Chapter 6 #2
He laughed again, the sound warm and easy, as though we had known each other for years instead of weeks.
“You needed some fresh air, Mars.”
“I did not need seventy-two thousand people worth of fresh air.”
“Seventy-two thousand exactly,” he corrected with a grin.
I narrowed my eyes at the screen even though my heart was beating much faster than it should have been.
“See? That's exactly what I'm talking about. You're already treating this like game day.”
His smile made something flutter deep inside my chest.
“Saturday.”
I slowly shook my head as dread and excitement tangled together in my stomach.
“Saturday."
When the call ended, the apartment didn't immediately feel quiet. If anything, it felt like it had finally exhaled.
I remained seated at my desk, staring at my reflection in the dark frame of my computer screen. By this time tomorrow, I'd be sitting in a private suite at NRG Stadium as Jalen Carter's guest.
The thought was absurd enough to make me laugh.
I pushed away from the desk, walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of wine, and grabbed my phone.
Nia answered on the first ring.
“Well?”
“We have a plan.”
“That doesn't sound reassuring.”
I laughed softly.
“I'm going to the game on Saturday.”
There was a pause.
“As his guest?”
“Yes.”
“A publicity stunt?”
“Yes.”
She was quiet for a moment, and I could almost hear her trying to process what I'd just told her.
“You're really doing this.”
“It makes sense,” I said. “If we show up together intentionally, it takes the mystery out of everything.”
“Or,” she replied calmly, “it puts an even bigger spotlight on you.”
I sighed.
“Both can be true.”
Another long pause settled between us before she finally spoke.
“Alright.”
“Alright?”
“If we're doing this, we're doing it right.”
A smile tugged at my lips because I already knew exactly where this was going.
“Meaning?”
“Hair. Outfit. Makeup. Shoes. The whole thing.”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it.
“You're impossible.”
“No,” she corrected. “I'm your best friend, and if the entire sports world is about to meet you, they're going to meet the version of you that leaves absolutely no room for discussion.”
“You're coming with me.”
She sounded offended.
“To a private suite at a football game? Obviously.”
I laughed again.
“I figured.”
“We're going shopping tomorrow after work.”
“Nia.”
“Don't 'Nia' me. We have exactly one chance to make a first impression.”
Despite everything weighing on me, I found myself smiling.
“We need to move carefully.”
“We will,” she said. “But we're not going to move scared.”
Something about those words settled me.
She was right.
I had spent years making myself smaller.
Years hiding behind routines and quiet places because they felt safe.
Maybe this wasn't the way I imagined stepping into the spotlight, but I wasn't going to let fear make my decisions for me anymore.
Before I could say anything else, another call flashed across my screen.
Mom.
I looked at her name and immediately knew why she was calling.
“I'll call you back.”
“You better,” Nia said. “And Mars?”
“Yeah?”
“You're going to be okay.”
My chest tightened.
“Thanks.”
I ended the call and answered the next one.
“Hey.”
“You busy?” my mom asked.
“No.”
“Put it on speaker,” my dad called from somewhere in the background.
A smile immediately spread across my face.
“I'm here.”
The line went quiet for a second.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
It was familiar.
“You home?” my mom asked.
“Yeah.”
"You eat?" my dad asked.
I laughed softly.
"I'm fine."
"We just got off the phone with Cal," my mom said.
Of course they did.
I walked toward the window.
"What did he tell you?"
"That you're all over the blogs," my dad replied.
There wasn't any judgment in his voice. Just curiosity.
I looked out across the Houston skyline.
"It's nothing," I said. "Just internet noise."
"We figured as much," my mom said.
There was another pause.
"You okay with it?"
That was the real reason for the call.
Not the blogs. Not the headlines.
Me.
They were checking on me.
"I am."
"Your brother sounded a lot more bothered than you did," my dad said.
I laughed.
"That sounds about right."
"Well," my mom said, "if you're okay, then we're okay."
I rested my shoulder against the glass.
"I am."
"You still coming Sunday?" my dad asked.
"Of course."
"Good. Your mom's making pot roast."
"Then I'll definitely be there."
"And bring that appetite you pretend you don't have," my mom added.
I rolled my eyes.
"I do not pretend."
My dad chuckled.
"Whatever you say."
The warmth in my chest surprised me.
My parents never made anything feel loud.
"Please don't worry about any of this," I said quietly. "It's being handled."
"We're not worried," my mom said.
I knew immediately she was lying.
"We just wanted to hear your voice.We said our goodbyes, and I stood by the window for a few minutes, staring out at the sprawling tapestry of city lights below.
Houston never really slept.
