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I rolled my eyes at his theatrics and swayed to his rhythm as the excitement of a new song made him bust out in a dance.
“We Are Family” was fired up on the sound system, and the guys started singing like a pack of lunatics. I laughed and nodded, forgoing participation in actually singing along, and met the eyes of Quinn Bailey in the corner.
He shook his head and tipped his beer to his lips before pulling his phone from his pocket and getting distracted.
Shit. I don’t think I remembered to turn my phone back on ring.
Reminded of the contact with the real world I’d been cut off from for the last several hours, I dug my phone from my pocket and lit up the screen.
I had four missed calls, including my parents and a couple of college buddies who were no doubt calling to congratulate me on the win, and several messages from my Nonna.
“I gotta piss,” I said as an excuse as I looked up into the glowing face of my Cam Mitchell limb.
He laughed with a smile and shook me back and forth before winking. “Make sure you hit the bowl,” he teased.
I flipped him the bird and spun out from under his arm to a chorus of laughter from a bunch of guys and slipped down the hall to the bathroom.
Cloaked in the dark, I stepped off to the side and scrolled through my messages.
Nonna: If I hadn’t been boycotting watching the game, I might be inclined to say congratulations.
Nonna: But I am, so I didn’t see it. So no congratulations for you.
Nonna: Honestly, I might not live to see another game.
I laughed at her guilt trip and nonsense and typed out another message. Obviously, I’d missed the lunch she’d insisted on the week prior, and if ever there was a woman to hold a grudge, it was my Nonna. She was wicked and twisted, and I loved her more than just about anyone.
Me: Clearly, you saw the game. And clearly, you’re proud of me. You don’t even have to say it.
Nonna: I’d be proud of someone I saw more than once in a blue moon. You, I barely even recognize. It might not even have been you on the TV. I can’t tell anymore.
Me: You know me. And I’m sorry I couldn’t come this week, but we had to leave on Wednesday to get down here for pregame stuff.
Nonna: You should have rescheduled to Tuesday, then.
Me: I had practice.
Nonna: Horseshit.
Loud and rich, my guffaw could probably be heard above the blasting music and players.
Me: I’ll shoot for this week.
Nonna: I’ll start talking to you again when you show up.
Me: I love you, Nonna.
I tried to sweeten her up with kind words and sentiments, but she was just as cutthroat as ever.
Nonna: Whatever.
I sent my mom and dad a quick text letting them know I’d call them tomorrow and resigned myself to contact my college buddies when I made my way back to Jersey.
Before I tucked my phone back into my pocket, I opened my browser and stumbled over to the site I always found myself on once again.
Reddit.
And still, despite viral sharing and tons of fucking comments, the facts were the same.
My mystery girl was still a mystery.
Disappointment hit me square in the chest, but I squashed it down. It didn’t matter if I felt up to the hoopla of tonight or not.
It was a rite of passage, and I needed to live in the moment.
I was the man of the hour.
The rookie of the game. And no mystery girl, blond goddess or not, was worth not living in the moment.
There’d be plenty of time to think of her later.
And I would.
Of that, I was certain.
“Gemma, honey!” Alma called from the kitchen. “My nephew Leonard will be stopping by for lunch a little later. So, if you don’t mind, try to spruce up the dining room table so we’ve got somewhere to eat.”
“Oh, okay,” I said as I finished taping shut a freshly packed box. I figured I’d head to the post office and grab a bite to eat somewhere that didn’t require my ass to sit on plastic-covered furniture, and Alma and her nephew would have the time and space to catch up.
Surely, they didn’t need me being a third wheel.
And, if I was being honest, I really, really didn’t want to come face-to-face with the guy Alma kept passively trying to get me to date.
I booked it through the information input process, weighing the package, checking for sizing and shipping method, and selecting the intended shipping date. I wasn’t breaking any land-speed records, but I was literally going as fast as I could.
But it was all for naught. By the time I’d printed out the shipping label and attached the damn thing to the box, the doorbell chimed.
