Livi’s?” He gives me a knowing look, and I fight back my own gag.
As a junior in high school, I’m surprised the subject of boys hasn’t already come up. If I had my way, though, she wouldn’t date until she was thirty.
“Point taken.”
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I look down to see a picture message from Kay. The shirt she chose for the game is one of the ones I gave her: a white long-sleeved scoop neck with football elbow patches and black and red lettering reading My boyfriend SCORES more than yours. Bracketing the word “My” are two hearts, and the O in scores is a football. The lettering is black, and the hearts and football are red. And, of course, NOVA #87 is on the back.
It’s one of my favorites that I’ve given her, a little bit of sap with a double entendre mixed in for good measure.
I can tell Bette must have done her makeup. Her gray eyes are more prominent thanks to the winged liner, and her lips, which are blowing me a kiss in the image, are a deep blood red. Fuck I love when she wears red lip stain. Again, I have to will away the blood rushing to my dick.
The hand not holding her phone is threaded through the hair on top of her head, pushing her bangs and curls away from her face. Flanking my flirting girl in the customary mirror selfie are her two best friends, Grayson winking and JT holding up his hands in the shape of a heart.
Quickly I type back a response.
ME: Sorry boys—the blonde in the middle is much more my type than the two of you.
I tilt the screen so Trav can see the shenanigans our friends are up to, causing him to laugh.
SKITTLES: JT said you broke his heart.
ME: I’m sure he’ll survive.
SKITTLES: I know. Plus, he can’t have you. You’re mine.
I love when she gets all possessive.
SKITTLES: Headed to the stadium now. I’ll see you after the game. I’ll be the hot blonde cheering you on from the stands. Go kick some Fighting Irish ass, babe.
ME: *GIF of Tom Cruise in Top Gun saying, “Yes ma’am”*
SKITTLES: *rolls eyes* Love you.
ME: Ditto, baby.
Locking the screen, I toss my phone back inside my locker. Time to suit up. We have a football game to win.
#Chapter36
There’s a beautiful chaos that only happens during playoff games. It doesn’t matter if it’s high school, college, or the pros; I’ve discovered the vibe is the same.
The main concourse into AT&T Stadium is packed with fans as we slowly meander our way around. It looks like there are as many sporting the black and red of the U of J as those in the Fighting Irish’s blue and gold.
As promised, we spend as much time with the twins as possible. We take multiple—and highly inappropriate—pictures with the twenty-foot inflatables of each team’s mascots set up in one of the fan game break areas.
As expected, Brantley pulled me aside when we first arrived in an effort to convince us—me—to reconsider watching the game with them in the owner’s box. As politely but firmly as I could, I declined.
Originally we had all planned to watch the Orange Bowl—the other bowl game selected for the playoffs—later. In an effort to smooth what I could tell were Brantley’s ruffled feathers, I promised our crew would attend the aftergame party they had planned in their suite back at the hotel instead.
Nana and I take pictures in our custom shirts, and I even go as far as to let her post one of them on her Instagram. For something that would typically give me hives just thinking about, I’m actually excited to see how Trav will react when he sees the hashtag she used.
When we do finally go to our seats, it doesn’t shock me in the least that Bette was able to score us tickets in the front row behind the U of J’s team bench near the fifty-yard line. We missed both marching bands performing, and each are gathered by the inflatable renderings of their respective school’s football helmets. We’re too far away to make out their faces, but Em and Q are lined up with the Red and White Squads, creating the pathway the Hawks will run out through.
The combo hype video for the Cotton Bowl starts to play on the massive one-hundred-and-sixty-foot jumbotron, and as the seconds tick off the clock, the crowd of eighty thousand roars and pyrotechnics explode in