It would have been perfect, except for the banner we were supposed to run Jerry’s casket through. I didn’t know if the cheerleaders set it up early or in the wrong place, but they were blocking the aisle that Hannah and all the ex-wives had started to march down. A couple of the exes stuttered, thinking to go back, but were bumped from behind by other ex-wives. Nancy, the team secretary, God bless her, cocked her elbows and swung them back and forth, revving her seventy-year-old body up to mall-walking speed. She had clearly decided that she was going to break through the banner.
I had no doubt that tough old broad would tear through the sign like she was a professional football player amped up pregame on Sunday.
I believed in her.
Right up until she bounced off of it like it was a trampoline. She was launched back into the exes, and most of them fell over. There was a growing pile of expensive pantsuits and designer dresses, and I whistled for Jones to take my place at the coffin. I sprinted ahead toward the ladies and called for other teammates to scoop them up. They jumped over rows of chairs, and each of them took an ex. Bull, our huge center, scooped up Nancy, who beat at his chest, screaming bloody murder that she wanted another shot at “the damned sign.” I easily lifted Hannah—Ms. Strong—into my arms and then turned back to my pallbearer teammates.
“Move, move, move!” I shouted.
They gathered speed with the coffin, and when they reached the banner, the casket easily tore it in half and Jerry made his last entrance on the field before he exited this world for good.
I looked down at Ms. Strong, and she looked up at me. We were both breathing a little heavily.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
Another awkward pause filled with breathing.
“I’m not the equipment guy,” I finally said.
“I know.”
“I’m Johnny Decker, QB1 for the Boston Tomcats.” I smiled.
“I’m Hannah Strong…” She did a pretty good job of keeping a straight face. “I own you.”
Five
Hannah
Welp. At least I didn’t say “I own that” while gesturing at his crotch or butt area. Or any and all of the areas on his supernaturally fit body and ruggedly handsome face. Because that was all I had been thinking about ever since I’d realized Jonathan the cocky equipment manager was, in fact, Johnny Decker the cocky first-string quarterback. Known far and wide as “Decker the Panty Wrecker” since his college days, Jen had informed me.
My star quarterback.
Who wrecked panties.
The one who was playing out his last year of an eight-year 225-million-dollar contract, even though he was thirty-six years old and hadn’t led the Tomcats to the Super Bowl since his third year with the team. The “fine” quarterback who got creamed by the Rebels during their last game…the first game my father had missed in forever.
I mean—I had been busy analyzing numbers and boning up on football. My meeting with the GM didn’t go the way I’d hoped it would. He was guarded and didn’t give me much information. Understandable, since he’d just met me. It was fine. I was perfectly capable of getting the lay of the land on my own. I planned to ask him more specific questions later.
Except the more I looked at the team’s national and local revenue streams, profit, operating income, and salary cap, the more I got confused. The more I read about the rules of the game, the less I understood it. And well, if every now and then the image of smirky lips, pumped biceps, or lady boner–inducing gray sweatpants entered my brain, that wasn’t my fault.
My father and the NFL and the Internet and Johnny Sweatpants were to blame.
The whole situation still felt so surreal.
I had been trying to come to terms with the realities and responsibilities of owning practically everyone in this stadium, including Johnny Decker and all of his parts. And I still wasn’t sure what to do with it.
I mean him.
I mean them.
I mean the responsibility of owning an NFL franchise and all of the people included therein—not his parts.
I was certain that he had riled me up on purpose that morning when we met. I had just started to calm down after our encounter when I caught a glimpse of the team photos in the GM’s office and realized it was the quarterback who had made fun of my pizza confusion.
I knew that deep-dish pizza was a Chicago thing. Everyone knew that! I was just overwhelmed. It was just a bad case of bicep-induced brain flatulence.
And now—this.
There I was, in the very strong arms of Decker the Panty Wrecker, breathing heavily while trying to arrange my facial muscles into a glare so I didn’t accidentally put my mouth on his mouth. Trying to ensure that my panties remained unwrecked. Trying to form more words or find some other way of conveying to him that he could put me down now.
It was just that I sort of liked being held like that. My family was not composed of huggers. So this was probably the closest I’d get to a sympathetic embrace today.
The marching band stopped playing, and despite what was going on all around us, the sound of my rapidly beating heart and our heavy breathing was all I could hear.
“You can put me down now.”
“You can loosen your grip on me a little.”
I did. I loosened my grip on him. “I just didn’t want you to drop me.”
“I can bench two hundred and fifty pounds. I got this.”
He carefully lowered me down and didn’t let go until we were both sure my knees wouldn’t give out.
Not from swooning—from all the craziness that was going on around us.
“So…” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You’re not Walt’s secretary.”
“No, I’m not. Always a good sign when a man assumes any woman who works in a building is a secretary.”
“Always a good sign when the new owner of an NFL team doesn’t even recognize the quarterback.”
“Well, this may come as a shock to you, but not everyone is obsessed with football. Not even in the Strong family.”
Always one to unwittingly humiliate me at every given opportunity, my mother showed up from out of nowhere, taking Decker’s hand in both of hers and exclaiming, “Johnny Decker. I’m Rue Strong—Jerry’s third. It is so nice to finally meet you. Jerry always spoke so fondly of you.”
“What?!” I blurted out. “When?”
“When we’d talk, silly.”
I wanted to ask her when she had talked to my dad in the period of time since Johnny Decker was someone he would talk about. But Johnny Decker seemed to think it was more important for him to politely respond to her first. It seemed being a cocky asshole was the kind of behavior he reserved for only one member of the Strong family. I felt so special.
“It’s very nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. And yours. He was a good man. My, you have a very strong grip, Mr. Decker.” She finally let go of his big strong hand. “Did you notice that, Hannah? When he was holding you in his big, strong arms?”
“Uh, no. I was too busy watching the casketastrophe. Can’t believe that little football-inspired plan was a fiasco.”