Pick Six

by Max Monroe

  I tapped play and braced myself for the unknown.

  Wild curls messily piled on top of her head, eyes red-rimmed and highlighted by shadowed remnants of mascara, she looked like a beautiful fucking disaster.

  And after hearing all of four words come out of her pretty little mouth, I knew she was drunk, too.

  She started into a ramble, talking to no one in particular, and honestly, hardly even looking at the screen.

  First, it was about her period.

  Then, she switched to penises.

  And at one point, while rambling about a combination of the two, she started shoving Doritos into her mouth, crunching loudly into the camera.

  But then…the mood shifted.

  “I love Sean Phillips, guys,” Six said, her voice a half slur, half whimper. “I love Sean Phillips. And his penis, which used to be my penis. I don’t think I want to love him because he isn’t the kind of guy who settles down, but I can’t help it. I love him.”

  My heart started pounding wildly at her words.

  I had thought she was done with me, but mere hours ago, she had said she loved me.

  She loves me?

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was an adorable fucking mess. And my heart grew ten sizes inside my chest.

  God, I miss her.

  With big, huge tears streaming down her cheeks, she continued, “I miss him, you guys. I miss him so much. And I’m going to have to see him again soon, and it’s going to hurt so bad. I’m tired of my heart hurting because of Sean Phillips and his perfect penis.”

  The video didn’t last much longer. But I watched until the very end, which was basically a point where Six got too tired and abruptly hit stop on her video.

  Holy fucking shit.

  Eyes wide and jaw damn near in my lap, I stared out the windshield of my Jeep trying to process what I’d just seen.

  I had an underlying feeling she hadn’t really meant to record that video, but accident or not, thank fuck she had.

  Now that I knew… Now that I’d heard her say that four-letter word, I’d do everything in my power to get her back.

  Because not only did she love me, I loved her too.

  I wanted her.

  I needed her.

  And we fucking belonged together.

  I silently thanked everything for the fact that the Mavericks organization had hired her back to create one final episode of the series. We’d gotten the notification via an email from Georgia late last night with the news that Six would be joining us for a finale piece at the championship game, and at the time, I’d felt nothing but dread.

  But now…now, it felt like fate. Destiny.

  With a deep breath, I put the Jeep back into drive, and all the while, I started to mentally prepare myself for the two biggest games of my life.

  The championship.

  And Six.

  The first was important—hell, it was the most important game of my career thus far. But the second, well, it meant the most. It would make or break me.

  Even though my heart was about to be on the line and I didn’t have any fucking control over the end result, I knew what I needed to do.

  I pick Six.

  All day, every day, for the rest of fucking time, I pick her.

  Only a few minutes behind schedule, I walked as fast as I could past the various media sources and cameras hanging out in front of the hotel lobby.

  “Six! Over here, Six!”

  “Do you really love Sean Phillips?”

  “Were you guys dating during filming?”

  “Have you spoken to him since you posted that video?”

  “Why did you delete it from your account?”

  They shouted questions at me from every angle, but with the help of hotel security, I kept my head down, ignored them, and hopped into the limo provided by the Mavericks organization that waited idly at the curb.

  The instant I found the sweet sound of silence in the backseat, I let out a long, exasperated breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding.

  It’d been a rough last couple of days.

  Ever since I’d accidentally posted that stupid, ridiculous video on YouCam, my phone hadn’t stopped ringing. It felt like everyone and their goddamn mother wanted some insider information about Sean and me.

  Which was why I’d kept my lips shut tighter than Fort Knox, and it appeared, even if he’d seen the video, Sean had done the same.

  Setting the wheels to rolling, the driver headed in the direction of Minnesota’s stadium.

  Tonight, the Mavericks would play Dallas in the championship game, a rematch against the absolute toughest team the Mavericks had faced this season, and I’d be filming an episode to capture it all.

  With kickoff only four hours away, the anxiety that had seemed to develop into some sort of permanent appendage on my body took up residence inside my chest and started to clench tighter by the second.

  I was going to have to see Sean again. In fucking person. After I’d pretty much made a fool out of myself in front of the entire world.

  If I have an actual heart attack tonight, it should not come as a surprise.

  God, it felt like a million knots filled my stomach, and I fidgeted on the black leather seats of the limo.

  I directed my gaze forward, and honestly, I felt ridiculous to be the only person riding in a vehicle made to fit at least ten people.

  I stared at the tinted glass windows and watched the traffic speed by while silently wishing I would’ve told Joe and Barry to wait to go to the stadium until now.

  At least then I would have had someone to talk to.

  But they’d left a good hour or so before me, focused on getting cameras set up and making sure they didn’t have any issues getting all our equipment past security.

  And now, sitting all by my lonesome in the back of this limo, all I could do was think. And think. And think some fucking more.

  I wonder if Sean is nervous.

  I wonder how Sean looks.

  Will it be weird when I see him tonight?

  What am I going to say to him?

  What if I have to see him at an after party, and he has a girl on his arm?

