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“Sorry, Coach,” Green chimes up with a false sense of an apology. “It’s tradition!”
I shake my head, only prompting the water to splash out of my hair and onto everyone around me, now Delaney included, as I come to realize that she’s worked her way over to the group and filmed the entire thing.
“Make sure you post that on the socials, Delaney!” the team shouts. “That will get some hits, for sure!”
She smiles over to them, tucking her phone into her back pocket as we meet each other's eyes once more. Only this time, the look we exchange is unlike the one we shared earlier. It’s almost as if she’s suppressing her own excitement at the expense of allowing me to feel my own. She’s taking a back seat. I can see it all over her face.
“We’re celebrating tonight, lads!” Alf declares, lifting his fist into the air as Delaney and I break our stares.
“Fuckin’ right we are! We’re getting absolutely smashed tonight, boys,” Hart declares.
“Tenners at eleven, everyone, and don’t be late!” Green smiles into the air. “That includes you too, Delaney.” He points in her direction.
“Oh yeah, Delaney should definitely come with us,” Wilks agrees. “After all, she’s the mastermind behind this win today.”
Their declarations prompt the other lads to join in on words of encouragement.
“I’m flattered,” she speaks with a sense of solemnness in her voice, quieting them down. “But this was all you guys! You made this happen, not me. So enjoy your night. I don’t need to be there.”
“Delaney,” they groan out one by one as she denies them for a second time, inadvertently looking over to me—a subliminal message the lads seem to pick up on as they drop their petitioning.
Now, all the lads glare at me as if I’m the villain when, in actuality, I’m the victim here. Was the water bottle frenzy really a tradition, or was it concealed payback for upsetting everyone's favorite public relations manager?
I knew I’d remember it eventually.
“Delaney’s coming,” I speak to her for the first time in days, scolding myself for my sharp tone since I didn’t give myself a chance to consider a way to make those words more tender. “Right, Delaney?” I drop my voice as my request turns into a pressuring insistence that takes her by surprise.
“You want me to come?” Her voice is full of distrust and skepticism. “Are you sure?”
“Of course,” I admit, as Alf hands me a towel, and I run it along my face. “Everyone wants you there. I want you there.”
THIRTEEN
D E L A N E Y
In an eager state toget to Tenners as quickly as possible, most of the players opt to shower and change at the stadium, which means that we’re already on our way to the bar within less than an hour following the match's end.
Lucky for me, I never go anywhere without looking my best, nor without carrying my secret stash of beauty supplies for whenever a touch-up might be required. Therefore, by the time I managed to freshen up in my office, I was just in time to find myself amongst Wilks, Hart, Green, and another few players who had decided that walking to the pub was the best choice.
I know for a fact that I’ve walked more these past few weeks than I have my entire life.
As we guide our way down the narrow streets of Crawley, Wilks leads the group, skipping up the street before he turns to face the rest of us. “So, Delaney!” He catches my attention with a wide gesture of his arms. “Since this is your first time at Tenners, we’re gonna need to give you the full run-down.”
I look up at him, assessing his words. “Full run down?” I repeat back to him.
He nods eagerly before I playfully scoff in laughter. “Listen, guys, I’ve been to a pub before. This isn’t my first rodeo. No pun intended.”
The boys are clearly unaware of who they’re talking to here. They have no idea of the party Delaney that used to exist not only in her upper years of high school but also throughout all of college. Sometimes, I miss her—but then again, I’m reminded that the highs of nightlife are no match for the hangover lows that follow.
“See?” Wilks shakes his head in disapproval, his floppy hair resting atop his forehead before he wraps an arm across my shoulder. “That’s where you’re wrong! Tenners isn’t just some pub, Laney, and I can assure you there is no place like this in Nashville?—”
“I’m from Houston,” I correct him.
“Same thing.” He shrugs with a playful curl of his lips. “Tenners is the best pub in all of England!” he declares, prompting the boys to join in on his claim as he releases me from his embrace.
The level of testosterone that surrounds me is unmatched. I feel like I’m walking with an entire posse of bodyguards—it’s pretty relieving, I’ll tell you that, but a part of me aches for one person whose emotion I can’t wrap my head around, as much as I can hardly wrap my mind around Wilks claim.
Why did Warren want me to come to the pub? Did he really mean it when he wanted me to join? Or was it just the death glares from the group leaving him with no other choice?
