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Remy
Lexi and I show our VIP passes to the security guard at the secret back door entrance to the Mavericks’ stadium, and he nods and gestures us through with a nonchalant wave of his hand.
My niece’s petite hand latches on to mine as she all but drags me down the long hallway.
“In a rush, Lex?” I question on a chuckle, and she blazes me with a roll of her eyes over her shoulder.
“I want to see the team before they take the field.”
“Huh?” I furrow my brow. “How are you going to do that? Aren’t they getting ready for the game?”
“They’re in the locker room, Uncle Remy, not the president’s bunker. We can get in.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. The locker room? We can’t go into the locker room.”
She rolls her eyes again. “Yes, we can.”
Taking an almost eleven-year-old girl into an NFL locker room pregame? I don’t think that’s a great idea. I imagine they’re both rowdy and lightly dressed. I don’t need to take my impressionable niece on a swim through a swinging-dick river. Christ, I’d never hear the end of that.
“Lex, honey, they’re probably getting ready. I’m not sure your parents would want—”
“I’m allowed. I do it all the time,” she interrupts, dragging me through staccato steps to the doors in question.
I glance at the solid black doors, a white sign emblazoned with Authorized Personnel Only in the center and the sound of absolute mayhem on the other side. “Wes lets you come into the locker room—this locker room—before—”
“Yes,” she cuts me off again, pushing through the doors like she owns the fucking joint.
Hurriedly, I reach out to stop her momentum with my hands on both of her shoulders, and then I slide one hand over her eyes so I can scan the room for the kinds of things a young girl shouldn’t see.
There are a few bare chests, but pants appear to be on. Thank fuck.
“I can’t see anything,” Lexi states the obvious and shoves my hand away.
Teeny Martinez, one of the Mavericks’ best offensive linemen, is the first to notice her presence.
“Lexi Lou!” he shouts as his big body barrels across the room to pick up my niece and put her on his shoulders. “Boys, we can all relax now! Our good luck charm is here!”
I guess Lex wasn’t bullshitting me? She really comes in here before the games?
An authentic laugh spills from her lips, something Lex reserves for only the worthiest of times, and I watch on in amusement as she’s carried around the room to give high fives to some of the Mavericks’ star players. Quinn Bailey, Sean Phillips, Cam Mitchell, Leo Landry, and nearly a dozen others, they’re all joining in on the fun, smiling and slapping Lexi’s hand, despite the fact that they’re scheduled to take the field in less than thirty minutes.
“How many TDs, Lex?” Sean, the Mavericks’ leading wide receiver—who also flexes into the running back position—asks.
“Statistically, you’ve been averaging two touchdowns per game, but Philadelphia’s defense is number two in the league, and they’ll be double-covering you. Which makes the probability of you meeting your average below thirty percent.”
If it wasn’t already obvious, she’s a bit of a statistical genius. Feelings don’t matter so much when hard facts are on the line. I can’t help but smile at the disappointed look on Sean’s face.
Cam Mitchell, otherwise known as the best tight end in the league, bursts into laughter. “Uh-oh, Sean. Looks like I might have to pick up your slack today.”
Sean flips Mitchell the middle finger behind his back and feigns a pout at Lexi. “C’mon, Lex. How you gonna do me like that? Double-covered or not, you know I got the skills, girl.”
“I think what our girl is saying here, Phillips, is that you’re going to have to get your cocky as—I mean, butt in gear today, bro,” Teeny comments, still holding Lexi on his shoulders.
Of course, my niece just shrugs, stone-faced and not affected in the least. The girl lives and breathes numbers and the kind of mathematical concepts most grown-ass adults can’t comprehend. If these fuckers weren’t ready to hear the hard truth, they shouldn’t have asked.
Quinn Bailey, the Mavs’ QB, reaches up to take Lexi off Teeny’s shoulders and squats down to converse with her face-to-face. “What do you think, Lex? Are my guys going to pull out a W today?”
“Philadelphia’s defense is going to be tough.” She taps her fingers to her chin. “They’re averaging four sacks per game, and when they played Seattle, they shut down touchdowns and only allowed two field goals. They started out the season in second to last place, and they’re coming off a three-game rally. Rallies have a statistical tendency to give an advantage.”
Quinn just grins. “So…what you’re telling me is that we need to come to play.”
She nods, and Quinn reaches out to place both hands on her shoulders.
