Intercepted

by Alexa Martin

  “Fuck Coach Jacobs!” Chris’s entrances tend to have a flair for theatrics, but he has outdone himself this time. His deep voice echoes off the gallery art–lined walls. His heavy feet against the white marble causes them to rattle. But the crowning glory on this manly display of fury is the way he launches his workout bag across the kitchen the moment he sees me. Almost as if in slow motion, I watch his Nike bag soar over the island into my favorite teal cake stand holding my beautiful, iced to perfection, world famous red velvet cake. Both fall to the floor with a frosting-padded thud.

  “What the hell, Chris?” I walk over and start picking out cream cheese–covered ceramic. I’m contemplating whether or not to still eat the parts of the cake that didn’t directly touch the floor when Chris starts yelling again.

  “Are you really more worried about a fucking cake than me right now?”

  Well . . . yes.

  “Of course not. It’s just a mess, and I don’t want either of us to cut our feet.” Lies.

  Bye, cake. I’ll miss you.

  I stand up to look at him and when I do, I realize leaving the cake for later is for the best. Chris’s normally mocha complexion has a cherry hue to it, and his full lips are pulled into a thin, straight line. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he’s about to cry. “Holy shit. Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not fucking okay! That piece of shit Jacobs brought in another quarterback. Fucking Gavin Pope. Even the guy’s fuckin’ name is pretentious.” His eyes are focused on the coffered ceiling and his hands never stop roaming his not-quite-bald head.

  In all my time knowing him, I’ve never seen him so worked up over football.

  “Kevin and I were solid. I was his receiver. With him throwing me the ball, this was going to be my biggest contract year yet. And that rat, son of a bitch, knew it. He doesn’t want to fuckin’ pay me, and he thought bringing in some pretty boy was going to stop me. Fuck that. He’s got another thing coming.”

  “I thought Pope was supposed to be good?” Not like I’d know, or that I’ve looked up his stats once a week, every week for the last four years or anything.

  “It’s not about him being fucking good, Marlee!” His attention snaps toward me. It seems he didn’t appreciate that little tidbit. “Do you listen when I talk to you?”

  “First of all, yes, I do listen. Second, check yourself. I get you’re pissed and taking it out on Nike bags and innocent, baked-with-love cakes, but you will not take it out on me. I’m not Jacobs, I didn’t make this trade. I want to help you, but not if you’re acting like I’m the enemy here.” #99ProblemsButChrisAintOne

  “Fuck. I’m sorry,” Chris says. He looks properly chastised, and resisting the urge to dust the dirt off my shoulder is almost too much for me to handle. “This was going to be our year, baby. I was going to be the number one receiver in the league; we were going to fly to Hawaii so I could play in the all-star game. I was going to get the franchise tag and the contract we’ve always dreamed of so we could start our family the right way—on top. Now Jacobs is putting it all at risk.”

  I hate the way the dormant butterflies always take flight the second Chris mentions starting a family. If he was waiting for money, he could have proposed six years ago. But instead, every year passed without an engagement and another item added to his pre-marriage bucket list. But at last, Chris is nearing the end of his list. Plus, a few weeks ago, one of my rings went missing, and when I asked him about it, he got all jittery and nervous. I’ve wanted to be Mrs. Chris Alexander since I was sixteen and now, nearly eleven years later, the time is almost here.

  “What can I do? There has to be something we can do to keep you in your number one spot.” Stepping over the long-forgotten mess on the floor, I make my way around the kitchen island (or, more accurately, the kitchen continent) to Chris and wrap my arms around him. I’ve always loved how when I hug him, my head rests right above his heart.

  “There is something you could do. I invited the wide receivers over next Tuesday. It’d be great if you make dinner.”

  “Of course. Should I make Nonna’s lasagna? Is TK coming? He loved it last time.” Between the circles he’s drawing on my back and the rhythmic thumping of his heart beneath my ear, I’m at a serious risk of falling asleep in this kitchen.

  “Sure, but make double because I invited Kevin and Gavin too.”

