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When I go back to my seat—now a broken mess of twisted plastic—Christine is looking at me as if I have two heads.
“What?” I ask her. “Is it something on my face? My makeup?”
“Girl … Your makeup’s fine. But, holy shit, he talked to you. He actually talked to you.”
“I know…” I merely say, hardly believing that one of the most famous athletes in the US—no, in the world!—just introduced himself to me on live television. Now he’s back on the field, and I bet that he has already forgotten about me. I mean, he’s Danny Manning; women throw themselves at his feet every time he steps outside his home. And I’m just Fiona, a normal girl trying to make her mark on the world as a lawyer. Well, as a Law student actually, but whatever. Details, details.
“Holy crap!” Christine cries out, her eyes focused on what’s happening on the field. I follow her gaze just in time to see Danny sprinting down the sidelines, zigzagging between the Miami MILFs’ defense as quickly and easily as a hot knife cutting through butter. Now, I don’t know much about football, but I don’t think a quarterback is supposed to be rushing down the field. Still, that’s what Danny’s doing, and he seems hell bent of sprinting all the way down to the end zone.
“He’s not gonna make it,” Christine breathes out, grabbing my hand so tightly she might break a finger or two. In front of Danny is what looks like a giant, at least 7 feet high and weighing about a billion pounds. Danny’s just a few feet away from him, and at the speed he’s going there’s no way he’s going to avoid being tackled. Except that’s exactly what he does; as the lineman throws himself forward to grab Danny by the waist, he crouches and then jumps, his legs working as coils to send him flying over the Miami MILFs’ giant. Somersaulting over the lineman, he somehow manages to land on his feet right in the end zone.
Everyone goes nuts.
The photographers are acting all crazy, and the roar that comes from the crowd behind us is deafening. Even Christine’s on her feet, screaming as loud as she can and clapping her hands. I figure Danny’s touchdown is going to be a viral hit on YouTube the moment the game’s over, which is just a formality by now, really, the scoreboard makes that pretty clear. With only ten minutes to go on the clock, the MILFs are down 27 points.
The game ends with one more perfect pass from Danny, leading to another touchdown for the Nailers with seconds on the clock. When the referee finally stops the game (or shall I say the massacre?), some of the Nailers’ players start doing laps around the field, carrying Danny on their shoulders like he’s the second coming of Christ. There’s going to be a lot of money to be made selling Danny Manning jerseys tonight, that’s for sure.
“We should leave now if we want to beat the traffic,” I tell Christine, but she’s still staring at Danny’s victory lap, her eyes suddenly widening so much her eyes almost jump from their orbits.
“Fiona …” she whispers, raising one finger and pointing behind me. I turn on my heels, my eyes following the direction of her finger, and I can barely believe what I’m seeing. Danny’s jogging across the field, a grin on his face, and he’s coming straight toward us.
My legs grow weak, and the urge to simply run away takes over me. But I'm frozen in place, watching my mouth hanging open as Danny strolls toward me, an army of reporters trailing after him, and at least a dozen cameras transmitting the whole thing live.
“Fiona,” he says the moment he gets close enough. The reporters surround us both, recording the whole thing and snapping pictures, and I feel like I’m some kind of movie star in the middle of one important scene. “Can I have your number?”
I almost pinch myself. Is he really asking for my phone number, or am I dreaming this whole thing? He takes a pen out of the hand of a journalist and then just looks at me, waiting with that confident grin of his.
Still feeling as if I’m inside a dream, I give him my number and he jots it down on his forearm in big wide numbers.
“How does tomorrow sound? 8 pm at Per Se,” he asks me, lowering his voice so that only I can hear it, and I have to blink twice to understand what he’s saying.
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“I sure am,” he says, taking one step toward me. He towers over me, and I become so wet I might just pass out from dehydration, if that’s even possible. “8 pm at Per Se, I’ll meet you there,” he whispers, leaning in toward me.
“8 pm. Per Se,” I repeat after him, completely stunned. With one final wink, he turns on his heels and jogs back to the field, the army of reporters following after him.
“Holy shit,” I hear Christine say by my side, as stunned as I am. “You have a date with Danny Manning.”
Holy shit indeed.
24
Danny
The limo stops outside of Pink Elephant and I get out and survey the line waiting out the door of the nightclub.
You ever seen a NFL game and the post game highlights? Sure you have, if you don't live under a rock. Well, you always see some of the players dressed up to the nines, right?
Suit and fucking tie. All showered and changed. Despite the fact that just an hour ago they were sweaty and fucking gross.
Sure, they probably have scars, bruises, cuts, and even broken bones. But even with that internal bleeding they put on fly clothes. Dressed to impress.
Well, this is fucking why.
I pause for a second before the press realizes that I'm standing there, which they do soon enough. That's when the cameras go off and the flash bulbs burn.
I mean, don't get me wrong. There's about sixty guys from the team over here tonight. We're here to fucking celebrate a win that we weren't expecting after all.
