Page 39 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sly

“You don’t have to wait with me,” Sloane says about twenty minutes after we get to the corner where we’re supposed to meet Marco. She’s got a concert to get to, and I have a team meeting—one it’s beginning to look increasingly unlikely I’m going to make.

Not that I’m about to tell Sloane that. Sure, she can take care of herself, but with the press whipping people into a fervor over the two of us, there’s no way I’m going to leave her on a street corner without a bodyguard in sight. Safety in numbers is a thing for a reason.

“I’m in no hurry, corazón. Besides, the later Marco is, the more time I get to spend with you.”

I expect her to roll her eyes or at least scoff at what I said. But instead, her cheeks turn a soft pink and her gaze snags on mine as she softly replies, “I like it when you call me that.”

“I like it, too,” I tell her. I reach out to stroke her cheek but stop before I connect. I don’t think anyone is paying attention to us right now—we are loitering in the doorway of a closed store to be more inconspicuous—but this is L.A., and people are everywhere, especially on Hillhurst.

We gave them that kiss at the Willow and the run down the hill earlier today, but the rest of this afternoon has belonged to us. Is it so wrong that I want to keep it that way for a little while longer?

Wherever we go from here—and I hope it’s somewhere, I really do—our relationship is going to be fodder for press all over the country. All over the world. I just want to give this one moment to Sloane. To us. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

At the same time, though, I want her to know where I stand—and just maybe figure out where she stands as well. So, under the shelter of the shop’s canopy, I take her hand. “Will you text me tonight after the concert?”

“It’ll be late. Don’t you athletes need your beauty sleep?”

“I’m beautiful enough,” I tell her dryly. “I’d rather hear how your concert went and that you made it back to the hotel safely.”

“Fair enough.” She smiles as she moves just a little bit closer. “Thank you for our date.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” I say, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have to leave it at that.

I want to pull her into my arms so badly, want to hold her and comfort her and take comfort from her as well. I’m still reeling from what she told me, from what she went through, and I just want to feel her in my arms. Just want to feel her safe and strong and okay.

I settle for reaching a hand out for hers. She takes it and squeezes tightly, like the contact is as important—as necessary—to her as it is to me.

“I—” I start, but before I can finish, a black SUV pulls up to the curb in front of us. The same security guy as earlier gets out.

“Sorry, Sloane,” he tells her as he opens the back door.

“Traffic happens,” she tells him right before she pushes onto her toes and gives me a soft kiss on the cheek. “I’ll text you later.”

Once she’s safely in the SUV, the security guy turns to me and holds out a hand. “Thanks for waiting with her.”

“You never need to thank me for that,” I answer, shaking his hand. “I’m Sly, by the way.”

“Marco.” He grins. “I get the feeling I’ll be seeing you again.”

“I hope so.”

Marco climbs into the car, and I step back to order my own Uber before watching Sloane disappear into the snarl of L.A. traffic. I don’t expect it to be so hard to watch her drive away, but it is. Probably because I want, more than anything, to be in that car with her.

I want to be near her. Now that the connection I felt that first night has proved stronger than I’d ever thought, letting her go after only a few hours together doesn’t sit right with me.

But this is just another challenge that comes with falling in love with Sloane Walker.

The woman’s job takes her all over the country.

No, correction: all over the world . And my job necessitates that my ass be in Austin, Texas, at least half the year.

Yeah, I’ve got away games in cities that coincide with her tour.

Four of them, actually, including this one.

But considering I want to see her every day, that fucking sucks.

As does the fact that I have to put her protection in someone else’s hands.

I know she has a good system, know Marco’s been with her a long damn time and has kept her safe through numerous stalkers, pervs, and assholes who think their mere existence gives them the right to take potshots at her.

But I’ve always viewed it as my responsibility and privilege to protect the people I care about, Neanderthal as that may seem.

I want her to be safe and comfortable and happy. I failed Lucia once. No way in hell am I failing Sloane, too.

She takes the weight of the world’s expectations and derision on her shoulders, and she seems to think she deserves it because of what happened with her exes.

But she’s dead wrong. The Black Widow may be the persona she wears to keep the squishy woman inside safe, but I’ve seen that woman.

I’ve held her and kissed her— twice! —and I don’t want to just sit back and let others continue to hurt her.

I’m still thinking about how to protect Sloane without getting her fangs in my ass when my Uber pulls up to the hotel forty-five minutes later.

