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TATUM
Wren’s eyes welled up with tears. “I can’t have my heart broken again, and I cannot risk losing the team that has meant everything to me.”
“Hey,” I soothed as I jumped out of the rolling stool and cradled her head to my chest. After four hours in the blazing August sun, my entire body smelled like a ripe, week-old athletic cup. I desperately needed a shower, but dammit if I wasn’t going to hold my girl. I didn’t care what obstacles or stupid fucking useless rules were in our way. Wren was mine. “I don’t have all the answers right now, but I know I’m not ready to give up.” I rested my forehead on hers and gingerly swiped at the tears running down her cheeks. “I have so many questions.”
Before Wren could answer, the door opened again. I jumped back, giving her a wide berth. The team doctor walked back in, followed by a woman I didn’t know, the social media kid from the day I signed my contract, Coach Tyson, and Sam.
“Fuck,” slipped out of Wren’s red-painted lips.
I stood, giving the stool back to the doctor and taking the spot beside Wren’s head. We got ourselves into this mess, and I wasn’t letting her take the blame.
Neither of us knew who the other was. Was it possible to plead stupidity?
Sam cut her eyes at Wren, then at me. I was waiting. I could see the wheels turning. The puzzle pieces were slowly coming together. Suddenly, her eyes widened to the size of the chicken logo that was smack dab on the fifty-yard line. Fine—cock. I gave Sam an almost imperceptible shake of my head. Keep your mouth shut.
“Well,” the lady in the crimson red dress said, hands on her hips. Her shoulders were back, and her head was held high. “We’ve got ourselves into quite the pickle, haven’t we?”
“We’re up to twenty million views on TikTok, ten million on YouTube, and the clip is already being circulated around the sports networks. I have requests coming in from nearly every media outlet asking for comments and wanting to schedule interviews,” the beanpole of a kid squeaked without looking up from his phone.
“The clip?” Wren croaked out.
Sam shoved her phone in Wren’s face. Bracing an arm against the back of the exam bed, I leaned down and watched as Wren pressed play.
The video began with Gideon on the line of scrimmage. He grabbed the ball as soon as it was snapped and faked the play to the half-back. The steady thumping of the heartbeat introduction from Taylor Swift’s “Wildest Dreams” had been added to the video, changing the narrative from a football play to an emotional rollercoaster. The video cut to Wren on the sidelines, smiling like a pageant queen and rustling her pom-poms before breaking out into the sexiest moves I’d ever seen. It went back to the field. I was running to make the catch, Mason Miller hot on my heels. The music skipped to the end, the bridge leading into the swelling chorus as I leaped into the air. Wren spun, lips parting as I crashed on top of her.
But then it went into slow motion. There was the slide of my gloved hand into the back of her hair, cradling her head against my chest before we hit the ground. There was a closeup of me laying on top of her, the football between us. Wren’s eyes—bright and blue—staring deep into mine. Though the only sound was from the song, Wren’s lips moved, whispering my name. Tatum.
The video caught me saying something to her—what are you doing here, Little Bird—but my mask covered my mouth.
Then I rolled off her and screamed for the medical team to get to her. The video faded to black as she was loaded onto a spine board and rushed out of the stadium. I was standing in the end zone, staring at her like I was watching my heart be carried away.
“It’s just the music,” Sam huffed. “Taylor Swift can make anyone feel shit. It’s the music and some clever editing.”
I could have bowed at her feet for trying to cover my ass.
Coach Tyson nodded in agreement. “Hell yeah, she can. The ten-minute version of “Red”?” He pressed his fist to his heart. “He should have returned the scarf. That was a dick move.”
Sam and Coach high-fived.
This was officially the weirdest day of my life. My agent and offensive coordinator were bonding over Taylor Swift, and the woman I was pretty sure I was in love with was a cheerleader for my football team.
Which left the lady in the red dress.
Wren lifted her hand to the Texan version of the scary lady from The Devil Wears Prada. “Ms. Trumble, Mr. Bryant just dropped in to make sure I was okay, and he brought me the game ball from the team.” Her thin fingers wrapped around the leather and glanced up at me. “Um, Mr. Bryant, this is Catherine Trumble, the director of the cheerleaders.”
“Pleasure,” she clipped. I doubted whether it was her pleasure. It didn’t matter because she was already turning her eyes on Wren. “How are you feeling?”
“A little banged up, but I’ll be okay.” Wren glanced at the doctor. “I can still dance at the next game, right?”
The doctor nodded in agreement. “A few days off from rehearsal, but you can perform at the next game.”
“We’re away next week,” Coach chimed in.
Catherine—scary director lady—nodded. “I want you to take the week off since we won’t have a home game for two weeks. You’ll be relieved of your local appearances.”
“What?” Wren shrieked in horror. She closed her eyes and groaned as she pinched the bridge of her nose. I clenched my fists. It was all I could do to resist the urge to comfort her.
Catherine tapped the thick stack of papers in her hand. “You might have the week off from rehearsing with the ladies, but you’ll still be working. It seems as if this little viral video is garnering some great PR for the team.” She pointed a manicured finger between the two of us. “The owners, coaching staff, and media team agree. The two of you will make a few TV appearances, talk about the tackle, and play nice for the cameras.” She handed me a packet, then Wren. “That’s your media training. I’d suggest you review it.”