  I pull back from Chris so quickly, you would’ve thought he told me Jeffery Dahmer was coming for dinner. Even though . . . Gavin has eaten me before.

  Dammit.

  Don’t go there now, Marlee!

  “Gavin? Why would you invite him? Weren’t you just complaining because he’s on the team?” I try to cover my reaction with confusion. The last thing I need is for Chris to catch a whiff of what Gavin’s name does to me.

  “I don’t want him on the team, but he’s here and the best thing I can do now is try to butter him up. Feed him some food, play some poker, try to bond with the guy. I need him to want to throw to me. So can you do it?”

  I can’t.

  I cannot cook dinner for Gavin Pope in the home I share with Chris. Granted, my one night with him happened during the break Chris wanted . . . okay, he’d pretty much dumped me, but still. Aren’t there rules about this kind of thing?

  “I have a few projects, but their deadlines aren’t for a couple of weeks. I’d love to do this for you. I gotta do my part to support Team Alexander.”

  “That’s why I love you—you always put the team first.” His lips crash into mine and when he pulls away, the anger he walked in with is nowhere to be found. Chris’s smile is so bright, the contrast between his brown skin and freakishly white teeth nearly causes me to squint.

  “You know me—they don’t call me Marlee ‘Team Player’ Harper for no reason.” And if they knew what Gavin and I did, they’d be calling me that for a whole lot of other reasons. “Speaking of, I gotta feed my man. Do you want me to make you a plate?”

  “No thanks, babe. I’m gonna head back to the facility. I left early because I was pissed about Pope, but since you calmed me down, I’m gonna finish watching film. First regular season game’s this weekend. I have to be ready now more than ever. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Nope. Go do your superstar prep. I’ll clean up here and knock out some work.” I roll onto my tippy toes and kiss his chin at the same time my palm stings from slapping his ass.

  “I’m not sure how long this will take, so don’t wait up.”

  Fine with me. I have an entire Tupperware filled with cream cheese frosting, an unopened bottle of wine, and unwelcome feelings to avoid.

  “Okay, but try not to burn yourself out too early in the week,” I call to his back as he’s walking out of the kitchen.

  “Always looking out for me. Bye, babe!” I barely hear the words before the rattling of the art alerts me he’s gone, and the only sounds left are the alarms bells in my head.

  Holy shit.

  I’m going to see Gavin Pope again.

  Three

  I may not follow football closely, but when it comes to going to a game, I can rival the most devout fan with my intensity.

  What can I say? As soon as they scan my ticket and I step through the turnstile, I transform into an obnoxious, psychotic football soldier. Except instead of camouflage, my uniform consists of impractical heels, skinny jeans, and a football jersey that has been cut, sewed, glued, and covered in Swarovski crystals. But don’t let the bling fool you—I know how to make the sun hit it at the right angle to temporarily blind the toughest of opponents.

  “Marlee, I swear to god, if you cause a scene like the one you did in preseason, I’m never coming to a game with you again,” Naomi says beside me.

  I don’t know what her problem is. Those tools in the seats near us spent the entire game either yelling that our players sucked or talking about how much better they had b
een back when they played. If you ask me—which, in my defense, I felt they did for saying it all within my earshot—if you’re sitting in the stands instead of on the field, you have no right to say anything. It’s not the players’ fault your career peaked. And when you’re old enough to be the rookie’s dad, it’s probably time to put your glory days to rest.

  But Tool One and Tool Two weren’t very receptive of my advice and caused a little bit of a scuffle. It’s not like I would’ve let anything happen to Naomi. Not only have I taken boxing classes religiously for the last three years, my boy Lenny, the attendant for our section, loves it when I give him a little action.

  “First of all, I did not start that.”

  “Marlee! You called them football rejects and told them the only thing they could do with a football was shove it up their—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! You know better than to repeat my war crimes outside of the battle.” I stop walking with no warning and the guy behind me mutters a few curse words as he makes his way around us. “And do you not remember the shit he was saying about Dre? Your husband? Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you stay calm because one of us needs to, but you were happy when I said something. You can’t take it back now.”