Down on the asphalt, traffic still moved in rhythmic, pulsing rivers through the streets.
Towers of steel and glass glowed like beacons against the pitch-black sky.
Somewhere out there, in the heart of the grid, ordinary people were finishing dinners, heading home from mundane jobs, meeting friends for casual drinks.
Life kept moving at its own relentless pace, completely indifferent to whether I paid attention to it or not.
Then, my phone buzzed violently against my palm, shattering the quiet.
I glanced down at the screen.
Jalen.
A traitorous smile threatened to break across my face before I could even attempt to stop it.
I pressed the phone to my ear and slipped into my best professional cadence.
“Did we forget something, Mr. Carter?”
“No.”
His voice was lower than it had been on the video call, stripped of the digital static and sounding entirely too intimate in my quiet apartment.
There was a brief, deliberate pause.
“But I had a thought.”
I laughed immediately, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the window.
“Okay.
I'm almost afraid to ask, but go ahead.”
“I think we should rehearse.”
I blinked, pulling my head back from the windowpane.
“Rehearse what?”
“Us.”
I stared blankly at the far wall of my living room, my heart skipping a dangerous beat.
“Us?”
“Tomorrow,” he stated, his voice remaining completely, unironically serious.
“We're going to be photographed together on Saturday.
People are going to be hyper-analyzing every single movement.
I think we should spend some time together beforehand so we don't look incredibly awkward when the cameras come out.”
A breathless laugh escaped my lips before I had the sense to choke it back.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I'm completely serious, Mars.”
“No, you're not.”
“I am.”
“Jalen,” I sighed, a mix of amusement and genuine disbelief swirling in my chest.
“What?”
I shook my head, pacing a small circle across the hardwood floor.
“If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were just looking for an excuse to see me.”
The silence that followed lasted a second too long.
It wasn't a dead phone line.
It was a heavy, weighted pause that stretched through the cellular waves, carrying the sudden, undeniable shift in temperature between us.
Interesting.
He didn't deny it immediately.
He didn't laugh it off.
When he finally spoke, his tone was a fraction rougher around the edges.
“I think that's a very unfair accusation."
That only made me laugh harder, the sound rich and loose in the quiet of my living room.
“Sure, Jalen. Strategy. Right.”
“I’m thinking strategically,” he insisted, though I could practically hear the wicked, self-satisfied grin curving his lips on the other end of the line.
I smiled despite myself, a small thrill chasing away the last lingering remnants of my anxiety.
The truly terrifying part wasn't the looming media circus anymore.
It was how ridiculously easy it felt to talk to him.
My usual ironclad defenses were melting like ice under a Texas sun.
“Alright, genius,” I said, crossing my ankles.
“How exactly would this high-stakes strategic rehearsal work?”
“I’m glad you asked.”
“Oh, no.”
“Dinner,” he offered smoothly.
“No.”
“Coffee.”
“No.”
“A walk.”
“Jalen,” I sighed, a warning note in my voice.
“Think about it, Mars,” his tone shifted, dropping into that persuasive, grounding rhythm he used when he was commanding a huddle.
“Don't you think it would be smart to soft launch before the game?”
I leaned back in my office chair, staring up at the shadow-draped ceiling.
Damn it.
He had a point.
An annoyingly flawless PR point.
Saturday at NRG Stadium was going to be an absolute sensory overload.
Flashing cameras, roaring fans, hyper-vigilant sports bloggers, and seventy-two thousand pairs of eyes.
Walking out onto that field beside him for the first time without a blueprint was an invitation to look frozen, deer-in-the-headlights style.
A quieter, completely controlled public appearance beforehand would desensitize the media machine just enough to take the sting out of the weekend.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked, my voice laced with a reluctant curiosity that made me slightly afraid of whatever he was going to say next.
His voice immediately brightened, the low rumble of it vibrating right through my palm.
“I was thinking we keep it low-key. We take a walk through Buffalo Bayou Park, grab some coffee, maybe pick up pastries from Oliver's.”
I froze.
He had me at Oliver's.
Oliver's made the kind of double chocolate croissants that people crossed state lines for, flaky, rich, and completely addictive.
Everyone in Houston knew it.
“Using Oliver's against me is a foul,” I accused, a breathless laugh escaping me.
“That's emotional manipulation.”
“I take it you like Oliver's.”
“Boy, do I,” I said, shaking my head.
Jalen let out a hard, genuine chuckle, a rich sound that resonated deep in his chest.
It sent an immediate, warm ripple straight through me, thawing something I didn’t even realize had been frozen.
For a fraction of a second, the fantasy blurred into reality.
A lazy afternoon walk.
Warm coffee.
A perfect pastry.
And Jalen.