Page 61 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sly

O ne step closer.

That’s the thought that goes through my mind as I make my way to the locker room with the other guys.

One step closer to the Super Bowl.

One step closer to redemption. Not to mention the ring I owe this team and the entire city of Austin.

The fact that I also got the chance to humiliate that fucker Grant in the middle of the Twisters’ march toward glory only makes it sweeter.

“One more!” Marquis shouts as he jumps up and slaps one of the many banners hanging from the top of the tunnel. “One more game to the promised land!”

The others cheer along with him, even though it’s really two more games—we don’t just want to make it to the Super Bowl, we want to win it. But I’m too busy grinning to say anything.

Winning always feels damn good. But winning with Sloane in the house feels even better.

“Good game!” Vince calls as he walks toward us in the tunnel.

Drew slaps the security guard on the back and crows, “Thank you!” before turning toward the locker room with the rest of the O-line.

I slow down, though. This is the first time I’ve seen Vince since he took Sloane to the box I got for her and my family.

We texted at halftime, and she said she was doing great, but I want to hear how things went from somebody actually trained in security.

This stalker has me on red alert all the fucking time.

“That was a hell of a touchdown run you made,” Vince tells me as I stop in front of him.

I grin. “Sometimes it pays to remind the receivers and running backs that they aren’t the only ones who can reach the end zone.”

“Truth,” he agrees.

“I want to start by saying how much I appreciate you working with Sloane’s team today to make sure she’s safe.”

“Of course.” It’s his turn to grin. “You’ve got a good one there.”

“I really do,” I agree. “Were there any problems? Anyone trying to get into the suite or…”

He runs a hand over his bald head. “No, everything went like clockwork. We had one of her guards posted inside the whole time, plus one of ours and one of hers outside the suite the whole game. I also made several in-person checks myself. Except for the paparazzi waiting for her in the hallway when we first got to the suite, no one even got close to her.”

“There was someone in the hallway? I thought you guys had cleared it all—”

“We did. But it turns out he had the bright idea of getting one of the small suites for the game—which means he had every right to be back there. After the run-in, however, we made a point of suggesting he stay in his suite.”

“The run-in?” I get a sick feeling in my stomach. How the hell did we miss something like this? The guy could be her stalker posing as some asshole paparazzi, for God’s sake. “How bad was it?”

“Not bad at all, I swear. He got a few pics, said a few things. But he never got close to her. And no one else did, either. She’s been in the suite the whole game.” He reaches out and gives me a strong pat on the back. “Enjoy the moment. We got this.”

“Okay, thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Of course. It’s my job. Also, if you could thank Sloane for the tickets for my granddaughters?

I happened to mention to her guard, G, that they’re big fans.

He must have told Sloane, because half an hour ago, tickets came through for them for the Chicago show next week.

” He shakes his head in wonder. “You should hold on to that one, Sly.”

“I plan on it,” I tell him, returning the slap on the back. “Thanks again. You have a good night, okay?”

I’m grinning again as I make my way through the mostly empty tunnels toward the locker rooms. Of course Sloane got his granddaughters tickets. She may act curmudgeonly, but she’s got a much bigger, sweeter heart than she wants anyone to know.

But I see it. I see her . And I definitely plan on taking Vince’s advice. I’m holding on to Sloane for as long as she’ll let me. In fact—

Someone shoves me from behind hard enough that I go flying into the locker room door. Only a well-placed hand keeps my face from hitting the cold steel.

“What the fuck?” I whirl around, thoughts of Sloane’s stalker vivid in my head, only to find myself facing none other than Grant fucking Darron.

“When are you going to let it go, Sly?” he demands, hulking over me like he thinks that’s going to intimidate me instead of just make me angry. “It was years ago—”

“Four years,” I correct as the anger that’s always on a hot simmer when it comes to him roars into a full inferno. “And she’s still got the scars, so I figure I’m not done yet.”

“You can’t keep doing this to me!” he screams as his face turns a shade of red that might be concerning if I actually gave a shit about the asshole. “You’re ruining my whole fucking career.”

“I didn’t do shit to you,” I fire back. “If I remember correctly, you’re the one who tried to sack me three different times today. And it probably would have been more if you hadn’t wimped out and begged your coach to take you out of the game.”

“I didn’t wimp out. I got taken out because your offensive line kept trying to turn me into a fucking pancake—”

“Because you tried to sack me,” I remind him. I keep my voice, and the rest of me, cool, despite the rage burning inside me. “My guys tend to get pissed off about that. If you can’t handle the heat, maybe you’re in the wrong game.”

“It’s not fair for you to keep doing this to me!” he screams. Because of course he puts the responsibility on me. The guy hasn’t changed a bit. “I’ll get a restraining order. I’ll have you arrested. I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing,” I sneer, and it’s my turn to shove him. Not hard enough to knock him on his ass, because he’d whine to high heaven about that, but more than hard enough to stop his little fuckboy rant before I actually do lose the tenuous grip I’ve got on my temper.

Listening to him blame me the way he used to blame my sister for shit that went wrong is pushing every button I’ve got. The only thing keeping me from throwing down right now is knowing that it will make things harder for Sloane if I do.

Because I can practically see the slew of new headlines—variations on Black Widow’s Influence Drives Football’s Golden Boy to Violence —I deliberately keep my hands fisted at my sides, no matter how much I want to plow one into his smug face.

“You’ll do nothing,” I say again, “because cowards like you only like to pick on people who can’t fight back. Now that you’re faced with someone who isn’t the least bit afraid of you, you start whining about shit not being fair. Grow the fuck up.

“Or not,” I continue with a shrug. “Personally, seeing you get your ass kicked up and down my field every time we play is the best entertainment I can ask for. So if you want to keep acting like a whiny little asswipe, have at it. It’s just more laughs for me.”

“You really think you’re going to get away with this, don’t you?” he demands as he takes a threatening step forward.

“Playing football?” I deliberately ignore the physical threat as I lift a brow. “Winning the game? I hate to break it to you, but I already have.”

“Fuck you, Sly!” He raises a fist. “Let’s see how much winning you do with my fist down your throat.”

“I’m happy to find out if you want to give it a go.” I lift my chin, daring him to do it with a look as well as my words.

But, like always, Grant refuses to throw a punch at someone more than able to return it. Instead, he spits on my cleats and says, “This isn’t over.”

Part of me wants to make him eat that spit—and my cleat along with it.

But a bigger part knows he’s not worth the repercussions.

Grant is pathetic. He’s always been pathetic, and he’s always going to be pathetic.

He’s too much of an asshole to get out of his own way long enough to be anything else.

I, on the other hand, am not the same hotheaded twenty-three-year-old who beat the shit out of him four years ago.

I’ve got too much going on in my life to risk it on the likes of him.

So instead of feeding him my shoe like a part of me really, really wants to, I settle for saying, “Good talk. Happy to have another one any time you’re in the area.”

Then I pull open the locker room door, only to have Marquis stick his head through the doorway. “Hey, Sly. What’s—”

He stops dead when he sees Grant. “Is there a problem here?” He glances between us with narrowed eyes, his own hands balling into fists.

“Not anymore,” I answer, grabbing his shoulder and turning him back toward the locker room. My girl is waiting for me upstairs, and I don’t want to waste one more second of our time together.