  “Maybe a little bit, but don’t do it again. I can only imagine the joy Courtney would feel finding out you were starting fights at games.”

  “Courtney can borrow the reject brothers’ football and shove it up her—”

  “Marlee! Naomi! Don’t you girls look the cutest? Just sparklin’ with support.” Dixie’s southern twang rings out. She stands between us with her arms hooked through ours. “First game of the season. Can y’all believe it? How blessed are we? Our men out on the field, living their dreams. I’m praying god protects them all today.”

  I love Dixie. She’s every southern stereotype rolled into one loud, giggly, gossipy, heavy-on-the-Jesus-and-the-hairspray, one-hundred-pound pixie. She’s no Naomi—then again, nobody is—but she’s high on my list of favorites.

  Dixie always tries to convince me to join her Bible study and says things like “bless your heart” and “aren’t you just precious” as if my life both amuses and frightens her. She’s told us many times how she held her virtue tight until the day Tucker married her. When she asked how long I had lived with Chris and I told her, I swear she almost threw holy water on me. She has yet to save me, but she isn’t tamping down her efforts.

  “Aren’t we all?” I might not be the biggest believer, but I know what comes after Dixie’s “God-Fearin’ Woman” act. I don’t care who I’m with or where I am, when Gossip Dixie arrives, I settle in.

  “We sure are. Speaking of all of us . . .” She tugs on both of our arms and pulls us in close, drawing the eyes of damn near everyone around us. The three of us look like a confused version of Charlie’s Angels. “Did you hear Kevin isn’t startin’ this week? Poor Courtney’s just tore up. When I walked into their box earlier, her eyes were swollen and bless her heart, whatever makeup she uses didn’t even begin to touch the circles under them.”

  She’s the original Gossip Girl.

  “That’s horrible, poor thing. She’s such a delicate flower. I hope she’ll be able to make our Wednesday meeting. What will we do if she cancels? Email? That’ll never work.”

  Naomi’s full-on glaring at me now. Dixie, on the other hand, looks like I told her the higher the hair does not actually make her closer to god.

  “Oh my. I didn’t even think of that! The fashion show is too close to chance it. And if any of those little girlfriends try to take the good outfits, there will be problems. I don’t want to have to get ugly at a charity event.” When she realizes what she said, she drops Naomi’s arm and pulls me into a hug. She stands there with her arms wrapped around me for what feels like an eternity before she whispers in my ear, “Of course I didn’t mean you. You’re already a wife in all of our eyes, you just need to make it right with the lord.”

  “The game’s almost starting.” Naomi grabs my hand and pulls me free from Dixie’s embrace. “The elevators to club level are getting really busy; you’ll want to get on one before you miss kickoff.”

  “Thank you, I would’ve been pitchin’ a fit if I missed it! Will I see y’all downstairs at halftime?” Dixie asks.

  Downstairs is where family and friends can go and stock up on free food and drinks. So there’s only one answer I can give. “Absolutely.”

  I don’t know why Dixie goes because she shares a box with a few of the other offensive linemen’s families, and they’re stocked to the brim with treats and goodness. I suspect it’s so she can gather information on the one-comma club members and bring it to her fellow two-comma members.

  The one-comma club is the majority of the team, the poor schmoes who make under a million dollars per season. The two-comma club is for the demigods who make over a million. Get it? It’s terrible.

  “I’m obsessed with her,” I tell Naomi, smiling at Dixie, who’s waving like a fool, her teased, sky-high blonde hair bouncing along with her movements before the elevator doors slide shut.

  “Me too. It’s like listening to a charming alien when she talks.” Naomi links her arm through mine. “But you need to be careful who you talk to about Courtney. I doubt Dixie would say anything, but any of those other worker bees would love running back to their queen with dirt on you.”

  “I’ll tell Courtney it was you. It’s not like it’d be the first time they got us confused.” I laugh, but I’m not joking . . . and Naomi knows it.

  “Don’t you dare.” She pulls her arm away from me and turns to me with wide eyes.

