“My father bailed before I was born. My mother was an addict, who left when I was a kid, and a couple of years later, my aunt and uncle decided I was too much for them and dumped me in a foster home. I changed foster families three times before I ended up on the street.” An echo of that old pain tries to rise inside my chest and almost rolls down my eyes. I take a big breath and blow it out, willing the ache to leave my body as well. “So the question is, who didn’t leave me?”
I don’t see pity on his face, only anger on my behalf. It eases the tightness in my chest, knowing that he cares so much.
“You’re fucking amazing.” He grips my chin and leaves a hard kiss on my lips before pressing his forehead to mine. “I won’t leave you. Ever. From the first moment I met you, I couldn’t stayaway. I need to know where you are, if you’re happy or annoyed, if you need me, if you’re reciprocating my consuming thoughts.” His confession brings happy tears to my eyes. It’s hard, but I push them back.
I stroke his cheek, and he tilts his head, leaning into my touch, rubbing his skin on my palm like an eager fucking puppy.
“Those sweet, brown eyes. I couldn’t escape them, even if my whole being kept screaming at me to turn around and run.” My candid words bring out a glowing smile on his lips. I kiss them, trying to swallow some of his happiness, to make it a part of me. A part of him to carry with me always.
“Come to the game this Friday,” he asks, when our mouths finally part.
“Is your father going to be there?” I hazard, not knowing why I’m asking him that.
“No. He never comes to my games. And even if he was, I’d ask you to come anyway. I learned my lesson.”
“I’ve faced people much worse than your father.”
“I know you’re a badass, baby.” He smirks, and I can see the admiration in his sparkly eyes. I would preen like a peacock if I wasn’t exhausted. Didn’t sleep a peep last night.
“Are you also aware that I know nothing about football?”
“I noticed that, baby, when you called Lamar Jackson the quartermaster or when you asked how teams score a goal.” He chuckles at my expense.
I glare at him, earning a laughing peck on my lips. “So why do you want me to come tomorrow if I’m so ignorant on the matter?”
“I need you to learn about football since that’s what I’ll do with my future, NFL or not.”
His words shock me. “What about your father and your family business?” Did he find the courage to grab his life by the balls?
“Let’s just say that my mother is finally redeeming herself,” he says cryptically, and what he adds next turns my mouth slack and my hands into fists.
eight
Felicity: a state of happiness
SPENCER
“Come on answer me!” Lori insists as we walk down the stairs between the rows of bleachers at the football stadium. “If you were forced to mix your DNA with an animal’s DNA, which animal would you choose? And why?”
This will be the first time I’m watching TJ play, and I feel on edge for some weird reason. Asking Lori to come with me might have been a wrong move. Like me, he knows nothing about football. He agreed to join only to ogle the players. “Face to butt,”he said.
It’s good tokeep my mind busy and not let it fall down the doubt-filled rabbit hole, though, even if the distraction is in the form of a mad-as-a-cow, impossible friend.
“A lizard. I’d be fast, ectothermic, have exceptional eyesight, could live anywhere, and smell with my tongue and also detach my tail—that’s a cool trick,” I finish. “You?”
“A koala.”
My foot stops in midair as I look back at him with a confused frown. “Why?”
“I’d be incredibly cute and so…smushy.” He shrugs. Fuck, his craziness is hard to beat.
I finally find our row. TJ said these are the best seats in the stadium, lower level around the fifty-yard line—whatever the hell that is.
It’s fucking cold. I rub my gloved hands and roll my shoulders, fighting against the shivers rushing down my body. Lori is attracting quite a few interested gazes. The neon red wool hat with a huge black pompom at the top could be a reason, but his plump lips and the confident way he carries himself are the real magnets.
He arrived earlier at my apartment, bringing a bag full of makeup, nail polishes, and winter accessories, all matching the team’s uniform colors. He applied a red eyeliner and black eyeshadow on my eyes and then painted the number fourteen on my cheek—TJ’s jersey number. He also painted my nails red and black, and wrote a big-ass sign that says “TJ’s Bitches” with arrows pointing down at us.
Lori opens his Vuitton bag and takes out a tall tumbler, a big burgundy blanket, and a pair of binoculars.
