Intercepted (Page 45)

“Because, Donovan.” She walks up to him in her five-inch pumps . . . that she wore to a football game . . . and stops an inch too close to his face. “Your friend Marlee there? She’s the reason we aren’t going to the playoffs.”

Boring.

Are we really doing this again?

“Cut the shit, Madison.” Donny brushes her off. “The Mustangs are out of the playoffs because your fuckin’ boyfriend dropped eighty percent of the passes Gavin threw to him and couldn’t find his way to the end zone if someone gave him a map. It’s because the backup quarterback played worse than my fuckin’ four-year-old niece and blew the last fuckin’ game.”

While Donny is talking to her, the room falls to complete silence. No tapping on phones, no chewing of food, definitely no chatter. Donny has gained everyone’s full attention, and Madison doesn’t look like a Snow Bitch. She’s bright red and the snarl on her lips is so pronounced, she resembles a rabid dog.

“Fuck you!” Her high-pitched voice echoes off the walls around us. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“I know you’ve had a thing for Gavin for years and him picking Marlee over you has you spitting nails.” While everyone else watching this conversation seems extremely uncomfortable, Donny’s at ease. As if he’s been planning this moment for years and I just gave him the opportunity to let loose.

“Shut up!” She’s completely lost it now. She doesn’t seem to realize her reaction has confirmed everything Donny is saying.

“You know,” I say to Donny, “I think I’m just going to head home. Tell Gavin I’ll call him later.”

“And she finally takes the hint.” Courtney’s voice carries across the room.

It’d be easy to hit back, but the fight in me is gone. They’re vampires and they’ve sucked me dry. Even if they didn’t hate me, why would I ever want to be friends with women as terrible as them? I worked my ass off trying to get them to like me and instead of them focusing on all of the charity work I’ve done, the times I showed up early to events to set up, they couldn’t see past my empty ring finger.

I feel bad for Gavin that his season is over, but not having to see these women for a while is not something I’m mad at.

Bitches.

The whole bloody lot of ’em.

Thirty-one

Since I still don’t have a car, Naomi always swings by to take me to the games, and I ride home with Gavin. But thankfully for me, on game days, I have no problem catching the train.

I stand on the platform, surrounded by a sea of orange and blue. The fans, most of whom seem to have indulged in a few beverages during the game, are a mixture of thrilled at the win and pissed about the season being over. I watch, kind of in awe at the way a game these people really have no stakes in can bring out such strong emotions. How it can create such bonds, as if they’re all united in orange and blue and all of those in the opposition’s colors are automatically the enemy.

We climb on the train when it arrives and by some small miracle, I’m able to find a seat. I sit down, open my new book, and try to lose myself in anything other than football.

We are at the second or third stop when two men in Alexander jerseys (warning number one) approach me.

“Hey. Why are you so quiet over here?” asks the one in the ridiculous bright orange hat shaped with a Mustang head.

“Just reading a book.” I keep my answer as short as I can, trying to be polite, yet dismiss them at the same time.

“Reading? On a Sunday after the best fucking game of the season?” asks the other shorter and chubbier guy.

“Yup. Reading on a Sunday.” I don’t look up at them and hope it’s enough for them to catch a hint.

Shocker.

It’s not.

“I’m pissed that was the last game of the season,” chubby guys says. “I thought we’d go all the way with Pope here.”

“If only that stupid bitch didn’t get him hurt we would’ve.”

Ooookay.

This isn’t sounding promising for me.

“I don’t get it. These guys could have anybody they want and they’re just passing around the same piece? What could be so great about her?”

“I don’t know, but if I ever found her, I’d be sure to try a taste.”

Now I feel sick.

Obviously they don’t recognize me, but that doesn’t mean somebody else won’t. I close my Kindle app on my phone, pull up my text messages, and start typing one out to Gavin.

Hey. On the train surrounded by Super Creepers. Can you meet me at my stop?

“You’re finished reading?” The guy I have appointed as Creeper Number One asks from above me.

“Yup.” Short and sweet, Marlee. You do not owe them conversation.

“Who were you texting?” Does alcohol make all people lose sight of social norms and personal boundaries?

“My boyfriend, not that it’s any of your business.”

“No need to be rude, sweetheart,” Horsehead, aka Creeper Number Two, says, and I want to barf at the sexist, condescending name.

The train slows to another stop, and I almost drop to my knees, praying they’ll get off. But instead, the people filling the seats next to me get up. Both of them shoot a sympathetic glance my way as they exit the train.

Gee. Thanks for the show of support.

Before the Super Creepers can sit in both of the seats next to me, I slide down until I’m rubbing thighs with a new stranger and toss my purse in the opposite seat. But, again, neither of my pursuers gets a clue.

And unfortunately for me, when I moved my purse to the other seat, I wasn’t thinking about my bedazzled Pope jersey being put on display.

“Damn. That’s a sparkly-ass jersey. You must really like Pope.”

I cross my arms is a pathetic attempt to shield the jersey they’ve already seen and ignore them.

“Oh. You can’t speak now?” Creeper One accuses. Because, of course, I’m the bitch. It couldn’t be their crude words and aggressive behavior.

I still don’t say anything.

The instructors in the self-defense classes I took warned women not to speak because they feel obligated, that trying to be kind is what gets women hurt.

And after the last week, being a bitch isn’t difficult to pull off. I’ve learned from the best.

We’re at the stop before mine, and the doors slide open. Nobody gets off, but quite a few more people get on. One girl in particular looks really familiar, but I’m having a hard time placing her. She sits across the aisle from me, her eyes down to the dirt-stained carpet. I’m watching her, trying to figure out where I know her from, when she looks up and her gaze collides with mine.

“Hey.” A small smile crosses her face. “Don’t I know you?

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Oh. You do know how to talk,” one of the Super Creepers says, but I don’t look their way to see which one.

The sun catches the crystals at just the right angle to hit the girl across from me in the face. She stares at my bedazzled shirt.

“Oh my god!” Her eyes widen. “You’re the girl that works at HERS! The one who’s dating Gavin Pope!”

Oh crap.

“No. That’s not me,” I say, but the words come out too fast to sound anything but defensive and full of shit.

“It is! I was there the other night when you got into the argument with a really pretty, bitchy lady. I posted a video of it on YouTube. It’s already up to almost five thousand views!”