Intercepted (Page 2)

The problem with a rooftop patio is there’s no quick escape.

How is this my life? I know Lady Luck has never been too fond of me, but it’s just cruel that out of all the quarterbacks and all the teams, Gavin Pope ends up on the Mustangs.

Halfway down the stairs, my knees are knocking so hard I have to stop and let the wall support me. My breathing won’t slow, and I’m dizzy from all of the scenarios spinning in my head.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” an unexpected voice calls from behind me. I jump back and hit my head against the sports memorabilia–covered walls. One of the pictures crashes down, landing at my feet. I bend to pick it up and my shaking hands almost drop it twice before my nerves calm enough to look at it.

I forget where I am. Instead of a restaurant in a Denver suburb, I’m back in that Chicago high-rise. The guy I’d just had the hottest night of my life with—the one who told me he was an investment banker—has framed pictures of himself in his apartment. But instead of a suit, Gavin Pope wears a Bears hat with the NFL commissioner’s arm draped over his shoulders.

“Ma’am?” The waiter’s voice startles me back to the present.

I shake the memories of the Chicago police officers staring at my tight dress, smudged mascara, and just-been-fucked hair as I ran out of the high-rise and focus on the picture frame in my hands. It’s not Gavin. Instead, it’s my boyfriend, both feet in the air, football locked tight in his outstretched arms.

“I’m fine. Thank you.” I hand him the frame, and then I’m running again. I don’t stop until I’m sitting in my car. But once I’m inside my Prius, the news hits me all over again.

Gavin Pope.

Here.

Like a tsunami, each memory of that night hits me like another wave. His eyes as he watched me undress. Crash. My tongue dancing against his. Crash. The way he took me to the edge of euphoria over and over and over again. Crash. Crash. Crash. I’m drowning with the sinking realization that all of my hard work to bury every panty-dropping, toe-curling memory of that night was for nothing.

Not only did fate decide it’d be fun to remind me of him, it threw him right smack-dab in the center of my life. I mean, it’s not like the quarterback holds the wide receivers’ careers in their hands or anything. How could this possibly go wrong?

I guess it depends on whether Gavin Pope even remembers who I am.

Two

Chris and I live in what I fondly refer to as the seventh circle of hell—oddly enough, that’s located in Denver.

We are both native Denverites; we met in high school, and somehow, Chris lucked out by being drafted by the Mustangs and never being traded. In the NFL, getting to play at all is odds defying. And staying on the same team for more than five seasons is a damn miracle.

With Chris’s awesome income, the money I get from my freelance design jobs, and no kids, we should be living the high life. Denver is the coolest city with the most eclectic, vibrant mix of people. But we don’t live in an industrial condo downtown or a historical bungalow in Washington Park.

No, no, no. Chris and I—just the two of us—live in eight thousand square feet of obnoxious marble and crystal covered extravagance in the gated community of all gated communities with all the other Mustang starters in #TheLandWhereHighSchoolNeverEnds.

I grew up middle class. Chris grew up loaded. His dad is still the most sought after plastic surgeon in Colorado—a common topic between the other wives and I. And to this day, I still have no idea who the hell Chris is trying to impress. I guess showing your daddy you’re a big boy includes ugly chandeliers and gold leafed wallpaper.

After hearing about Gavin’s arrival, I knew Chris was going to be upset. And because I’m such a wonderful girlfriend, I made him my world famous red velvet cake to help ease the pain. I absolutely did not make it in an effort to eat my own feelings. And the extra bowl of cream cheese frosting hidden in the back of the fridge isn’t for that either. Sweet decadent denial.

“Fuck Coach Jacobs!” Chris’s entrances tend to have a flair for theatrics, but he has outdone himself this time. His deep voice echoes off the gallery art–lined walls. His heavy feet against the white marble causes them to rattle. But the crowning glory on this manly display of fury is the way he launches his workout bag across the kitchen the moment he sees me. Almost as if in slow motion, I watch his Nike bag soar over the island into my favorite teal cake stand holding my beautiful, iced to perfection, world famous red velvet cake. Both fall to the floor with a frosting-padded thud.

“What the hell, Chris?” I walk over and start picking out cream cheese–covered ceramic. I’m contemplating whether or not to still eat the parts of the cake that didn’t directly touch the floor when Chris starts yelling again.

“Are you really more worried about a fucking cake than me right now?”

Well . . . yes.

“Of course not. It’s just a mess, and I don’t want either of us to cut our feet.” Lies.

Bye, cake. I’ll miss you.

I stand up to look at him and when I do, I realize leaving the cake for later is for the best. Chris’s normally mocha complexion has a cherry hue to it, and his full lips are pulled into a thin, straight line. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he’s about to cry. “Holy shit. Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not fucking okay! That piece of shit Jacobs brought in another quarterback. Fucking Gavin Pope. Even the guy’s fuckin’ name is pretentious.” His eyes are focused on the coffered ceiling and his hands never stop roaming his not-quite-bald head.

In all my time knowing him, I’ve never seen him so worked up over football.

“Kevin and I were solid. I was his receiver. With him throwing me the ball, this was going to be my biggest contract year yet. And that rat, son of a bitch, knew it. He doesn’t want to fuckin’ pay me, and he thought bringing in some pretty boy was going to stop me. Fuck that. He’s got another thing coming.”

“I thought Pope was supposed to be good?” Not like I’d know, or that I’ve looked up his stats once a week, every week for the last four years or anything.

“It’s not about him being fucking good, Marlee!” His attention snaps toward me. It seems he didn’t appreciate that little tidbit. “Do you listen when I talk to you?”

“First of all, yes, I do listen. Second, check yourself. I get you’re pissed and taking it out on Nike bags and innocent, baked-with-love cakes, but you will not take it out on me. I’m not Jacobs, I didn’t make this trade. I want to help you, but not if you’re acting like I’m the enemy here.” #99ProblemsButChrisAintOne

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” Chris says. He looks properly chastised, and resisting the urge to dust the dirt off my shoulder is almost too much for me to handle. “This was going to be our year, baby. I was going to be the number one receiver in the league; we were going to fly to Hawaii so I could play in the all-star game. I was going to get the franchise tag and the contract we’ve always dreamed of so we could start our family the right way—on top. Now Jacobs is putting it all at risk.”

I hate the way the dormant butterflies always take flight the second Chris mentions starting a family. If he was waiting for money, he could have proposed six years ago. But instead, every year passed without an engagement and another item added to his pre-marriage bucket list. But at last, Chris is nearing the end of his list. Plus, a few weeks ago, one of my rings went missing, and when I asked him about it, he got all jittery and nervous. I’ve wanted to be Mrs. Chris Alexander since I was sixteen and now, nearly eleven years later, the time is almost here.