Intercepted (Page 63)

I suck in a deep breath. “It’s amazing to hear you say those words to me. It really is. But, Chris, I loved you. I will always have love for you and cherish some of our time together, but I’ve moved on. I’m not in love with you anymore.”

It’s weird having such a personal conversation in front of so many strangers. People walking past me, oblivious to what’s going on in my life.

“It’s still Gavin, isn’t it?” He’s not accusing me. It’s like he’s stating the obvious.

“No, Chris. It’s me. I’ve changed. With or without Gavin, this is a decision for me.” I open the door to peek back inside and see our food has arrived. “It was great to hear from you, and I wish you the best, but this is where we should end things.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Bye, Marlee.”

“Bye, Chris.”

I end the call and walk back toward my new boss and coworker, feeling a lightness I never knew existed.

* * *

• • •

“BYE, MARLEE!” LESLIE calls to me as I head out at five o’clock.

“Bye, Leslie.” I wave to her. “See you Monday.”

I hop on the elevator and take it from the fifteenth floor of our Manhattan office building to the ground level. I push out of the revolving door and am immediately swept up in the crowds constantly filling the New York City sidewalks.

I still haven’t adjusted to the humidity as it hits me like a wet slap in the face and my hair that I worked so hard on straightening early this morning instantly curls up. I don’t wear my headphones while I walk to the train here. There’s too much going on. The people talking on all sides of me, the street vendors yelling out the deals they have, the constant sounds of sirens and horns blaring, it’s music in its own right. Maybe I’ll tire of it one day, but not today.

The day after I arrived in New Jersey, I did nothing but ride the subway. I wanted to master it before my first day of work. And the last thing I wanted was to be late because I couldn’t find my way. Now, only a week later, it’s already feeling second nature. I mindlessly walk down the steps and into the terminal. I stand side by side with strangers who don’t even look up before filing onto the train.

But today, instead of getting off at my normal exit, I take it for three more stops. I get off with the other passengers clothed in their red and blue gear and follow them until we approach the fields where the Giants are stretching on the field before their evening practice for training camp.

“Who cares about the rest of the team?” the woman behind me says loud enough for anyone to hear. “I just want to see Gavin Pope’s ass in those pants. Yum-my.”

She’s not wrong about that. Nobody does a uniform justice like Gavin. I’m convinced if they did contracts based on asses alone, he’d still be the highest paid in the league.

Walking through the gates and fighting the crowd for a spot on the bleachers is another first for me. I’ve never had to do this. I’ve always been led to nice shaded seats with the rest of the family members. I’ve never had to put my game face on at training camp, but as I make my way to the one empty seat behind four guys without shirts and their stomachs painted, I think that might change too.

“I can’t believe we spent that much money on that pretty fuckboy. We could’ve gotten a quarterback who’s just as good for half the price. He better not blow our season over some bitch like he did for the Mustangs.”

Breathe, Marlee, breathe. There are four of them and one of you. Naomi and Lenny are back in Colorado. Do not start a fight.

“I know. Pope fucking sucks!” yells the guy next to him.

The people next to me roll their eyes and the people below them turn and glare, but nobody says anything.

Except me.

“Says the guys sitting in the bleachers covered in paint.” Dammit.

“What’d you just say?” the first loudmouth says. Incidentally, he’s also the one with the biggest gut. Correlation? I’m not sure.

“I said you sure are doing a lot of talking from your spot on the bleachers. Last I heard, the people who really know the game are on the field.”

If my intention was to fly under the radar, I’m failing miserably. Faces that were focused on the field are now turning toward me. People who wanted to say something to these jerks but didn’t start clapping for me. The support would be lovely, but it just further angers the men I already pissed off.

“And you know so much? You’re sitting on the bleachers too.”

“Yes, I am. I’m sitting here trying to enjoy watching men who actually know the game play it, and instead I’m stuck next to Al Bundy and foot soldiers who think because they played football in high school they know everything there is to know.”

I’ve used the Al Bundy reference before, but nothing is a more effective insult. As soon as the name comes out of my mouth, I win. I used Uncle Rico once, but I had to explain, which took away from the actual joke.

Like right now, Loudmouth is stuttering, trying to come up with a decent comeback, but looks like a fish out of water instead.

Mission accomplished.

“Well, well, well,” a loud, frighteningly familiar voice calls from behind me. “Look at you, causing scenes across the country. I bet after that little show, nobody would know you aren’t from here.”

I turn around slowly, eyes closed the entire time, whispering useless prayers that I’m not going to see the face I know belongs to that voice. When I can’t prolong it anymore, I count to three in my head and open my eyes.

“Donny.” I try to sound excited, but instead it sounds like my stomach hurts. “How are you?”

For real, God? I know two people in this state and you sit one behind me? I get that I don’t go to church often, but this punishment is excessive, harsh, and kind of cruel.

“I’m good. I got our boy . . . wait, sorry, got my boy back in NYC, my commission was fuckin’ out of this world, and I don’t ever have to step foot in that frozen tundra you call home.”

“Good to see you haven’t lost your way with words.”

“After that fuckin’ show you put on with those dickbags, you’re gonna say something about my language?”

Curse you, big mouth! I just had to say something.

“Whatever. They were being jerks, and I didn’t curse. There are kids around. Going two hours without dropping an f-bomb wouldn’t kill you.”

“It might and I don’t want to fuckin’ test it.”

I have no response for him this time. Sometimes, it’s better to say nothing. An idea I’ve heard many times before . . . from my mother . . . but don’t use often.

“Gavin know you’re here?” Donny says a few minutes later. I think he’s physically incapable of silence. He’s just so loud and the name Gavin draws the attention of the people sitting next to us, including loudmouth number one.

“Nope,” I hope Donny will catch the hint and drop it.

“Why not? You fly all the way out here to visit and don’t tell him? When are you going back?”

“None of your business, Donny.” I know I should probably correct him and tell him I moved here, but I’m not sure which sounds more stalkerish, flying across the country to watch your ex’s football practice or moving across the country to the state you broke up with him for when he suggested it.