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Dinner—ifyou could call it that—consisted of tiny portions and snobby conversations. My dad would have loved it. Football and high society. My least favorite combination.
Wren sat across from me at the table and plastered on a fake smile. Her mouth said, “this microgreen salad is divine,” but her eyes said, “give me a cheeseburger or I will burn this place to the ground.” She speared a miniscule bite of her soft-shell crab with goat cheese polenta and slid it between ruby-red lips.
She had to be exhausted. We all were—even Seth who kept the bench warm for the entirety of the game. But here we sat, attending a dog and pony show for the big names who signed our checks.
Coach looked annoyed, as did Wren’s director. Seth, who had been seated beside me, stared longingly at his empty plate. For guys who regularly consumed and worked off four thousand calories every day, the delicate serving sizes didn’t cut it. Fast food was off-limits during the season, but I was seriously regretting not running through a drive-through on my way out of the stadium. Maybe I could convince Wren to sneak out with me for a late-night bite before we went back to the city.
When everyone’s attention was on the servers as they cleared our plates before dessert, I fired off a discreet text message to Wren.
Tatum: Wanna play a game, Little Bird?
Wren didn’t respond for several minutes. I wasn’t sure if she even had her phone with her, but thank God for dresses that have pockets.
Wren: Whatcha got in mind?
Tatum: How about Simon Says?
Wren: Okay.
Tatum: Simon says, make an excuse to leave the table in one minute.
