Intercepted (Page 9)

Luckily, Lauren’s problem is a fairly easy fix that I can take care of from any computer. I go to log in to my email, but Chris’s computer automatically signs me into his. I’m moving the mouse up to the log out button when the subject line in one email jumps out at me: Miss you already.

Now, I’m not normally one to snoop. Chris and I have been together since high school. When he first got into the league, I’d find an earring here or a pair of underwear there, but for the most part, I’d let Chris talk his way out of it. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve broken up many times, but since the last time it happened (four years ago), things have been fantastic. I thought we’d moved on from all of the issues that arose those first few years of Chris’s career.

I let the mouse hover for what feels like hours. I know whatever I decide to do next will change my future. I could look, find out he’s cheating, and leave like I promised would happen the last time we went through this. Or I could pretend it never happened and try to fight my way back into my rainbow-filled bubble.

I open the email.

Hey baby,

I had so much fun at the game Sunday. I know you had meetings after, but I was so glad I was able to see you the next day. This weekend can’t come fast enough, when I’ll be back on a plane to see you.

XOXO,

Ava

Oh.

My.

God.

After reading one message, I’m consumed. I sit at the computer, ignoring Lauren and the churning in my stomach, and click message after message. I find flight itineraries that span the entire season—home games, away games, even a ticket during the bye week. And those are just the emails in his inbox. After more obsessing, I check all of his folders and find out the one named “Confirmations” is filled to the brim with nudes. And like the glutton-for-punishment fool I am, I look at every single one.

The kicker on it all is while I’m looking at all the different ways Ava can angle her camera, I notice something disturbingly familiar sparkling on her right hand. I zoom in and get a crystal clear view of the ring I thought Chris took to a jeweler to help him pick my engagement ring sitting pretty on this skank’s hand.

#OnTheNextEpisodeOfSnapped

I slam the computer shut and navigate my way through the hallways to the garage. Once there, I pull out every piece of luggage I can find and drag them up the spiral staircase to our room. All of my shoes. Every dress, skirt, and top. Pictures, yearbooks, and even my baking supplies all find their way into a suitcase. The only problem with packing when upset is a few broken picture frames and more than one gift from Chris hurled across the room and into the professionally painted walls that now need to be professionally patched.

When I have everything I want, I drag them down the stairs one by one, allowing myself to admit how much I loathe this stupid, ugly house.

I pull my last suitcase down the stairs, the sound of my flip flops barely heard over the bang of the wheels every time they hit a marble step. My hair, which I had straightened and left down for our meeting, was getting so frizzy from the sweat I developed going up and down the stairs that it is now in a messy bun on the top of my head. My makeup melted off at some point over the last hour, and mascara is smeared across my cheeks from the traitorous tears I couldn’t stop from falling. My tank top is sticking to my chest, and I could really use a re-up on my deodorant. Basically, I’m a hot-ass mess.

So of course this is the moment Chris walks into the house.

He’s looking at something behind him and doesn’t notice me or my belongings. When I obnoxiously clear my throat, he turns to me with a grin on his face so big, it threatens to take my rage to uncontainable levels. Thankfully, for his safety and my clean record, it flees the second he gets a good look at me and my mountain of luggage filling the space.

“What the fuck, Mars?”

“You took my computer.” There’s zero emotion in my voice when I speak to him. “I needed to check my email, but yours opened instead.”

As I’m speaking, I watch as his face registers what I’m telling him. The range of emotions is fascinating. Confusion, surprise, sadness, until he settles on what looks like anger.

“You went through my shit? I thought we were done with this detective bullshit.”

I knew he’d do this. It wouldn’t matter if I walked in on him with his dick still inside of another woman, he’d blame me for not knocking. He might get paid from football, but he’s a professional fucking gaslighter.

I shrug and walk toward my bags. “Funny, because I thought we were past you fucking groupies and lying to me. Guess we were both wrong.”

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” His temper is steadily rising, but I refuse to give him the reaction he wants.

“My parents’ house. I already talked to my dad, he’s expecting me.”

“Well, you better call him and tell him you need a ride because if you touch my car, I’m calling the cops.”

For my birthday two years ago, he woke me up with breakfast in bed and told me he was taking me to pick out my new car. He dragged me to the Cadillac dealership first, then to Mercedes, then to Audi, before I was able to break him down and go to Toyota so I could get my Prius. I love my car, but Chris hates it. The only time he ever rode in it was for the test drive the day he bought it. But you better believe he made sure his name was the only one on the title.

“Really, Chris? You’re going to be that petty? You hate my car.”

“My car,” he says.

I guess I’ll take that as a yes.

“You’re such an asshole. I’ll call my dad, but you might want to make yourself scarce. I told him about the pictures of Ava wearing my ring, and he wants to kill you.” I throw it out there casually while I’m looking for my phone in my purse. Chris might be a big bad NFL player, but around my dad he’s still the same skinny, stuttering kid he was eleven years ago. Actually, having my dad come makes this even better. The thought causes the first hint of a smile since I found out about Ava . . . and Rachelle and Monique and Livvy and . . . well, you get the picture.

“I can take you if you need a ride,” says a new, deep voice. And with one short sentence, the smile is long gone.

Chris told me last night that Gavin was coming over to go over some plays with him, but I guess discovering years of betrayal caused me to forget. Clenching my eyes shut, I send up a silent prayer Gavin cancelled and it’s another person witnessing this personal low point in my life. My hands stay frozen in my bag, like maybe if I make no sudden movements I’ll be able to vanish into thin air. I turn as slowly as I can to identify our new guest.

When I manage to convince myself to open my eyes, my gaze is met with Gavin’s hard, angry one before he shifts it to Chris. Even though I’m standing still, I can’t get my breathing to slow down.

“No. She’s not going to burden my boys with her shit.”

“You’re not my boy, Alexander. And this shit you’re pulling right now is why you never will be.”

Welp, that gets my attention.

Chris sucks in a breath so deep, it’s a wonder he doesn’t pass out.

“You can go to my truck, Marlee,” Gavin says. “I’ll get your bags.” Locked tight in a glare-off with Chris, Gavin doesn’t even look at me when he offers.

“Thanks.” My answer is quick and quiet, and I’m out the front door before Chris can even register that I’ve left.