Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Jif groaned as slats of sunlight snuck through the window blinds and fell fully across her eyes. Her brain throbbed, churning her stomach. Unfair that she’d only had the one glass of the vile wine and still felt this terrible. Maybe the fish had been off, too.
She certainly wasn’t upset about Jordan dumping her. Absolutely not. In fact, had he really dumped her at all?
She pieced the fragments of last night together, a puzzle with missing pieces.
No, he’d simply noticed she wasn’t the type to settle down, and she’d agreed. Hadn’t he driven her home afterward and kissed her chastely on the cheek as he said goodbye? Guys didn’t do that for girls they’d just broken up with. Did they?
No, he hadn’t dumped her. Why would he? A football player couldn’t hope to find a better woman: beautiful, supportive, with an aggressively curated image and a picture-perfect job guaranteed to turn a press release into a human-interest story.
[Insert football player’s name here] announces his engagement to Jennifer Pritchard, devoted Raptors fan, sister of wide receiver Colton Pritchard, and third-grade teacher at Meadowlark Elementary School. ..
They’d merely parted ways—amicably, of course—in the wake of his move to Columbus.
That didn’t sound right. The Bengals had picked him up. Cincinnati, then.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, willing the throb into a dull ache, and sat up slowly. Making her way to the kitchen, she dragged a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge.
Red, blech.
Despite being Jordan’s favorite, thus the type she stocked in her fridge, nothing beat blue.
Lacking anything else, though, she popped the top and chugged, ignoring the uncanny similarity to last night’s wine and suppressing the urge to gag at the comparison.
First things first, get herself cleaned up.
Last night’s smoky eye had probably transformed into this morning’s rough-night-out with raccoon eyes.
Then, call her squad. She and Jordan had dated for eleven months; more if you counted the weeks they’d spent having fun before officially getting together.
She’d never been committed to a single person for such a long time, so her re-entry onto the dating scene was overdue.
She’d need a wingman. A Goose to her Maverick.
On a Saturday, Mickey’s would be a good place to start; a few of the O-line guys liked to hang out there, and if not, they could move on to Hanrahan’s.
The defense preferred the Irish pub near the Battery, but between Jordan and Colton, maybe she should steer clear of the offense for a few weeks, anyway.
Too bad Abby had already snapped up the quarterback, Scott, not that she wanted a ready-made family, kid already included.
No, Jif loved Abby, but her friend could have Scott—and his son Dylan, too—and while she might wish for a single quarterback—the coup d’état of the football world and a guarantee of WAG status forever—she wouldn’t want it if it meant something had happened to Scott. Either traded or injured. Both sucked.
Then again, he’d passed his mid-thirties a couple years ago, so if she held out long enough, she might get a shot with whoever replaced him after retirement.
After a shower, she shook out her hair and reapplied her makeup.
Too early to head to the bar, still, but nervous energy zinged through her veins.
Is this what the guys experienced before a game?
The anticipation, the knife-edge of anxiety cutting through it, sharp enough to feel dangerous and keep things interesting.
Grabbing her purse, she texted Britt. A little retail therapy would help quell the last of her disappointment over Jordan, and maybe she’d find a new dress to celebrate her re-entry onto the dating scene tonight.
“Tell. Me. Everything,” Britt squealed as she ran up to Jif, air-kissing her cheeks and grabbing her left hand. Flipping it over several times, her face fell. “He didn’t propose?”
“He’s going to the Bengals, and there’s no way I could leave Colton.
Raptors for life, baby, right?” She pursed her lips, affecting nonchalance about the whole thing until Britt’s disappointment melted away.
Absolutely already over Jordan and the drama of their dinner, she’d prove it today by being her usual, bubbly self.
“And to celebrate, I think I need something in silver. Something sparkly.”
Nothing in black; she wasn’t mourning. No, siree.
“Silver?” Britt arched a brow, twitching a lock of Jif’s caramel-brown hair. “Are you sure?”
She had a point: gold would go better with her coloring, but the Saints and the 49ers wore gold, not the Raptors. She bled black and silver, so silver it would be.
“Yup.” She popped the p, pulling Britt into her favorite boutique on King Street.
A little touristy, sure, but at least most of the storefronts were still locally owned and operated.
Early on, she’d made the mistake of shopping at department stores, but she’d learned, and she’d never again have to bear the humiliation of arriving at a game after-party wearing the same thing as someone else.
Especially some of the dime-a-dozen girlfriends the guys went through like jerseys during training camp.
She was the sister of Colton Pritchard. Sure, she dated the guys, but at the end of the day, she still stayed a step above the groupies.
“So, what happened?” Britt whipped a woven, white dress off the rack, then shoved it back in as Jif shook her head.
“Silver, Britt. Silver.” No black. And definitely no white.
Britt picked another dress and held it up against Jif’s body. “What about this?”
Jif pulled it to her chest. “Perfect. Do they have it in a four?”
“I’m sure they do...”
“Good, I’ll try that one.”
She ignored Britt’s frown as she rifled through the rack. It might be a little tight in the chest, but she prided herself on keeping her figure slim. No sixes for her, thank you. Taking it to the dressing room, she whipped off her jeans and top and shimmied into them.
“Like I said, he’s going to Cincinnati. I wouldn’t have gone even if he’d asked.”
A gasp came from beyond the echoing stall. “He didn’t even ask? I thought for sure you guys were headed down the aisle.”
Jif twisted, trying to zip herself up. “No way. I’m not a down-the-aisle kind of girl.”
“Well, I thought things with Jordan were different.”
Jif frowned, the zipper catching at her mid-back and refusing to go any higher. The dampener on her mood certainly wasn’t because maybe she’d thought so, too. “Forget it, Britt. Here, help me with this?”
She flung the door open, presenting her back to her best friend.
With a little help, the zipper finally closed, and though she gasped at the pressure, when she strutted to the mirror, a slow grin stretched across her face.
“Oh yeah, this is definitely ending up on someone’s floor tonight.” She waggled her eyebrows comically in the mirror, then broke into laughter.
Britt giggled. “There’s the Jif I love.”
“So, you’ll come with me?”
Britt didn’t understand the whole football mystique, so she made a perfect wingman because she always hyped Jif up but didn’t ever compete.
“I shouldn’t. I have grading...”
“Please?” Jif begged. She needed to act fast if she wanted to get ahead of the rumor mill and push her narrative of a mutual split. “I’ll help you grade tomorrow.”
Britt sighed. “Fine, but you have to help me find something, too.”
Jif jumped in place. “Deal!”
“And,” Britt held up a finger. “You have to actually come over tomorrow afternoon and help me grade. Those math problems won’t solve themselves.”
“Fine,” she huffed. She hated grading; hence, the reason she taught elementary school instead of middle school.
“And bring lunch.”
Jif rolled her eyes, but she shimmied back out of the silver-spangled dress. With Britt at her side, it would be a great night!