Shocking no one, rush hour traffic was a bitch, and I’m thirty minutes late to a team meeting that shouldn’t take much more than that.

Coach isn’t going to be impressed, especially since I didn’t fly here with the team to begin with.

But Marco got stuck behind an accident on his way to pick up Sloane, which cut down on the time I had to get through the gridlock, and there was no way in hell that I was going to leave her there to wait alone.

So here we are.

As soon as I get into the hotel, I head straight for the fourth-floor ballroom. By the time I get there, the meeting’s over, the coaches are gone, and a few of the guys are just sitting around, shooting the shit.

At least until I walk in.

The second they see me, huge, shit-eating grins take over every face in the room. Big fucking surprise. These guys are bigger gossips than abuela Ximena.

Still, I try to play it cool, like there’s nothing to see here. “Anyone know where Coach went?”

“Well, he was here for the meeting,” Marquis answers like the asshole he is.

“Helpful.”

He shrugs. “Maybe he’s in bed already. You know how the man likes his sleep.”

“I know how you like your sleep. Thanks for the help.” I turn on my heel and head back toward the door, only to be intercepted by the biggest O-lineman on the team. Tyson plays right tackle and usually does a hell of a job watching my back. Usually being the operative word here…

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says as he steps between me and the door. “Don’t tell me you actually think you’re going to get out of here without dropping at least a few details.”

“I didn’t realize this was a press tour,” I reply.

“Yeah, you did,” James shoots back. He’s one of my tight ends and a pretty decent guy, though he apparently isn’t above an ambush. “What else do you think we’re sitting around waiting for? Halloween?”

“Come on, Sly. Give us the deeeeeets,” Marquis says in a deliberately high-pitched whine. “Did she fall for that precious dimple?”

“Don’t forget the dreamy eyes,” Tyson chimes in, patting his short braids like he’s pretending to primp.

“And the rugged physique,” adds Levi, the scrappiest guy on the D-line. “He’s totally swoon worthy .”

“Seriously?” I shake my head. “We’re really going to do this bullshit right now?”

“Bullshit?” Tyson squawks. “Are you telling me your dimple isn’t precious?”

“I’m telling you I’ve never given a thought to my dimple, precious or otherwise. And neither the fuck have you before today!”

“Yeah, well, that’s before you went on a date with the Black Widow. Now we’ve got all kinds of ideas.” He waggles his brows for emphasis.

“She has a name, you know.” The response is instinctive and has most of the guys in the room crowing with delight.

“Well, well, well,” my best friend intones, looking smug. “You two must have had one hell of a first date. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“We already knew that,” Drew, another one of the O-linemen, tells him. “Sly doesn’t miss practice. Ever.”

“Traffic was shit,” I say as I try to navigate my way around Tyson’s giant form. Unfortunately, he just moves with me.

“That’s it? You just went on a date with one of the hottest women on the planet,” James argues, “and all you’re going to tell us is ‘traffic was shit’?”

“It was.” I shrug.

“Yeah, well, what am I supposed to tell Maria? She’s been going on about Sloaney for the last week.”

“Sloaney?” I repeat, confused.

“That’s your couple name, man.” James shakes his head, exasperated. “Surely you’ve seen it online.”

“Trust me, reading internet gossip about myself isn’t how I spend my free time.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it should be,” Drew tells me.

“According to Anastasia, there are hundreds of Instagram and TikTok accounts devoted to the two of you already. She’s been blowing up my phone every five minutes since you and Sloane ran down that fucking hill at lunch.

Which, by the way, dude. Really? Your big move was making her run? ”

“Anastasia ships Sloaney, too?” James holds a fist up for a bump. “Hell yeah. I’ll tell Maria. Maybe they can talk to each other instead of flooding my DMs about it. I’ve told her I work with the guy—I don’t need to see his ugly mug during my downtime, too.”

“Especially not when he’s running down a hill like the fucking Lightning D-line is on his ass.” Tyson cackles.

“Please.” Marquis snorts. “He’s never run from those pricks in his life. This afternoon looked more like him running from abuela Ximena when she whips that chancla off.”

“Truth,” James agrees with a shudder.

“How can one little old lady have such perfect aim all the time?” Marquis wonders aloud.

“Maybe that’s where Sly got it from.” Tyson snickers.