Page 16 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sly

I stand in the empty locker room hours after the game ended, wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.

My phone rings, but I don’t look. And I don’t answer. I’ve been jumping every time it buzzes, hoping it’s her. But it’s been hours since I texted, and Sloane hasn’t messaged back.

Neither has her assistant manager or publicist.

It’s been absolute radio silence from her entire team, and it’s making me twitchy.

Especially since everybody else on the fucking planet has called, starting with abuela Ximena and ending with nearly every friend I’ve got. And they all want to talk about one thing.

I didn’t know you liked bad girls.

Has she said yes?

Good taste, man.

Not to mention my personal favorite: Aren’t you worried she’ll kill you next?

Jesus. Before today, I had absolutely no idea just how many shallow assholes have my phone number.

Even the team’s GM is getting in on the act. He congratulated me on a great game, then immediately asked if he should save tickets for Sloane. Three hours since the Great Jumbotron Debacle, and we’ve already sold out five home games.

Plus, my agent’s phone hasn’t stopped ringing, either. The same with my publicist’s. Reporters. Brand reps. Endorsement offers from companies I didn’t even know existed.

I already have a few solid deals—and I’ve turned down plenty that didn’t feel right. But now? Everyone from designer labels to booze brands wants a piece of the guy who asked Sloane Walker out on national television.

Even the reps from the Jackson-Ware Foundation I’ve worked with for the last several years are excited. We’ve been planning the L.A. fundraiser for months, and now they’re asking if I think I could get Sloane to perform .

It’s unbelievable.

Vivian is dancing, but I’m too busy contemplating the best way to torture Marquis to think about the upsides.

When he told me to go big, I thought he meant jewelry.

I never imagined the fucker would dream up this mess, much less bribe the jumbotron techs to make it happen.

It takes a lot to piss me off. And right now?

I wouldn’t mind making the fucker bleed.

What the ever-loving hell was he thinking? I asked for advice on getting Sloane’s attention, not how to turn both our lives into a Super Bowl halftime show on steroids.

The last thing I wanted was to make her life harder, and considering the response I’m getting, I can’t imagine what’s going down on her end. Just the thought makes me feel like an even bigger asshole than I already do.

But sitting in this locker room, hiding from whatever the hell is waiting for me outside the stadium doors, is getting old fast. Especially since everyone else has already left, including Marquis, who slinked out before I could corner him for an explanation…and an ass-kicking.

Fuck it. If the press is out there, I’ll just “no comment” it like I’ve been doing all afternoon.

I wind through the tunnel to the players’ entrance and throw my shoulders back. I keep on walking, straight into the sweltering September heat.

On the plus side, security must have banned the press from this lot, since all the reporters are currently standing outside the players’ area. On the negative side, there are about a hundred of them, and they’re dangerously close to my only way out.

I didn’t even know there were a hundred reporters in Austin. I’ve seen the same ten or fifteen my whole damn professional career.

Not wanting to encourage the madness, I ignore the crowd as I make my way through the lot. That doesn’t stop them from yelling questions at me about whether she’s said yes or where I want to take Sloane on our date.

I’m halfway to my truck when my phone rings, and a quick glance at the screen tells me it’s Vivian. Again. Deciding whatever she’s got to tell me can wait, I send her to voicemail, only to have the phone ring again before I even open my door.

Hoping this means she’s got something important to tell me, like how the fuck to get out of this mess, I swipe to answer it. “Give me a minute,” I tell her as I sling my bag into the passenger seat before climbing in and starting the truck.

Once the call picks up on my audio system, I say, “What’s up?” and start backing out of the parking space.

“What’s up?” A low, whiskey-smooth voice comes through the speaker, and everything inside of me freezes. “You really have the nerve to ask me that after the stunt you just pulled?”

Shock rockets through me, and I slam on the brakes, half in the parking spot and half out. “Who is this?” I ask when I get my voice back, even though I already know.

“Seriously?” Sloane sounds equal parts annoyed and amused as she continues. “Exactly how many women have you asked out on national TV today?”

“Only one.” I finish pulling out of the parking spot with what I’m pretty sure is the dumbest grin in the history of the world on my face. She called. She finally called.

“Yeah, well, it was one too many,” she shoots back. “What the hell were you thinking, Sly?” My heart kicks up when she says my name.

