Intercepted (Page 4)

She’s the original Gossip Girl.

“That’s horrible, poor thing. She’s such a delicate flower. I hope she’ll be able to make our Wednesday meeting. What will we do if she cancels? Email? That’ll never work.”

Naomi’s full-on glaring at me now. Dixie, on the other hand, looks like I told her the higher the hair does not actually make her closer to god.

“Oh my. I didn’t even think of that! The fashion show is too close to chance it. And if any of those little girlfriends try to take the good outfits, there will be problems. I don’t want to have to get ugly at a charity event.” When she realizes what she said, she drops Naomi’s arm and pulls me into a hug. She stands there with her arms wrapped around me for what feels like an eternity before she whispers in my ear, “Of course I didn’t mean you. You’re already a wife in all of our eyes, you just need to make it right with the lord.”

“The game’s almost starting.” Naomi grabs my hand and pulls me free from Dixie’s embrace. “The elevators to club level are getting really busy; you’ll want to get on one before you miss kickoff.”

“Thank you, I would’ve been pitchin’ a fit if I missed it! Will I see y’all downstairs at halftime?” Dixie asks.

Downstairs is where family and friends can go and stock up on free food and drinks. So there’s only one answer I can give. “Absolutely.”

I don’t know why Dixie goes because she shares a box with a few of the other offensive linemen’s families, and they’re stocked to the brim with treats and goodness. I suspect it’s so she can gather information on the one-comma club members and bring it to her fellow two-comma members.

The one-comma club is the majority of the team, the poor schmoes who make under a million dollars per season. The two-comma club is for the demigods who make over a million. Get it? It’s terrible.

“I’m obsessed with her,” I tell Naomi, smiling at Dixie, who’s waving like a fool, her teased, sky-high blonde hair bouncing along with her movements before the elevator doors slide shut.

“Me too. It’s like listening to a charming alien when she talks.” Naomi links her arm through mine. “But you need to be careful who you talk to about Courtney. I doubt Dixie would say anything, but any of those other worker bees would love running back to their queen with dirt on you.”

“I’ll tell Courtney it was you. It’s not like it’d be the first time they got us confused.” I laugh, but I’m not joking . . . and Naomi knows it.

“Don’t you dare.” She pulls her arm away from me and turns to me with wide eyes.

“But I like to be you. It makes me feel tall.”

Poor Naomi. We’re both biracial, but our caramel skin is where the comparisons end. She’s five foot eight inches, I’m five foot two inches. She has green eyes, mine are brown. She wears a size two, I wear . . . not a size two. We look nothing alike, and I can’t tell if they really don’t know or if it’s another jab where they can only remember the married person’s name.

“No. You can never be me at a game. All I’d need is to look online and see reports of me causing a scuffle in the stands.”

Fair point.

“But you have to admit, ‘Scuffle in the Stands’ would be an outstanding headline,” I say.

Naomi and Dre got married while they were still in college, so she never had to navigate the waters as a girlfriend. Which was good for her because—and god love her—the poor girl damn near breaks out in hives if she even thinks about getting involved in confrontation. Even so, she still stuck her neck out for me when it came to the Lady Mustangs. I’m one of the few live-in girlfriends on the team, and Chris wanted me to join, but it was met with pushback from the wicked wives.

Naomi never told me exactly what was said at the meetings leading up to me joining, but I know she left her comfort zone to have my back. Because after she went to the Mustang’s General Manager and he extended me a formal apology and a personal invitation to the group, Naomi’s seat in the hierarchy was long forgotten. Now she lays as low as possible when it comes to drama of any sort, and I make sure to be her voice every now and again.

We make our way to our section, navigating the already rowdy fans and avoiding spilling our Blue Moons. When we make it, Lenny is standing at the top, looking his typical grumpy self.

“Lenny! How’s it going? Are you feeling a win today?” I ask. He doesn’t crack a smile, but he can’t fool me—I know he loves me.

“Eh. Who knows with these putzes they call players? One of them could’ve had their precious feelings hurt on the tweeter. When I played, we played for glory, your fellas just play money.” Every week for every season Chris has played for the Mustangs, Lenny has been guarding the seats to section 112. And every game, he rants about the same thing. “There’s no honor with you kids. All you want is attention.”

“I can always count on you to tell it how it is. Let’s hope the only players with hurt feelings are the Raiders.” I pat him on the shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t start any trouble today, my hip’s been acting up. Wait a few more weeks so I can join in.”

“Me? Start trouble? You know me better than that.” My hand goes to my chest, but he still doesn’t crack a smile. He just looks up and mutters something under his breath about frustrating girls before scolding me for causing a traffic jam in his section.

After the dangerous trek down the cement steps, I catch up to Naomi, who’s in her seat taking selfies while switching from sunglasses to no sunglasses and back again.

“Lenny told me no fights, so you’re safe . . . for today. Unless you don’t put the phone away, then I’ll be fighting you.” I look to the field in time to see the captains from each team walk to centerfield for the coin toss. “Come on, Nay, it’s game time!”

I recognize number twenty-nine as Dre, Naomi’s superfine, chocolate drop, cornerback extraordinaire. He’s standing next to number eight, Brendon Davis, our kicker, who manages to send my heart rate skyrocketing every time he goes to kick, and number twelve, who is new. All I know about number twelve is he’s the reason football pants were made.

“Your Denver Mustang captains today are Andre Harris, Brendon Davis, and Gavin Pope.” The announcer’s voice echoes across the stadium. “Heads. The Mustangs will be receiving the ball first.”

Gavin Pope. I should’ve known he was the mystery captain. It doesn’t matter where I am, that ass always summons me.

The crowd bursts into cheers as the Mustang players take their places on the field and the sideline. The energy filling the stadium is so strong, it causes my hair to stand. My heart beats in rhythm with the stomping on the ground, and the scream that rips from the back of my throat harmonizes with the rest of the cheers. The sound builds with perfect momentum as the Raiders’ kicker takes a running start and his laces make contact with the football. He sends the ball over Mustang helmets before our returner catches it in the end zone and takes a knee. He hops up after the whistle is blown and tosses the ball to the nearest referee before running off the field.

The crowd stays on their feet as they get their first peek at Gavin Pope leading their Mustang offense. Even though Chris is on the field too, I can’t look anywhere but the superfine, super tall quarterback yelling out instructions to his offense.