The Mrs. Degree (Accidentally in Love 2)

I hadn’t intended on staying for the entire game. My plan was to leave early in the fourth quarter to beat the rush and traffic leaving the stadium, but the game went so fast, and the time got away from me. Before I know it, a man taps on my shoulder. It’s another official with a security jacket on and a walkie in his hand.

“Are you…” He glances at the paper in his hand. “Penelope Halbrook?”

Since he’s wearing the outfit of an employee, I’m not suspicious and nod my head.

“I am. Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine, ma’am. If you’re ready to head out and you’d like to follow me, I can lead you back downstairs.”

“Oh, outstanding!” This will save me from having to navigate back down to the VIP tunnel. I have no badge to give me the credentials to go wherever I want, and my car is parked in a place where not many people can go.

After grabbing my things and Skipper’s hoodie, we rise to follow the man back up the stairs, past all the concession stands, to an elevator at the end of the corridor.

He needs a special card to access the lower levels.

Back through the sleek hallway, he leads my daughter until we end up in front of a large, green, windowless door. It’s open, and when I peek inside, I see it’s a room full of fancy-looking people.

Men, women, and children.

“I’m confused?”

“This is the reception area, ma’am. You can get some more food here or swag. There’s a vendor table in the corner, and you can take what you’d like.”

I put my hands on Skipper’s shoulders as we slowly wade into the room, my eyes skimming over women and children—presumably the wives of players? They can’t be anyone else. There are barely any men in this room. I mean, there are—but they’re older, so most likely fathers?

Not to mention these women? They look expensive.

The kind of expensive that only comes with millions of dollars in contracts per year, fillers, Botox, and diamonds the size of my thumbnail.

Before I can back out of the room and get the hell out of there, Skipper breaks away and makes a beeline for the snack table. I don’t blame her. It’s loaded with fruit platters, meat and cheese trays, hot dogs, hamburgers, and candy—all the things we had to pay for back in the stadium seats and all things my seven-year-old daughter loves.

Not only that but there are also gifts.

T-shirts and hoodies, along with bumper stickers and toy footballs. Cups, pilsner glasses, sports-themed Monopoly, and tote bags.

Skipper is in heaven, already loading down a plate with food even though she ate while we were watching the game. It’s still being streamed now on the television sets in every corner of the room, leather furniture laid out so anyone in the room can sit and comfortably watch the game.

That doesn’t seem to be what anyone in here is doing. They’re all chatting amongst themselves, and it’s obvious they’re all well acquainted.

I’m the odd man out.

Feeling like a fish in a fishbowl, I casually stroll to grab my daughter, who continues piling on snacks as if she were at a birthday party with eyeballs bigger than her tiny stomach.

“Sweetie, take it easy,” I tell her quietly. “We’re not staying, honey. We have to get out of here before the traffic gets bad. The game is almost over.”

Six minutes in the last quarter can take an eternity, but I’m not taking any chances. I want to leave, and I want to leave now.

But Skipper doesn’t cooperate.

She wiggles out of my grip, ducks to dodge me, and slithers to the opposite side of the room to a small group of little girls her age. She plops herself down and begins chattering away.

Shit.

How am I going to get her up and out of here without causing a scene?

How are there only four minutes left in the game?

Colorado is winning by a landslide, so everyone in the room is in high spirits. As no one is worried about Chicago gaining a lead, only a fraction of the room continues to watch the game.

I hardly know what to do with myself. The last thing I’m going to do is stroll over to the wives and introduce myself. Like—what the hell would I even say? “Hi, I’m the mother of Jack Jennings’ child, the one he doesn’t know exists, who’s in the corner playing with your child right now? I haven’t seen him since I got knocked up, but he showed up on my doorstep, and here we are.”

Yeah, no.

Forty-nine seconds left in the game.

Thirty.

Fifteen.

The room erupts into cheers with merriment all around. Skipper leaps up from her spot to jump up and down with the other kids. They hug and dance, shaking their little booties while eating their snacks.