“That I could trust my best friend. And believe me, it’s not a mistake I’m going to make again.”

Sloane pauses like I’ve surprised her. “Explain,” she finally says.

So I do, throwing Marquis under the bus with gleeful abandon as I steer around the pack of reporters. I even wave at a few as I drive on by, certain they’re getting some really great shots of me grinning like I just won the biggest lottery on earth…which is exactly how I feel right now.

“I’ve got to say I’m a little disappointed in you,” she tells me as I finish the story. “You’ve had how many years in the spotlight? And still haven’t learned to be careful who you trust.”

She sounds more amused now, but there’s a thread of seriousness—of truth—in her voice that makes me wonder just how lonely it is at the top.

And whether I could help her feel a little less alone.

Not that I say that out loud. Considering the shitstorm I just kicked up, I sincerely doubt she’ll be impressed with the sentiment.

“Oh, I trust Marquis with my life,” I finally say as I make it to the exit. “I just don’t trust him with my—”

“Sex life?” she posits.

A drop of sweat that has nothing to do with the Austin heat rolls down the center of my back. “I was going to say heart,” I tell her, “but I won’t kick your answer out of bed in the middle of the night.”

She finally laughs at that, and it’s even better than I imagined. I was afraid this mess would break whatever this thing is between us, but instead she sounds almost intrigued.

I seize the opportunity to say what’s been on my mind for the last few hours. “I’m sorry, Sloane. I’m so fucking sorry about this. I’d take it all back if I could.”

There’s a long silence from her end, and I’m just beginning to think I’ve lost her when she says, “I still don’t see why Marquis couldn’t have advised you to go about this the normal way.”

“I’m guessing because I tried the normal way and it didn’t work. Obviously.”

She sounds skeptical when she replies, “I wouldn’t exactly say a giant ice cream sundae is normal.”

“It got you to text me, didn’t it? Even if it did take you four days to answer my question.”

“Actually, it got Pauline to steal my phone and text you. I didn’t notice she’d done it until this morning.”

“Pauline?” I ask, trying to place the name.

“Pauline Vargus. She very much enjoyed your choice of ice cream parlor.”

“Are you telling me Pauline Vargus helped you eat that sundae? And then texted me about it?” Shock slams through me. “ The Pauline Vargus?”

“You’re sounding a little overstimulated there, Sly.” There’s a teasing quality to her voice I can’t help but respond to. “Exactly how many of us singers do you want to go out with?”

That startles a laugh out of me. “Just you, Sloane. But you’ve got to admit, Pauline’s still got it.”

“Oh, there’s never been any doubt about that.”

She doesn’t say anything else. Now that I’m over my shock about Pauline Vargus being the one to text me, I’ve got to clarify, “So what you’re saying is you never would have texted me on your own, even though you asked for my phone number.”

I make a right turn onto the highway and can’t help noticing that several news vans are following directly behind me. I decide to ignore them, mainly because there’s not a lot else I can do. Besides, everyone’s got to make a living.

“That was a mistake on my part,” she finally says.

“Fair enough,” I respond as I change lanes, making sure to keep my speed at the normal limit.

The last thing I need is an article in tomorrow’s paper talking about how Sloane Walker’s “boyfriend” is a reckless driver.

“I really am sorry, Sloane. If there’s something you think I can do to make this better, just tell me.

Whatever it is, I’m happy to do it, even if it means not talking to you again. ”

My stomach clenches at the thought.

“I didn’t say that.” For the first time, she sounds just a little bit flustered. “I’m just saying you could have gone with an email or a phone call or maybe a bouquet of flowers if you really wanted to put in some effort.”

“You didn’t give me your email,” I reply. “And I sent four bouquets of flowers last week, with my phone number included on every card, just in case you lost the one you got from my agent. I didn’t get so much as a ‘fuck off’ from any of them. At least with the sundae I got a text from Pauline .”

She laughs. “You’re going to live on that for the rest of your life, aren’t you?”

“I plan to put it on my tombstone,” I shoot back. “I mean, Pauline Vargus texted me. Who wouldn’t ride that high?”

“I—” She breaks off for a second, and when she starts speaking again I can’t help noticing her voice has warmed up another couple of degrees. Looks like my abuela was right: women really do love flowers. “Wait. You sent flowers? Where?”

“I had them sent to your venue and hotel both times, hoping you’d see them somewhere.”