For the next hour, we watch and cheer each time the Mischiefs score. The exhilaration of the crowd is not like anything I ever could have imagined, and I ask myself why I’ve never been to a game before. When we lead by ten points after the first quarter, Hunter and I hug as if we just won a war. We turn around and high five the people around us. The lead doubles by the end of the second quarter, and the stadium goes wild, as do Hunter and I. We’re in a tight hug, jumping in the aisle, so lost in the excitement that I don’t see what’s happening until it’s too late.
The roar of the crowd triples, and the announcer loses his train of thought.
“Looks like Chastain isn’t going into the locker room with the rest of his team like he should. Oh, wait! What’s happening here?”
I look up in time to see him jump over two rows of seats. He gets to me and Hunter before I can register what he’s doing. He grabs me by the front of the shirt and plants a hard kiss on my lips. It’s over before it even begins. He lets me go, I stumble back, and Hunter catches me.
The crowd goes wild, and I see my shocked expression on the jumbotron. My mouth hangs open, and I can feel the heat creeping up my neck as I imagine the hundreds of ways I’m going to torture Colt Chastain until he dies.
I sit, stunned, and grab Hunter’s hand.
“I’m going to kill him.” The words are barely out of my mouth when I feel my phone vibrating in my purse. There are text messages from everyone I work with, my dad, brother, and sister. There’s also one from Jerry. I sigh and shove the phone deep in my purse, unwilling to deal with this now. I pull the lid of my hat down, shielding my face, but Hunter pulls it off, pulls me closer, and whispers, “You’re definitely doing the nasty. Don’t hide, chica. He just outed you to the world. Be fabulous.”
EIGHTEEN
We won with an eight-point lead.L.A. got their act together by the fourth quarter, but we were too pumped with the roar of the crowd. I was pretty much unstoppable, scoring a total of forty points.
A body crashes into me on the way to the shower. The locker room’s energy is infectious. When Wakowski tries to jump on my back, I move out the way, put him in a headlock, and mess his hair.
“Chastey! Introduce me to your girl. Maybe she can give me a good luck kiss at the next game.” I tighten my arm around his neck and toss him aside. Coach Walsh walks over and pats my shoulder in approval.
“Good job, Chastain. Maybe next time, save the kiss for after the game.” He walks away and I walk into the shower.
Thirty minutes later, I take a few questions about the game from the press, but after three questions, the reporter turns to my personal life.
“Since your wife died, we’ve only seen you date one woman, and that ended over a year ago. Can you tell us what that kiss at halftime was about?” Talia, a very determined reporter, waits for my answer.
“She’s someone I’ve started seein’.”
“Yes, Victoria Taylor. A public-school teacher and daughter of John Taylor, founder of the now defunct Taylor Toys.” Well, that didn’t take long.
“Well, I guess you already have all the answers, Talia.”
“Are you in a relationship with Victoria Taylor?” she asks.
“I wouldn’t have kissed her if I wasn’t, and that’s all I’m willin’ to say about my private life. I will, however, answer questions about the game.”
Talia starts to ask a question, but a more abrasive reporter cuts her off and says, “How do you think your fans from back home will react to this relationship?”
Coach Walsh is beside me, and I feel his body tense.
“Questions about the game. Do you have one?” I look around and wait for someone else to raise their hand.
“You’re from a small town outside of Birmingham,” he insists.
“I know where I’m from. You have a question about the game?”
“Then what are you doing with a black woman?” All patience I had disappears.
I point a finger at him and say, “What’s your point? And watch your mouth.”
But he doesn’t stop. He stands and starts to speak again, but Coach stands and says, “He said watch your mouth. Next question.” He points to another reporter, a black man sitting in the front.
I take several more questions, each related to the game before I step away from the podium and Coach takes over with the reporters. I ignore my teammates while I walk to the exit. The adrenaline from the game has yet to die down, but I take a deep breath because I know what’s waiting for me on the other side of the door.
My car is there, and Vickie is leaning against it with her arms crossed and eyes narrowed. I nod at Dante, who mouths good luck before getting inside the car. I hold the door open and gesture for her to get inside. She doesn’t.
“I am so going to kill you,” she whispers. She looks around, and when she makes sure no one is paying attention to us, she turns back to me and cracks her knuckles. I’d laugh if the look on her face wasn’t so serious.
