Overtime

15: Autographs

After staring at the girls for another minute, I decide to take back what is mine. I march over towards the blonde with her manicured fingers in the color red wrapped around Miles's arm. He immediately looked up at me with pleading eyes, like he couldn't wait for the moment I returned. He excuses himself and steps away from the girls, walking towards me. "You got me a drink? That's sweet of you." He kisses my cheek before taking the Coors bottle out of my hand.

"Sorry it took so long. Asher Barnett and I were watching you with your fan club," I joke, taking a sip of my own beer. I need to joke about the situation, and maybe I'll feel better.

He rolls his arm, wrapping his hand around my waist, pulling me close, "I saw you, you ass. I wanted you to save me; I'm pretty sure I have marks from her nails gripping me." I grin as our bodies push together. "Was he hitting on you?"

"A hell of a lot less than those girls were hitting on you. He told me I'll get used to all the girls falling at your feet." I peek around him to see those girls staring me down nearby. They looked younger than me, too.

He shrugs, "Well, somebody's gotta pay the bills. I give them a conversation, and in return, they boost my credibility and sales."

"I never thought about it as a money scheme. Kind of smart. Can I tell you a secret?" He leans down closer to hear me, "If you had looked harder in my closet, you would have found a Jimmy Garoppolo jersey. You didn't make it to the red section of the closet."

He backs away, his mouth dropping open, "I don't know how to feel about this. I suppose it could be worse. It could be Joe Burrow's jersey. Yeah, no. You're getting an entire sweatsuit full of my name."

I giggle, pulling him back towards me, "Don't forget the undies with your name on them too."

His eyes changed in a swift moment from playful to lust as his hand slipped lower down my back to my ass, "Don't you think I forgot about your little setup with wearing no undies."

"I did it for your benefit," I tell him as I drag him over towards our friends who sit in a large booth overlooking the dance floor. Amber sits next to Caleb. Emma sits next to some beefy-looking man, most likely a lineman or tackle. Hailey is nowhere to be seen. I looked for her outside the booth but didn't see her or Ryals, so I slid into the booth, Miles following behind me. "What are we doing?" I lean over and ask Emma.

"We got a bet going on with a couple on the dance floor of how long before they start making out. They just met at the bar. I've got five minutes, Amber's got seven, and—shit. There they go."

"Three minutes and thirty-three seconds," Caleb gloats, "Gimme my money." The rest of the table groans, pulling cash from their wallets.

"Have you seen Hailey?"

Emma and Amber seem almost clueless. Amber shrugs, "Last I saw her, she was talking to that guy she came to see."

"I saw them two headed towards the bathroom just a few minutes ago," The man next to Emma beamed.

"Well shit, she works fast," I joke. The table laughs, and I peek down and look at the crowd dancing to see if I see anyone interesting. It's dark in here, so it's hard to see except for the neon lights from the stage the band has on.

A waiter comes by, dropping off a plate full of shots. Everyone grabs one off the plate, toasting it to the Titans win. I tilt my head back, letting the liquor burn my throat. "God, that's fucking nasty," I cough, taking a long sip of my drink to get rid of the taste.

"Gold tequila," Amber says.

A new group of girls surrounds our table, blocking our view of the dance floor, "Miles, can I get your autograph?" Another blonde girl asks with pleading eyes.