Intercepted (Page 29)

“Okay.” I give in but only because time with Gavin might be the only thing better than being in bed with him.

Also, because as entertaining as his reaction to my wiggling is, my whole body hurts. When I have Gavin Pope again, I’m going to want it in prime working condition.

Twenty

Unlike the guest room, Gavin’s windows are treated with fancy electronic blackout blinds. Tuesdays are Gavin’s day off, and when I called Brynn last night to let her know what happened, she banned me from coming in. So I take full advantage of the dark room and comfy bed. Gavin, however, still wakes up at the ass crack of dawn.

When I manage to climb out of bed and join him in the living room, it’s almost noon, and Gavin has my Fresh’s coffee order and croissants waiting for me.

I fall back into the corner of the couch and snatch the remote out of Gavin’s hand. Not a chance in hell I’m gonna watch ESPN all day.

Chris’s remote was off-limits. It sounds ridiculous (because it was) but one day I took the remote and turned on Ellen and he didn’t talk to me for a week. Gavin doesn’t care though.

“Go for it, but if you turn on a soap opera, I’m out.” Lucky for him, I stopped watching soaps years ago.

I open Gavin’s DVR and come across a butt load of unwatched Jeopardy!’s and almost lose my shit. I’m a trivia freak. I buy little kids’ yogurt instead of grown-up ones just for the little trivia on the side . . . and maybe because cotton candy yogurt is amazing. #NotAshamed

“You watch Jeopardy!?” I toss a throw pillow at his head.

“I try to, but if the number of unwatched episodes tells you anything, I don’t get around to it much.”

“Well at least I know what we’re doing today.” I stand, giving him my best elderly woman impression, and find my purse. When I come back to the couch, he’s sitting there looking both amused and curious.

“What’s going on?” He watches me as I lower my sore self back into my spot, and I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens.

“We’re playing Jeopardy!” I state the obvious. “Get your phone. For each question, we bet like they do. Except, I’m not a baller like you, so the first round, we do it in cents. Two cents for two hundred, four cents for four hundred. You get it. Then for the second round, we move to dollars. Twenty dollars for two thousand.” I point to the calculator on my phone. “Keep track of your total on your phone.” I stop and look at him. “Honor system, Pope. Then at the end, we bet for final Jeopardy! and the winner has to pay the loser.”

“Are you serious?” He grins and drums his fingers against his coffee table. “How have I never played this?”

I press my lips together and shrug. “You know, Pope, you might be the big football player in the room”—I point both of my index fingers at myself—“but I’m the Jeopardy! queen. Be prepared to go down.” I push play on the first unwatched episode I come across. “Oh. And also, if somehow you do manage to win? I’m broke, so don’t expect me to pay you.”

* * *

• • •

“IN YOUR FUCKIN’ face, Pope!” I yell at his back as he walks to the kitchen to grab another pop. “Who doesn’t know that Italy is the second most used setting in Shakespeare? And you call yourself a competitor.”

What? I never claimed to be a gracious winner. #NaNanaNaNa #BamWHAT

“I didn’t call myself a competitor. I think the term I used was ‘aficionado,’ you’re the one who wanted to bet real money.”

“Tomato, potato,” I toss at him while picking the next episode to watch.

“You know the final Jeopardy! question, but you don’t know it’s tomato, tomato?”

I’m about to answer him when Gavin’s picture behind a news anchor draws my attention. I exit out of his DVR and fight back the onslaught of nausea that takes over as I hear the news story.

“A mugging and assault brought the police to Denver Mustangs’ quarterback Gavin Pope’s home late last night,” the news anchor says robotically, imposing the right inflections at certain points, tilting his head, creasing his eyes with the skill of a practiced reporter. “The victim, Marlee Harper, was attacked in Lincoln Park walking home from dinner. She managed to escape and run to Pope’s downtown residence for help. We were told that after Harper arrived at Pope’s downtown Denver residence, he went outside looking for the attacker. Police have named Gregory Thomas and James Walters as the suspects for the attack.”

I know James set me up, but my heart clenches knowing he’s getting in trouble for this. He needs help, not jail.

“Wow, Mark. Not only is Gavin Pope saving the day every Sunday, now he’s proving to be a hero off the field too,” the perfect redhead next to him says.

“He really is, Andrea. And you may remember, Marlee Harper is the longtime girlfriend of Mustangs receiver Chris Alexander. Bet he’s going to be very thankful his teammate was around when she needed him.”

“So true. We’ll be right back with the weather,” she says to the camera, her pearly whites gleaming beneath her tan.

Oh no. No. No. No! This is bad.

I was so wrapped up in the report, I didn’t even realize Gavin had come back from the kitchen until his hand touches me.

“You okay?” His quiet voice holds unhidden concern.

“How’d they even find out? And why would they report my name? Isn’t that illegal or something?” I ask, very much not okay.

“The media is full of vultures. If they think it will bring in viewers, they will broadcast your pain loud and clear.”

“This isn’t good.” And as if to confirm my words, both of our phones ring. Gavin squeezes my knee and gives me a quick peck on the forehead before going to his phone. It’s so sweet, so dreamy, if I wasn’t in the middle of a breakdown supreme, I might’ve melted into a puddle of contented goo on his couch.

Thankfully, I called my mom and dad and filled them in this morning before Channel 7 was able to, but there are many people I didn’t tell and I have a feeling they will all be much more interested in a certain blue-eyed, bearded quarterback than my brush with danger. I’m expecting to see Naomi’s name on the screen, but as luck would have it (because I have no luck) Chris’s name flashes on my phone.

Not in the mood to hear his mouth, I hit ignore, but before I can even put the phone down, he’s calling again. We play the ignore and call again game ten more times before I give up and answer.

“What do you want, Chris?” I sound as defeated as I feel, which is to say, really freaking defeated.

“So you’re fucking Pope?”

What a well-thought-out, meaningful greeting.

“I’m fine, thank you. He only landed one punch before I was able to run,” I respond, my voice shooting up an unnatural octave. “So nice of you to check on me.”

“Don’t play coy, Marlee. That shit’s not cute.”

“But I’m fucking Gavin, Chris. Isn’t that what you just said? So why would I try to be cute for you?” I can picture the color rising in his cheeks as he paces the floor, the way he always does when he gets angry.

“Shut up, Marlee!” His loud, angry voice rings in my ear. “You leave me and run to that arrogant bastard? What the fuck? Are you trying to ruin my career?”