The Mrs. Degree (Accidentally in Love 2)

“I’m good, thanks.”

She unwraps a stick and pops it onto her tongue, eyes out on the football field. “I’m at this game because I needed some alone time. Isn’t that hilarious?” She nudges me. “My mom lives in Santa Ana, so it’s the best of both worlds. She gets to see the kids, the kids get to see Disneyland, and I get to see Robb play and have a second to think.”

The crowd goes wild to punctuate her words, the noise level deafening.

Lana laughs.

“Jack surprised me with a date. I thought we would be hanging out in Colorado. I didn’t realize the game was here.”

Despite my brother having played professional football, I should mention I know nothing about football. All I see is grown men running back and forth around a big field with lines and numbers on it, screaming people, and big dudes gathered on the sideline who may never get playing time.

They’re already playing the second quarter, Colorado up by two.

“Oh, Robb used to do that when we were dating, randomly fly us places. You know, they get so bored sitting at home. At least Robb does. He has to be busy. I haven’t noticed that about Jack, but we haven’t spent much time with him socially. It’s more difficult with the players who don’t have kids.”

Now is not the time to break the news to Lana that Jack is indeed a father. It’s not my news to tell, and I have no way of knowing she won’t go to the press, or their managers, or the coach.

I don’t know her at all.

She seems friendly, and I’m grateful for her company since the other women look at us but don’t approach.

Lana notices me noticing the other women and begins pointing a few of them out. “That’s Sissy Whitnall—her husband is a linebacker. They have three kids, and she almost never comes to games. That here is Portia Stubbins. She’s engaged to Travis Blake, number nineteen.” Lana leans in. “Good luck with that one, Travis.” She sits back. “Not that I don’t like her, and I’m not trying to gossip, but he hasn’t known her long, and he’s young, so it’s…you know.” Her shoulders shrug. “She likes the lifestyle, and if he’s not careful, he’ll be broke when he retires.”

And in this game, that could come sooner than you were planning. Just ask my brother.

I nod. I see where Lana is going with this monologue, and while I prefer forming my own opinions, Portia stands out like a diamond in a coal mine with her sparkle and designer bag and stiletto shoes she has propped up on the seat in front of her.

Red bottoms.

Giant rock on her finger.

Actually, Portia has several rocks on several fingers—bling, bling.

“Anyway, I’ve talked your ear off, and you’ve only been here three minutes.” Her hand taps my knee. “How’s it been going otherwise?”

Gee, where do I even start.

I open my mouth to speak, but Lana interrupts before I can pull a sentence out.

“How old is your daughter again?”

“Seven.”

She nods. “Oh yeah, that’s right. She’s the same age as Presley, my older daughter. Peaches is three.”

They have a daughter named Peaches?

I don’t ask because I don’t want to be rude, and for all I know, Peaches is a nickname the same way Skipper is Harper’s nickname.

“She’s at home with my brother and his girlfriend. They’re having a weekend of fun, which they haven’t had in a while, so…it’ll be good for them.” At least that’s what I tell myself to appease the guilt of leaving for the weekend.

“Oh, sure. When Robb played for Detroit, my sister moved in with us for a while to help out, but when he signed with Colorado, she wanted to move back to California and went back to her day job.” Lana sighs. “Damn, I miss having her around.”

“Yeah, when my brother got his first big paycheck, he bought two houses side by side, which I thought was obnoxious at the time, but I’ve come to see it as a blessing.”

Not to mention when he’d bought the two houses, Mom was alive, and she lived with Skipper and me, and well, those are years I’m grateful for and wouldn’t give back for all the money in the world.

“The man sounds like a genius.”

“It’s worked more in my favor than in his. He has no kids, so mine is always at his place, getting in his business.” I laugh. “Can you imagine being a single man and having your seven-year-old niece policing the place while you’re trying to bring dates home? Worst cockblocker ever.”

“I can imagine. Presley never stops talking, and it’s worse when we’re in the car. That kid couldn’t care less about watching TV in the back when we’re driving somewhere. She wants to talk. About everything. Literally makes up stories just to hear the sound of her own voice.”