Let her hear it. Let her see it. Let her feel it in her bones.
I’m not moving on. I’m not forgetting.
And this—me off my game, pissed off at the world, lost in a storm of ink and anger—this is what happens when you leave a man who was never going to let you go.
So she can run. Pretend like Vegas never happened. Pretend like we didn’t burn the world down that night and call it love.
But I remember. And I won’t be right—this team won’t be right—until my wife comes back to me.
Chapter twenty-eight
Pumpkin Spice & Party Plans
Marlow
The office smells like cinnamon. Again. Tatum insists it’s a “seasonal vibe,” which really means she dumped half a bottle of pumpkin spice essential oil into the diffuser on my desk.
“I’m telling you, this Halloween party is going to be everything,” Tatum says, spinning in one of my office chairs. “Black lace, feathers, red lighting—very grown. Exceptionally sexy.”
“Well, let’s just make sure it’s not ‘budget prom,’” I mutter, flipping through our guest list. “Don’t forget about signage, press, RSVPs—”
“Handled.” Tatum waves her hand like a queen. “All of it. Trust me, I’ve got this.”
“I’m trying to set my dad up with someone for it,” I add casually, scribbling a note in the margin of my planner.
Eslin’s head snaps up so fast I hear her neck pop. “Oh really? How does he feel about that?”
Her voice hits a little too high, like a cracked violin string.
“He says he’s open to it,” I say, shrugging. “He hasn’t actually gone out with anyone yet, but I figure this could be a good, low-pressure way to meet someone.”
“I’m sure he’ll come around when he’s ready,” Eslin says, sipping from her water bottle. She seems tense.
“And if he hasn’t gone on a date or gotten a girlfriend by the Thanksgiving Fall Formal we’re hosting with the local high school, I have the perfect plan,” I say, leaning back with a grin.
“Oh?” Eslin says.
I nod. “Mmm hmm. We’re auctioning off some of the players and franchise staff for charity dates at the Fall Formal and guess who I’m throwing into the pool?”
Eslin takes a sip—then promptly chokes on it.
Tatum jumps. “Girl, are you okay?”
Eslin coughs, waving a hand. “Yeah—water went down the wrong pipe.”
I tilt my head at her. “You sure?”
“Totally. Just—surprised. How...how does your dad feel about being thrown into the auction pool?”
“He doesn’t know yet.”
Eslin nods way too fast. “Cool. Cool, cool. Just curious.”
We turn our attention back to the game just as a roar echoes through the stadium outside. The sound of thousands screaming “Gooooooal!” pierces through the office windows.
Tatum raises an eyebrow. “Fragilé did it again.”
I groan. “That ridiculous nickname.”