  “But I like to be you. It makes me feel tall.”

  Poor Naomi. We’re both biracial, but our caramel skin is where the comparisons end. She’s five foot eight inches, I’m five foot two inches. She has green eyes, mine are brown. She wears a size two, I wear . . . not a size two. We look nothing alike, and I can’t tell if they really don’t know or if it’s another jab where they can only remember the married person’s name.

  “No. You can never be me at a game. All I’d need is to look online and see reports of me causing a scuffle in the stands.”

  Fair point.

  “But you have to admit, ‘Scuffle in the Stands’ would be an outstanding headline,” I say.

  Naomi and Dre got married while they were still in college, so she never had to navigate the waters as a girlfriend. Which was good for her because—and god love her—the poor girl damn near breaks out in hives if she even thinks about getting involved in confrontation. Even so, she still stuck her neck out for me when it came to the Lady Mustangs. I’m one of the few live-in girlfriends on the team, and Chris wanted me to join, but it was met with pushback from the wicked wives.

  Naomi never told me exactly what was said at the meetings leading up to me joining, but I know she left her comfort zone to have my back. Because after she went to the Mustang’s General Manager and he extended me a formal apology and a personal invitation to the group, Naomi’s seat in the hierarchy was long forgotten. Now she lays as low as possible when it comes to drama of any sort, and I make sure to be her voice every now and again.

  We make our way to our section, navigating the already rowdy fans and avoiding spilling our Blue Moons. When we make it, Lenny is standing at the top, looking his typical grumpy self.

  “Lenny! How’s it going? Are you feeling a win today?” I ask. He doesn’t crack a smile, but he can’t fool me—I know he loves me.

  “Eh. Who knows with these putzes they call players? One of them could’ve had their precious feelings hurt on the tweeter. When I played, we played for glory, your fellas just play money.” Every week for every season Chris has played for the Mustangs, Lenny has been guarding the seats to section 112. And every game, he rants about the same thing. “There’s no honor with you kids. All you want is attention.”

  “I can always cou
nt on you to tell it how it is. Let’s hope the only players with hurt feelings are the Raiders.” I pat him on the shoulder.

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t start any trouble today, my hip’s been acting up. Wait a few more weeks so I can join in.”

  “Me? Start trouble? You know me better than that.” My hand goes to my chest, but he still doesn’t crack a smile. He just looks up and mutters something under his breath about frustrating girls before scolding me for causing a traffic jam in his section.

  After the dangerous trek down the cement steps, I catch up to Naomi, who’s in her seat taking selfies while switching from sunglasses to no sunglasses and back again.

  “Lenny told me no fights, so you’re safe . . . for today. Unless you don’t put the phone away, then I’ll be fighting you.” I look to the field in time to see the captains from each team walk to centerfield for the coin toss. “Come on, Nay, it’s game time!”

  I recognize number twenty-nine as Dre, Naomi’s superfine, chocolate drop, cornerback extraordinaire. He’s standing next to number eight, Brendon Davis, our kicker, who manages to send my heart rate skyrocketing every time he goes to kick, and number twelve, who is new. All I know about number twelve is he’s the reason football pants were made.

  “Your Denver Mustang captains today are Andre Harris, Brendon Davis, and Gavin Pope.” The announcer’s voice echoes across the stadium. “Heads. The Mustangs will be receiving the ball first.”

  Gavin Pope. I should’ve known he was the mystery captain. It doesn’t matter where I am, that ass always summons me.

  The crowd bursts into cheers as the Mustang players take their places on the field and the sideline. The energy filling the stadium is so strong, it causes my hair to stand. My heart beats in rhythm with the stomping on the ground, and the scream that rips from the back of my throat harmonizes with the rest of the cheers. The sound builds with perfect momentum as the Raiders’ kicker takes a running start and his laces make contact with the football. He sends the ball over Mustang helmets before our returner catches it in the end zone and takes a knee. He hops up after the whistle is blown and tosses the ball to the nearest referee before running off the field.