Page 40 of It Happened on a Sunday

But I’ve got more important things to think about than my abuela’s legendary chancla. “How many videos are we talking about here?” I press. It’s starting to register just how many people are truly invested in what happens between Sloane and me. Instagram and TikTok accounts? Sloaney?

The paparazzi are one thing, but if my teammates’ wives are already talking about us, it means there are a lot more people paying attention than I imagined. Maybe Sloane’s right when she says I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.

“A lot, man,” Drew tells me, and now there’s no amusement in his voice. “You had to figure that, right? Your girl’s a superstar.”

“And not just any superstar,” Levi says, jumping in on the action. “One with a reputation for eating her dates. You can’t blame people for wondering if football’s golden boy is going to be next.”

“The fuck?” I shove a frustrated hand through my hair. “Where do they come up with this shit? And why can’t they just leave her alone? Reporting on her albums and concerts is one thing. But this…”

“There’s a whole mythology around her at this point,” James answers. “Which means there are tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of people out there who are already invested in whether Sloaney sinks or swims. You can’t expect the press not to bite.”

I pull my phone out and open one of my social media accounts.

I usually have a shit ton of notifications and DMs, especially right before a game, but the number I’m staring at right now is truly obscene.

Especially considering a bunch of them seem to be coming from underage girls, at least judging by their profile pictures.

Oh, fuck no.

I close the app and contemplate throwing my phone out the window. But then how will Sloane get in touch with me?

“The whole world wants to know, and they’ll figure it out eventually. Shouldn’t your teammates—and their wives—get a little preview?” Drew asks hopefully.

I give him a look that tells him to fuck right off. “I’m not the type to kiss and tell.”

“So there was more kissing!” Tyson whoops. “Hell yeah, that’s my man over there.”

James pulls out his phone and starts texting. “Thanks, Sly. Maria’s gonna love this.”

I think of everything that happened on our date, and my stomach drops. I know for sure they’ve got the kiss at the restaurant. It was meant for them. But what happened on that trail? At the food truck? At the observatory? I was hoping that would be just for us.

Suddenly glad I didn’t toss my phone, I search for a pic of a private moment that I’m suddenly very afraid is going to turn public.

I’m even more afraid of what Sloane’s going to do if that happens.

“Turns out she already knew,” James complains as he holds up his phone. “Apparently she kissed his cheek over on Hillhurst. They’ve got it from several different angles.”

“A cheek kiss, huh?” Marquis rubs his chin. “Guess that’s pretty tender. Right up Sly’s alley.”

Now I’m even more glad I didn’t pull her into my arms like I wanted to while we waited for Marco. The whole world doesn’t need to see that.

“Not just a cheek kiss,” Tyson says, holding up his phone. And fuck. Just fuck.

Because it’s not the kiss at the Willow. And it’s not the quick hug on the street corner. It’s a pic of Sloane and me at the picnic table, me laughing my head off and her looking more open than the Black Widow ever lets herself.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Marquis says, his voice rife with satisfaction.

The rest of the guys crowd around to give me a hard time, and I’m not delusional enough to think it’s my love life they want to know about. They’re interested because they want to see Sloane. For all her bad reputation, she’s had absolutely no record of dating anyone since Jarrod died.

“We were just having lunch,” I growl, hoping to high hell that there are no other pics of us at the park today. I thought I was so careful, but this got out anyway.

“Your face says otherwise,” comments Jesse, another member of the defensive line.

He’s one of the best in the game, but his personality makes a pissed-off T.

rex look like a cute little gecko. “Come on, Sylvester. Is she as hot in the sack as she looks in that pic? Because if that’s the case, I wouldn’t mind a turn with pop’s reigning bad girl. ”

He accompanies the statement with a crude hand gesture, and annoyance shoots through me real quick. I give him a look that tells him to knock that shit off, but because he’s Jesse, and because he’s an asshole, he chooses not to heed it. “So, what do you think she sounds like when she—”

I don’t punch him, but I do slam a hand into his chest in what could be classified as a shove. “Knock it the fuck off, Gardner,” I growl.

He stumbles back a step, eyes wide in surprise. But it only takes him a second to recover, and then he’s coming for me, fists clenched.

And fuck, looks like this is going to go exactly the way I didn’t want it to. But no one’s talking about Sloane like that in front of me. I may not be able to do anything about the asshole trolls on the internet, but there’s no fucking way I’m putting up with it from my teammates.

I move forward, too, more than ready to put this issue to bed once and for all. But before I can, Marquis steps between us.

Always the fucking smooth talker.

“That’s enough,” he says to both of us, though he’s looking at Jesse. “You know better than to talk that shit about women—especially WAGs. Do it again and I’ll let him kick your ass.”

Jesse sneers and looks like he’s about to say something that will have me reaching over Marquis and knocking his teeth down his throat. He’ll have a hard time saying fuck all after that.

But before he can get whatever the hell it is out, the ballroom door swings open and Jake, one of the assistant coaches, calls mockingly, “Nice to see you decided to join us, Sylvester. Get your ass up to the team suite, now. Branson wants a word.”

I shoot Jesse a look that tells him this isn’t over, then head for the door.