Miles shakes his head. “I tried.” He extends one finger. “Once.”
This time we all join in on the laughter.
We continue down the long corridor, taking turns through the maze-like system until Miles comes to a set of blue doors that lead to the locker room the Dallas Outlaw Cheerleaders use. The room is huge and high class. There’s high-pile blue carpeting under foot, and the cubbies that make up each cheerleader’s locker space are made of high-gloss white wood with a mirrored back and a row of vanity lighting. There’s a locked drawer under each extended seat area, and above each locker is a three-foot-high portrait of each individual cheerleader in their uniform.
I may not be a Dallas fan, but I’ve always thought, hands down, their cheerleaders have the best uniform in the league. I may be partial to it since the shorts for my old Admirals one are super similar.
Miles also takes us by the locker room for the Outlaws, and Bette and I even take a picture inside his locker to send to E.
We spend the next hour or so seeing all the highlights the massive stadium has to offer: the pro shop, the press box, the offices, the VIP lounges, and the room where they do their official postgame interviews. A few times we get a glimpse of the field, and I grin each time I spot number eighty-seven in the mix.
T and Savvy joined trouble-making forces with D, and the three of them are currently walking down the concourse of the executive suite level like they are in The Wizard of Oz.
“It’s shit like this”—G stretches the arm that is around my shoulders, his forearm brushing my cheek as he points at his brother—“that I think is the real reason why Dad and Mama didn’t want to fly in with us today.”
I bury my face in his side to smother my giggle.
Miles finally comes to a stop at one of the suites, the plaque next to the door declaring it the owner’s box. Why are we here? I’ve been in the box for the Crabs’ owner before with Bette, but there’s no way this would be included on a public tour.
“Miles?” Bette asks, the furrow between her brows telling me she’s thinking along the same lines as me.
“Um…” The man in question trails off, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“Spit it out already, Dennings.” Bette pulls out her mom voice.
Miles clears his throat, looking a little green beneath his dark brown skin. “When I was arranging everything for today, Bossman”—he uses the nickname most of the league uses when referring to the Dallas team owner—“found out who I was doing it for.”
“Oh-kay…” Bette makes a rolling motion with her hand, all of us lost as to why Bossman would care.
“Let’s not kid ourselves.” Miles opens the door, and we step inside the most luxurious suite I’ve been in—ever. It’s almost a shame I’m too distracted by this bizarre conversation to appreciate it. “We all know he may own the Outlaws, but we also know he has way more control in the league than your typical owner. He’s well aware of who you are…but more importantly, who your brother and boyfriend are.”
Miles has known our family long enough that he knows of my…aversion to being in the spotlight. Yes, since being with Mason, I have started to metaphorically dip my toe in the social media waters again. What Miles just admitted about his boss? That’s next level.
Personally, I’m not sure how I feel about this revelation, and I need a moment to compose myself before I overreact. As everyone explores the multiple rooms of this over-the-top suite, I cross the length of it and open one of the sliding glass doors that lead to the seats overlooking the fifty-yard line. Choosing the row closest to the field, I settle into the plush leather chair and scan the players scattered below, searching for my boyfriend.
The anxiety bubbling inside me calms the instant I spot Mase lined up with the offense. The things that man does for football pants. The snap of the ball drags my eyes off Mase’s tight end *hehe* and onto Trav, watching the play develop as he drops back into the pocket, searching out his eligible receivers then launching a sweet spiral to where my man is waiting for the pass, catching it for a forty-yard completion.
The team does look good; I can see what Mase meant by them gelling.