  Maybe I should try to put on some sort of disguise so he doesn’t even recognize me?

  Jesus. I had to stop these incessant thoughts.

  Without giving myself time to overthink it, I moved toward the front of the limo and tapped on the sliding glass that separated me from the driver.

  His name was Sal, and he had one of the friendliest smiles I’d ever seen.

  Surely, that smile of his could provide some comfort to my nearly frayed nerves.

  He opened the window with a simple tap to a black button on the center console and looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Everything okay, Miss Malone?”

  “Everything is good, Sal.” I nodded. “How far away from the stadium are we?”

  He glanced at the clock and then focused his eyes back on the road. “Probably about fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s not too bad,” I said and searched my brain for something else to talk to him about. Because fuck, making small talk with my driver was better than driving myself crazy with these fucking thoughts about Sean. “So…where are you from, Sal?”

  “I’m actually from New York, but I moved out to Minnesota a few years ago.”

  “That’s awesome,” I said, and he just shrugged.

  Come on, Sal. Give me something to work with here.

  “So…” I paused, racking my brain for conversation topics. “How are the taxes here compared to New York?”

  Taxes? Was I really asking him about fucking taxes right now?

  “Uh… New York’s are definitely a little bit higher.”

  “Taxes are the worst.”

  “Yep.”

  It was safe to say this conversation wasn’t winning any fucking awards.

  Change the subject. Talk about something else. Just not taxes. Anything but fucking taxes, you
weirdo. Even fucking accountants hate talking about taxes, and it’s their goddamn job to talk about them.

  “Are you married, Sal?” I asked

  Jesus, first taxes, and now, he probably thinks you’re hitting on him.

  I glanced down at his fingers that were wrapped around the steering wheel. A gold wedding band shimmered beneath the rays of the sun.

  “Been married for twenty years to my high school sweetheart.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  “Best decision I ever made was getting down on one knee to convince my Sara to marry me.” He grinned, his smile proud and warm and every bit of a man who truly loved his wife. “What about you, Miss Malone? Got a husband?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about a boyfriend? Someone special in your life?”

  Damn, Sal. Nosy much?

  “No,” I answered. “No one special at the moment.”

  “You’ll find that person,” he said. “And it will happen when you least expect it.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I answered, but on the inside, I was thinking, What if I did already find him, and he just isn’t the kind of man who gets married or falls in love?

  Heart now aching, I patted Sal on the shoulder gently before moving to the very back seat where I gave in to the madness and let my mind race with thoughts of Sean until we arrived at the stadium.

  Son of a motherless goat. This is going to be a lot harder than I thought.

  Time ran off the clock until it was all zeros, and the whistles blew loud and clear. Halftime was officially upon us.

  The crowd cheered and shouted and bellowed for their respective team as the players filed off the field and into the tunnel where they’d regroup in the locker rooms and prepare for the second half of the game.

  From the sidelines, I looked up at the scoreboard and noted the score.

  Mavericks: 14

  Dallas: 14

  The first two quarters of the game had been an all-out battle. Both teams had fought for every yard, every fucking inch, every down. And still, they’d both ended the half tied.

  If I had any nails left by the end of this game, it’d be a damn miracle.

  I glanced down the sidelines and noted that Joe and Barry were already busy rearranging their cameras to capture the big halftime show.

  Every year, during the championship game, people around the world tuned in to watch this fifteen-minute performance.

  It was a big fucking deal.

  And just as the lights of the stadium dimmed and the crowd settled down into a calmed hush, I walked in front of Joe’s camera, and he gave me a thumbs-up.

  “All right, guys! It’s time,” I said into the camera, a giant smile consuming my lips. “We’re about to give you an up close and personal view of one of the biggest shows in the world! Any second, you’re going to see international pop sensation Aria waltz onto the big stage and most likely give you the performance of a lifetime.”

  Externally, I was smiling, but internally, my heart ached at just the mention of that name from my lips.

  What were the fucking odds I would be announcing her performance?

  I mean, out of all of the musicians in the world, it had to be the one I’d seen splashed all over the tabloids while smiling like the fucking sun on Sean’s lap.

  Fuck, now is not the time to think about that.

  I mentally shook off those thoughts and forced my brain to focus on the task at hand.

  Just as the initial beats of her chart-topping song “You’re Mine” started to vibrate through the stadium speakers, I found my zone and grinned toward the camera.

  “It’s showtime, guys!” I announced and then slowly removed myself from the camera’s frame and watched Aria take the stage.

  The crowd went wild, and I just felt like puking.

  Like a knife straight to the heart, her appearance generated a stabbing pain inside my chest.

  God, I hated the way my heart still responded to anything and everything related to Sean. I hated watching the woman he’d most likely fucked after we’d broken up dance around in a sexy, barely there costume while her voice sounded like a goddamn angel.

  And mostly, I hated that I hated things.

  Hate was such a strong word that I never liked using, but yet, there I was, hating on everything, including a female pop star with a million-dollar smile.

