Jenna: Have fun at the game and take lots of pictures!
Jenna: Don’t forget to tell Brady how you feel!
I shake my head and slip the phone back into my bag. If I don’t catch Brady at the hotel, I’ll just have to text him. I want to surprise him, but I also want him to know I’m here for him.
Preferably before he steps foot on the field to play the most important game of his career.
The driver slams on the brakes and my seatbelt locks tight, sparing me from smashing my face on the seatback in front of me.
Who gave this man a driver’s license?
Yes, I’m in a hurry, but I’m not trying to show up with whiplash.
I peer out the window, taking in the sea of red taillights before us. The light is green, but the intersection is gridlocked and no one seems to be moving.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Why did I wait until the last possible minute to come to my senses?
Because you’re stubborn AF.
Facts. If it weren’t for Jenna, I’d probably still be sitting on my couch missing Brady, oblivious to the fact that he needed me in Miami.
Thankfully, Mrs. Vaughn—Molly—still had my ticket.
When I called her last night, she told me she had a feeling I’d change my mind.
Mother’s intuition.
I must have thanked her a thousand times. We made arrangements to meet at the stadium, but at this rate, I’m going to miss the entire game.
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. Getting worked up won’t make the taxi go any faster and, frankly, this ride is best enjoyed without visuals.
It’s not often real life is worse than my anxiety induced fears, but here we are.
When we finally pull up to the hotel—a massive, white stucco mid-rise with all the amenities—I swipe my credit card, grab my overnight bag, and bolt for the lobby.
It’s mass chaos when I enter.
There are people everywhere, most of them wearing Wildcat blue and white or the bold red of the Bulldogs. I weave through the sea of bodies, and when I spot the line for reception, which is twelve deep, my stomach drops.
It’ll still be a surprise if you call him from the lobby.
The hotel staff probably wouldn’t give me his room number, anyway.
I abandon reception and make my way toward the bank of elevators, hoping to find a quiet spot to call Brady. The hotel bar is full to bursting when I pass, forcing patrons to spill over into the lobby with drinks in hand.
That explains so much.
Drunk people are never half as quiet as they think they are.
I duck into an alcove and I’m about to reach for my phone when I spot a familiar face.
Anger flares red-hot in the pit of my stomach and before I can think better of it, I’m stalking toward Mike McConnell, every inch of my body vibrating with fury.
The asshole is throwing back an overpriced beer like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Because he didn’t have to use his emergency credit card to pay for this trip.
