Intercepted (Page 5)

“Let’s get this fuckin’ shit done, Pope! Show them why the fuck you play this fuckin’ game!” yells a man in the row in front of us, drawing the angry eyes of parents with their young children. Even the woman next to him, who is crazy beautiful, turns to glare.

But whether the language is offensive or not, or if Gavin can even hear him, when Gavin calls for the ball to be snapped, he gets the fuckin’ shit done. One of the linemen miss their block, allowing a huge Raiders player to charge straight at Gavin. But Gavin isn’t fazed. He spins left with such grace, it’s almost as if I’m watching a ballet instead of this brutal and barbaric sport. His long legs guide him with ease to the side of the field where TK is running, and he launches the ball.

I forget how to breathe. The entire crowd goes silent as we watch the football floating into the air, soaring above the defensive line. TK jockeys with the Raiders defender, knocking and dodging, racing to get to the ball when it starts to come down. TK insults gravity and jumps high above the defender, snatching the ball out of the air and securing it tightly against his chest. His pads protect him as he falls back to the field. The crowd goes insane. The ground beneath me starts to shake as everyone loses their minds, jumping up and down, punching the air and hugging their neighbors. I high-five the foulmouthed man in front of me while I’m still screaming, and I laugh when he yells, “Fuck yeah! That’s my fuckin’ boy!”

One play and Gavin Pope has shown all of Denver he’s the player they’ve been waiting for.

Four

The Mustangs annihilated the Raiders, beating them by more than thirty points. I almost felt bad for them, but then I remembered soldier Marlee shows no mercy. #ThugLife

After games, family and friends of players funnel downstairs and wait for their player to come out of the locker room. After a game like today, the energy buzzes throughout the room. Conversations and laughter fill every nook and cranny . . . except the ones where bitter wives, mad their husbands lost their starting positions, hide.

Old friends discuss plans to celebrate, mothers gush over their son’s tackle, kids run around pretending to be big and tough like their daddies. And as the guys come out of the locker room one by one ready to go home and celebrate with their loved ones, the noise dies down, but the energy lingers.

Dre changes faster than Superman and is always one of the first players out of the locker room, which is a bummer for me, because Chris is always last. And because we’re buried under 70,000 seats, cell phone coverage is nonexistent. There’s one spot in the far corner where, if you balance just right, you can maybe get a bar or two. But otherwise, you’re screwed. Do you know how hard it is to avoid conversations when you can’t pretend to be checking an important email? Every week, Naomi and Dre offer to wait with me until Chris comes out, but I’ve never taken them up on the offer. I’m pretty sure some of these women can smell fear—the last thing I need to do is show it to them by calling in the cavalry.

Everyone has left, except for the woman who was sitting in front of us and next to my filthy-mouthed high-five partner. He was down here earlier, but after a few minutes of telling anyone who would listen about the “shitty fuckin’ cell coverage,” he took off. I’m assuming they’re with one of the rookies because I’ve met a lot of established players over the years, and they don’t usually keep people around who attempt at stealing their shine. And whoever these two are? They’re the definition of scene stealers. The woman might be quiet, but she’s stunning—all pale skin, thick black hair, and legs for days. With a low cut blouse and killer pointy-toe stilettos, she looks like a naughty Snow White. #WhistleWhileYouTwerk

“Dammit,” Sexy Snow mutters. She’s looking at her phone, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out she lost her call.

“You have to wedge yourself all the way into the corner, and if you do calf raises while you’re on the phone, it helps a lot.” I must’ve been in super stealth mode because what was meant to be a gesture of goodwill causes her to jump back, hit her head, and drop her phone. Oops.

“What?” She doesn’t even look at me when she speaks, like I’m not worthy of her attention.

“You’re trying to get service, right?” I’ve been dealing with rude bitches for so many years, her attitude doesn’t faze me.

“Oh. Yeah.” She almost looks more annoyed now, knowing I’m trying to help her, than she did after she dropped her phone.

“To get service down here, you have to get as close to the wall as you can. Bouncing up and down sometimes helps too.”

“How irritating. I’m not bouncing in Louboutins.”

Well, excuse me.

“If you go upstairs, service is better there.” And you’ll be out of my corner so I can use my phone.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll wait.” It doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s fine. But hey, if she likes it? I love it.

“I’m Marlee, by the way.” I extend my hand. If she’s new here, we’re going to have to get to know each other eventually—might as well get a jump start.

She eyes my hand as if I offered her an old, snotty tissue. She stares at it while, I’m assuming, contemplating if she wants to risk contaminating herself with the millions of germs she seems to think I’m harboring.

That’s it. No more Sexy Snow. From now on she’s Snobby the Snow Bitch.

I’m about to take my hand away and walk my sparkly ass back to the table when she places her limp hand on mine. “Madison.”

I shake her hand, and she lets it flop like a dead fish when I do.

Snobby is a special snowflake.

“Yo, Marlee. Let’s hit it,” Chris calls from behind me right as I pull my hand away. I’ve never been so happy to see him in my entire life.

“Nice to meet you.” I wonder if she’s always this miserable or if I’m lucky.

“Mmmh.” Her lips pull up into what I think is her trying to smile but really looks like she smells something putrid. I hope it wasn’t my hand.

I make no effort in hiding that I want to get away from her and sprint across the room to Chris. When I get to him, his brows are knit together in confusion. I shake my head with as much discretion as possible and pray he’ll catch the hint. Thankfully he does and turns on his heel, walking down the long hallway to the elevator.

“Good game, you looked great out there.”

“It was okay.” He’s walking ahead of me, and my short legs in too-high heels are struggling to keep up with his long strides. I knew he was going to be like this. The team won, but he didn’t score, and like Lenny told me earlier, my fella is worried about attention. And when he doesn’t get it, he gets like this, Pouty McPouterson.

He pushes the elevator button and says no more. I hate the silence. I need there to be noise. Maybe I could sing?

As soon as the thought crosses my mind, the quick clicks of high heels hitting the tile echo through the cold hallway. The quiet hum of conversation grows louder as the footsteps get closer. I sneak a quick glance over my shoulder and when I do, I wonder what in the hell I did in a past life to deserve this. Because coming my way, with her hair floating behind her like she’s freaking Beyoncé or something, is Madison the Snow Bitch. And next to her? Gavin. Fuck my life so hard.

I want to start pushing the elevator arrow button over and over again, but before I get the chance, Gavin and Madison stop next to me. I have to do a double take because long gone is the Snow Bitch and in her place is a smiling, giggling supermodel. But I’d probably be smiling and giggling too if Gavin Pope was standing next to me, looking at me like I was the reason the sun rose and set.