  No doubt this venture, filming another Mavs’ series episode, was turning out to be a lot harder than I thought it would be when I’d told Georgia I’d do it.

  But, goddammit, I would get through this. And I would make sure that this championship game episode would be the best one yet.

  Aria belted out the lyrics to her popular song, and before I knew it, I was singing right along with her.

  Stupid catchy pop songs.

  They sure knew how to burrow themselves into your brain until they could never ever be forgotten. It’d been a while since I’d heard Britney Spears’s “Hit Me Baby One More Time,” but I could guarantee if it came on the radio, I’d be able to sing every single lyric as if I’d actually written the guilty pleasure.

  Hell, even when I was ninety, I’d probably still be able to sing that song from memory.

  Two songs in and Aria closed out her performance by doing a seductive, choreographed routine that ended with her dancers carrying her off stage, her body held high above their heads. She waved goodbye to the crowd, blew them kisses, and the audience responded with fervor. Chanting her name. Cheering their enthusiasm. Some die-hard fans holding glitter-embellished signs and sporting her merch were highlighted on the big jumbotron screen. They waved and bounced up and down excitedly as Aria exited the stage.

  Then the lights dimmed again, and just before the next performer took the stage, a giant screen in the center of the stage flashed with the entire Mavericks squad.

  A montage of the players I knew so well flitted across the screen.

  Videos of them laughing, smiling, and saying hello passed by at a rapid-fire pace with the beat of Rihanna’s “Work” providing the soundtrack.

  And then, Rihanna was there, filling the screen and standing in the center of the Mavericks’ stadium, a half-shirt Mavericks jersey on her cute little frame.

  “Wait a minute,” she said toward the camera, and the music stopped. “Are we in the middle of the halftime show?” she asked, and the camera actually nodded, moving up and down gently. “Really?” The camera nodded again.

  “Yo, Mavs!” she called over her shoulder. “Did you know it’s halftime?”

  The camera zoomed in on Quinn, who paused mid-throw and looked over. “Then why are we here?” he asked, and then pointed knowingly toward the camera with a little smirk. “Shouldn’t we be there?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.” She grinned. “But first, I think we need a game plan, boys. I mean, Dallas is a tough team. You need to be ready.”

  “Dallas ain’t got shi—nothing on us!” Martinez bellowed and jogged toward the camera.

  Within seconds, the entire team and Rihanna huddled together with the camera in the center.

  “What’s the game plan, boys?” she asked.

  “Score touchdowns!” Mitchell yelled. “Lots of f-udging touchdowns!”

  She rolled her eyes. “Some actual plays, Cam.”

  “What about a Pick Six?” Teeny asked and grinned into the camera. “I’d totally pick Six.”

  “No way.” Sam chimed in, shoving his shoulder into Martinez’s stomach. “I pick Six.”

  “No way, dude,” Cam interjected, winking toward the camera. “I pick Six.”

  What the what? Are they fucking talking about me?

  I looked over at Joe, and that was when I noticed that not only were both he and Barry smiling at me, one of the cameras was pointed directly at me.

  Before I could ask them what the hell was happening, an all-too-familiar voice filled my ears.

  “Hell to the no, son. I pick Six.”

>   I looked back toward the stage, and right on the screen was Sean.

  Smiling the biggest fucking smile I’d ever seen cover his handsome face.

  My heart made an effort to jump into my throat at the sight.

  “Not only do I pick Six,” he said, his eyes brightening with his words, “but I love Six.”

  Jaw nearly resting on the ground, I stared at the screen with my eyes so damn wide I thought they might actually be touching my hairline.

  “You love Six?” Rihanna asked, grinning.

  “I love Six,” Sean said, and the sincerity in his voice urged a rush of tears to form behind my eyes.

  “Aw, did you hear that, Six?” Rihanna smiled into the camera. “He thinks you da one, girl.” After she shot one last wink toward the camera, the screen went black, and the lights on the stage turned neon bright as Rihanna walked out onto the actual stage singing “You Da One.”

  The crowd went crazy.

  Screaming. Chanting her name. Singing right along with her.

  And all I could do was stand there, shell-shocked and feet frozen to the goddamn sidelines, wondering what in the hell had just happened.

  Sean Phillips loves me?

  Had he really said that? On a freaking video in the middle of the halftime show of the championship game?

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  Huddled around Coach Bennett, I glanced up at the scoreboard.

  Fourth Quarter. Five seconds left on the clock.

  Mavericks: 21

  Dallas: 27

  We needed a touchdown.

  This was our last time-out, and not only that, we had thirty yards to go before we reached the end zone.

  “Everything we’ve trained for. Everything you’ve worked so hard for. It all comes down to these five seconds. These last seconds will decide if you’re going home with that championship trophy or not,” Coach Bennett said, his voice firm and his eyes serious.

  He looked each and every one of us in the eyes.

  “Now, I know you can fucking pull this one out. You’ve done more in less time. But you need to go out there and play these last five seconds like it is the very last game of your fucking career, and once the clock hits zero, you’ll never have the opportunity to step onto that field again.”