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“Technically he’s my godfather, but uncle sounds better,” Maven explains.
“He’shot,” another adds.
“How many tattoos does he have?”
“Ew, stop,” Maven says. “He’s so old.”
Aiden rubs his hand over his face. “Christ,” he grumbles. “I’m not ready for her to date.”
“Sorry, honey.” Maggie slides her arm around his waist and rests her head on his shoulder. “It’s going to happen one day soon. Maybe it already is.”
He glances at her, and there is terror in his eyes. “What do you know? We’re a team here, Maggie Houston. Don’t keep secrets from me.”
“Nothing, I swear,” she laughs. “I promise I’ll tell you if she mentions a boy.”
“Or a girl,” I say, and Maggie nods in agreement.
“Or a girl,” she repeats.
I watch Shawn stand on the sideline and adjust his headset over his ear. He shields his eyes under the brim of his hat and turns his head, scanning the stadium. When he spots our box, he waves and smiles from ear to ear.
Maggie and Aiden are distracted, arguing over curfew and first dates. The teenage girls move on to the buffet table, grabbing plates and silverware and gabbing about the elasticity of football pants. I’m the only one paying attention to him, and I step toward the window and wave back, matching his megawatt smile.
Shawn spins his finger and I roll my eyes, turning to show him his name on the back of the jersey I’m wearing. It’s one of his from when he was a tight end in the league. He tossed it in my face at the start of last season when I said I didn’t have anything to wear to his game. When I tried to return it, he told me to keep it.
So I did.
I don’t even care that it’s not a Titans jersey.
I cut the nylon down the center and opened it up to keep cool in the warmer months when we’re standing outside for four, five hours at a time. With the temperature hovering around forty degrees today, I added a turtleneck and leather pants. I hold my hair off my neck so he can read the letters I bedazzled with glitter and sparkles.
When I turn back around, he gives me a thumbs up. I laugh and shake my head, our routine perfected after going to so many home games over the last two seasons.
“Time for kickoff,” Maggie says. “Want to grab some food?”
“I’ll eat after the first quarter,” I say. “I’m always nervous until someone scores.”
“Look at you knowing your sports terminology.” She pinches my cheek. “Did you stay up late studying what a punt return is?”
“I read an article or two. When I bring that guy next week—his name is Matthew, by the way—I want to make sure I don’t sound like a total idiot.”
“Lace, you could never sound like a total idiot. I’m pretty sure you could explain how paint dries and make it interesting,” Maggie says.
“Well, thanks, but it’s not that big of a deal. He likes sports, so I figured I’d at least try, you know?”
“Just as long as you’re not trying to be something you’re not for someone else. Shawn doesn’t care that you don’t know anything about sports.”
“I’m not dating Shawn,” I say. “Come on. They’re about to kick off. You know I like the little cheer everyone does.”
Maggie takes my hand. We settle into the leather seats and prop up our feet. The Titans win the coin toss and elect to defer. I lean forward and try to gauge Shawn’s level of nerves. He never admits he’s worried, always the pinnacle of calm, cool and collected, but there are telltale signs if you know where to look.
Hands in his pockets or arms crossed tightly over his chest, palms tucked under his shoulders. Pacing back and forth over the turf, his attention on the ground rather than the field. Moving his sunglasses to the top of his hat and squinting into the sun.
When the huddle breaks and the defense takes the field, he’s still looking at me, and I don’t see an ounce of strain on his face.
FOUR
SHAWN
