsenal jersey. It’s an O’Shannan.
SEAN
…
How did you get it? They didn’t sell those.
KAYLA
Your wife is a woman of vast resources. One of those is my dogged assistant. Another is money.
SEAN
Am I allowed to tell you how good you look in it?
KAYLA
Required, is more like it.
And let me tell you something: I’m never taking this thing off. When a woman finds a piece of clothing that makes her look this fab, she wears it a lot.
SEAN
You really do look good.
KAYLA
Atta husband.
Okay, we’ve pulled up to the stadium. Call me when you’re done with Otto, okay? I’m thinking about you.
SEAN
Thanks. I’ll be sure to call soon. Punch Aldridge in the throat for me.
KAYLA
Hahaha. He’s not worth the effort.
SEAN
Consider it a favor to me.
KAYLA
In that case…
Talk soon.
SEAN
Talk soon.
“Girl, the smile on your face …” Scottie says, laughing as a rep from the team escorts us into the Outlaws stadium. “I like Sean.”
I give my phone one last glance before putting it away. “Me too.”
Wearing Sean’s jersey into the stadium makes me feel like I’m wearing a shield.
I’ve only had it on for the hour since we arrived in Nashville (Scottie had it waiting for me at the airport), yet I feel like I’m part of something bigger than myself.
Bigger even than when I change into my Mudflaps jersey.
What does it say that I own the team and hardly feel like I’m part of the organization, yet wearing Sean’s jersey makes me feel like we’re on the same team?
Maybe it’s the fact that Sean and I are choosing this together, when the team was thrust upon me.
Maybe it’s the fact that the Arsenal jersey is gorgeous—white with deep red piping and a navy Revolutionary War cannon and stars—while the Mudflaps jersey is, well, the Mudflaps jersey.
Jane, Tripp’s wife, owns a marketing agency, and I’ve talked to her about rebranding the whole organization. She suggested involving the town and turning it into a contest where locals submit team names, mascots, jersey ideas, etc.
The problem is, the town still hates me, and I’m pretty sure “Carville Losers” would win by a landslide. And then what? Jerseys with my face on them and a giant L on the forehead?
Hard pass.
So I change into the Mudflaps jersey—all powder blue and rust-red—and check my reflection in the mirror.
At least I look good in blue.
A team rep meets me outside the suite and leads me through a series of polished, echoey corridors—they’re perfect and pristine, like they know exactly how to behave to impress. It’s all been modernized—glass walls, exposed beams, sleek lighting, and subtle branding built for Instagram.
I hate how much I like it.
They don’t take me to the field or a press room, though.
They take me to a VIP Suite—glass-walled, climate-controlled, and staged like a sports shoot for Tatler: leather club chairs, a cocktail bar, panoramic field views behind us.
Aldridge is already there, wearing a jersey that was probably designed by Oscar de la Renta—matte black with crisp white piping, cuffed sleeves, a sharp, minimalist logo that’s probably already trending in the sports design world.
He’s leaning casually against the bar, holding a martini in his hand with three olives.
He grins at me, giving me an up-and-down glance that should require a permission slip.
“That jersey is even more of a statement in person, isn’t it, Mrs. Carville?” He sets down his drink and strides toward me, and that’s when I see the way the logo catches the light, too shimmery.
All gloss and no grit.
Aldridge drops his voice. “It is Mrs . Carville, isn’t it? Did I really hear that right?”
I smile coolly. “You did. It rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it?”
He’s standing close enough that I catch the soft, patronizing chuckle issuing from his throat. But there’s pain in his expression, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. “It’s certainly … convenient. I’d heard you ran into a snag with your residency. But my, you’ve cleaned that up nicely.”
“I have, haven’t I?”
“It’s interesting. Almost suspicious that you and I were engaged for years, yet you marry this bartender out of nowhere.”
I pat his shoulder, wishing I could punch it. “See? That’s how you know it’s a good thing. When you want to rush to the altar instead of away from it.”
Aldridge tuts. “Now, kitten, let’s play nice.”
It’s appropriate that he calls me kitten, because I want to scratch his eyes out.
Just then, the league PR rep, a woman around my age, gets our attention and points us to our places. She introduces herself as Ronnie, and then says, “All right, lovebirds! Or should I say grudgebirds ?” She laughs. “Let’s move you here, Mr. Sinclair, and Ms. Carville?—”
“It’s Mrs.,” I correct her.
She stops with a head shake. “You’re married? Doesn’t matter. The entire angle we’re taking is lovers to rivals. Social media eats this kind of thing up.”
“I understand,” I say, “but for the sake of accuracy, I expect this not to be glossed over or removed in any way.” I hold up my hand. “I’m married.”
“Cute ring,” Aldridge says. “He must have saved his lunch money for weeks to afford it.”
Ooh. Ugly Aldridge is coming out, and he can sense his misstep immediately. It’s a two-carat ring. In no universe is it embarrassing. If anything, I’m embarrassed Sean spent so much.
Yet, I’m flattered, too. Honored, even, especially when it’s so timeless and bold and … and it feels like me.
Ronnie and Scottie both look at Aldridge like he’s had a head trauma.
Then Ronnie looks at me with a tight smile. “It’s beautiful. Congratulations.”
“Where is he, Kay?” Aldridge asks. “It’s your honeymoon, right? I’d love to meet him.”
“He’s meeting with an NHL coach.” To the PR rep, I say, “He’s a goalie—he played for the Arsenal last season.”
“Oh, that’s good.” The woman taps her hand against her folded arm.
“We’ll use that later this season. I keep waiting for the hockey trend to die, but I think it’s less a moment than a movement at this point.
” She snaps and directs Aldridge and me to our places, only a few inches away from each other.
But when she speaks to me, she sounds more like a human than a cog in a machine now.
“I won’t scrub your marriage, but we’re still going to go with the lovers to rivals angle.
We were planning to have him put his arm around you … ”
I hold back a groan. And a curse or two.
If I protest, Aldridge will think it’s because I still care. Yet if I let him touch me, well, he’ll touch me.
“No problem. We’re both adults and we’ve both moved on, haven’t we?” I ask Aldridge.
“Of course.” He puts his arm around my waist too tightly, yet the photographer gestures for us to move closer. I fake a smile, and it’s as easy as breathing. Aldridge leans in and murmurs, “Beautiful, as always.”
Scottie’s standing close enough that I can see the disgust on her face. It mirrors the disgust in my soul.
“Perfect! This is going to be so big. America’s Sweethearts back together again. Let’s take a couple of you two sitting down next to each other, like you’re watching the game …”
Aldridge smiles and does as he’s told. Does he understand that we’re actually broken up?
Does he believe that I’ve moved on? It doesn’t get more moved on than married!
“You’re always at your best when all eyes are on you,” he says like it’s a compliment instead of a curse.
“Remember to dip your shoulder to catch the right angle.”
“I know, Aldridge,” I say, gritting my teeth through a smile.
“Perfect. Maybe we should try one without the mules,” Aldridge says. “Did you bring sneakers? We could play up the different vibes of Nashville versus Mullet Ridge.”