STUFFED (The Slate Brothers 2)

“Sorry, miss. Passes are only for game days,” the guard says, shaking his head.

“Really? He’s expecting me. We’re friends,” I say, and even wave my phone a little, as if the poor guy will somehow understand via the gesture that Carson actually does know me.

“Lots of “friends” come by for Carson Slate,” the guy says, shaking his head. “We can’t let anyone in, but especially girls who say they’re his friends.”

“But I actually am— never mind,” I say with a sigh. I turn, but rather than going back to my car, cut around the side of the stadium. I know from when I’ve left the locker room before that there’s a side entrance…

I’m totally acting like a stalker. No wonder the security guard wouldn’t let me in.

By now the sun is starting to go down, the days growing shorter alongside the football season. The temperature drops sharply once the stadium casts me into shadow, and I begrudgingly return to my car to stay warm. It isn’t until I see the security guard flick off the light in his booth that I suspect Carson isn’t here anymore— or might have never even been here to start with. Maybe they held the meeting somewhere else?

Astrid: Still in the meeting?

Again, it shows up as read almost immediately— and again, there’s no response. I swallow nervously, start up my car, and ease out of the stadium lot, headed back toward my apartment. When my phone chimes, I nearly run off the road lunging for it. It’s not Carson, though— it’s Arianna, my suite mate.

Ari: r u home

Astrid: no, on my way though

I have to text that at a red light, so it’s another few moments before I can see what she’s typed back.

Ari: theres the brewery tasting thing at reign happening and carson is here, did u know

I stare for so long that I miss the light turning green; someone honks to wake me up. I drive downtown and pay to valet outside of Reign, feeling numb and unsure about what I’m walking into. Did Carson lie about the meeting? Or did something happen? Or…

“Miss, this is a formal event,” the bouncer says, frowning at my yoga pants and t-shirt. I didn’t notice that I was underdressed until he mentioned it, but yes— the crowd is sipping tiny beers in waning sunset light, wearing cocktail dresses and dress shirts.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Honestly, I’m not staying. Can I just get a ticket? I have some friends in there.”

The bouncer looks hesitant, but then shrugs and lets me in. I bustle around dresses and lipstick smiles and cologne until my eyes find Arianna across the room, with that guy Luca once again. She looks relieved to see me, then shakes her head, eyes wide, and pointed with her drink to a spot at the bar.

There he is.

Carson is in the middle of a pack of guys, louder and larger and brighter than I’ve ever seen him. There’s nothing steely or serious about him, right now— he looks jovial, carefree, the quintessential party boy. It’s not a great look on him, to be honest, and not one I’ve seen before. I take a few steps toward him, unsure of myself, uncertain if this is the guy I know or…

Carson’s eyes fall on me, and there— a flash in them, a familiarity.

“Carson?” I ask, unsure what I’ll say next. Unsure what I’ll do next— unsure of everything. How did the world get shaken so hard in the last twenty-four hours?

Carson swallows, and there’s no apology or stumbling to find an excuse— there’s just cool, stony anger. “Bowen Blaze,” he says.

My eyebrows lift, hurt flooding me. “Can we talk?”

“Is it on the record?” he asks. The crowd around him had been pretending to chatter while listening in— no different than the newsroom people. With this, though, they laugh, clap him on the shoulder supportively, give me dark looks.

“We really need to talk,” I say again, quieter this time, more desperate.

Carson takes a long drink of his beer, waves off the brewery employee who tried to offer him another sample, then walks toward the door. I follow; once outside we snake to the right of the bouncer, along the narrow, fenced-in patio that takes up just enough sidewalk space to allow for a few people to stand comfortably. Carson stops short and spins around so fast that I crash into his chest, which causes the scent of him to overpower me; with it comes a flood of pleasant memories that seem more like dreams, at the moment.

“The paper sent over a copy of your article,” he says flatly. “One of the coaches showed it to me this afternoon. So I couldn’t answer your texts because I had to call the lawyer, my family, and the team publicist to let them know the sort of shit that was about to hit the fan,” he says.