God, The Universe & Black Baby Jesus
Chapter twenty-three
Eslin
Ishould’ve known he’d come storming in.
It’s the weekend. Prime territory for accidental run-ins and yet Marlow swore up and down her father never came to weekend matches, so I let my guard down.
I’m a stupid, stupid woman.
Because of course, God, the universe, and Black baby Jesus had other plans. Marlow collapses in the most dramatic way possible, and who shows up like a storm in pressed slacks and authority? Grant freaking Mills.
With his fine ass.
Looking like trouble dressed in country club perfection.
I’m not usually the girl who falls for the ones who look like they stepped off a yacht in the Bay, but this man? He wears a navy blue V-neck sweater layered over a crisp, checkered button-up like it’s the uniform of a Greek god sent to ruin my common sense, my edges and esophagus.
“You are not gonna believe what happened,” Marlow says, snapping me back to the present now that her father is safely out of earshot.
“Umm, you passed out and landed on hard concrete, Low. I just might believe you,” I say.
Before she can respond, the office door swings open, and in blows a storm of kinky curls, curves, and pure energy.
“Girl! Someone said you were passed out on the curb outside! Are you okay?”
The woman practically glows with presence—big grey eyes, full lips, bold brows, and confidence that charges the air around her.
She’s the kind of woman people call “exotic” when they don’t know what box to put her in.
Long, kinky brown hair with honeyed highlights frames her face, and her skin’s got that perfect sun-kissed glow that screams good genes and better lighting.
Her almond-shaped eyes flash with concern, but it’s the curve-hugging jersey and the ridiculous ass underneath it that has me blinking twice.
Whoever she is, she’s sexy and not forgettable.
Marlow waves her in like she’s been waiting for her. “Eslin Saunders, I don’t think you’ve met Tatum Black, our new marketing director.”
Tatum spins toward me, her face lighting up. “Oh! Yes! Coach Saunders! I’ve been meaning to set up a meeting with you since I started!”
I blink, glancing between her and Marlow. “Oh really? Why?”
“Because! You’re the miracle worker everyone’s been raving about! I need to get your story out there—interviews, spotlights, all of it.”
I wave her off. “Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m not that special. Really not worth writing about.”
“I’m fine, by the way,” Marlow cuts in, her dry tone laced with exaggerated patience.
Tatum and I both turn to her and burst out laughing.
“Sorry! You were putting on makeup,” Tatum says. “I figured that was a solid sign you were going to live.”
Marlow rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. I look at her closely, wondering if she’s going to pick up where she left off—before we had company. Because whatever she was about to say, it felt important.
Marlow gets up, crosses the room, and shuts her office door with a quiet click. When she sits back down on the sofa, her expression is all business, but the kind you gossip about over cocktails.
Tatum and I exchange a look. Something’s coming.
I drop to the floor and cross my legs like it’s story time in kindergarten, and Tatum follows suit. We look ridiculous. But, also ready for what’s coming.
And judging by Marlow’s face, this is going to be juicy.
“So… about that night in Vegas.”
“Oh shit,” I murmur, pressing my hands together under my chin and leaning in like she’s about to recite scripture.
Marlow shoots me a look. Definitely not helping.
“Sorry,” I whisper. Then louder, “Yes. I remember the night in Vegas.”
I glance at Tatum, then back to Marlow. “Wait—does she know about that night? About the husband?”
Marlow shakes her head. “Nope. But I need input, and since you two are the closest thing I’ve got to a real friend circle right now, congratulations. You’re now my stand-in bff’s.”
Tatum hops up, walks over to Marlow’s little bar cart, and pours three glasses of whatever expensive amber magic she finds. She hands them out, then lifts her own with a grin.
“To stand-in BFFs,” she says.
We clink. We sip.
And Marlow begins.
The Vegas story. The hot guy. The pods. The wedding. All of it.
And damn, it's even wilder the second time around.
I’m fanning myself like I’m the one who got married because it’s sexier now, too.
“And you’re seriously saying he’s here?” Tatum half-yells, eyes wide with disbelief. “As in, plays for the Strikers?”
The coincidental run-ins and accidental marriages around this place must be studied. Like, by actual scientists. With charts. And lab coats. Because the level of romantic rendezvous happening here defies logic and basic human scheduling.
This all isn’t just messy. It’s practically a case study in what happens when you trap emotionally unstable adults in close quarters with too much sexual tension and not enough therapy.
It’s basically an unscripted season of Grey’s Anatomy.
“Yes! He’s here!” Marlow groans, dragging her hands down her face. “And that’s why I passed out today! The shock of it all!”
Tatum tilts her head, completely unsympathetic. “Babes. The sex of it all! I’ve seen the new midfielder. You’re telling me you get to have guilt-free sex with that and you’re upset? Help me understand the crisis here.”
“The crisis,” Marlow snaps, voice cracking just slightly, “is that this is the worst possible time for me to show up with a secret husband who just so happens to be our new player!”
“Yeah,” Tatum nods. “The press would eat that up.”
“Exactly!” Marlow hisses. “I’ve spent months rebuilding my name. People are finally starting to take me seriously. This will blow everything. My reputation, my credibility. My dad will lose his mind.”
I raise a hand, stepping into the madness. “Okay, I hate to be the voice of reason here, but what exactly did you think was going to happen? You signed paperwork. There were cameras, right?”
“I used an alias,” she says, defensive. “I figured if I found him first and got an annulment, it would all be handled before anything hit the media.”
“Except now,” Tatum cuts in, wagging her eyebrows, “your future ex-husband is here to serve you in more ways than one!”
That sends us spiraling into laughter again, Tatum’s cackle setting the tone.
“Do not joke right now!” Marlow snaps, her tone frazzled. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
I lean forward, a little more serious now. “That depends. Do you actually want to annul the marriage?”
She nods, fast and certain. “Yes! I have to focus. On the team, my reputation. Everything else but this man right now.”
“Then go to him,” I say. “Explain. Be honest. Tell him it was a drunken mistake in Vegas and that getting an annulment is best for both of you.”
Her shoulders square like she’s bracing for battle. She knocks back the last of her drink and slams the glass on the coffee table. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll go tell him I was intoxicated and not of sound mind when I married him—”
“And promised you wouldn’t leave him?” I add, dryly.
“And licked the tip of his dick,” Tatum throws in, completely deadpan.
“Okay!” Marlow screeches, throwing a cushion at her. “I get it! I made a colossal mistake and we have an entire highlight reel to prove it.”
“At least you can blame it on Vegas,” I offer.
“Right.” She nods, pulling herself together.
She stands, slips on her shoes, checks her reflection in the mirror. Her shoulders roll back. Chin up. And then she’s off. Marching out to ask her brand-new husband for a divorce.