After letting her know that we’d get to go to Grant’s football game, to which she’d lost her mind, and telling her where he’d gotten us seats, to which she lost everything that was left, I told her she couldn’t tell anyone about her being Grant’s daughter. At least not yet.
For now, I was happy to remain the woman Grant Turner had just started seeing, and Charlie was just my daughter. I figured the less we gave the public, the more time we’d have to figure out how we wanted to tell them. The more time I’d have to figure out a way to tell my daughter about my Huntington’s before she found out from a third party.
Stepping inside the owner’s box was a totally different experience than bustling around the stadium. Everything looked different; everything smelled different. Even the people looked different.
“Holy . . .” Charlie’s mouth fell open as she gaped at the impressive room.
“Your very first football game and you’re sitting in the owner’s box. How do you rate?” I gave the ponytail sticking out of the back of her autographed ball cap a shake.
“Well, I am—” She stopped herself promptly, giving me a sheepish look. “Your daughter.”
“Well, you are.” Shaking my head, I moved us inside the room.
Both of us were moving hesitantly, like we weren’t sure we belonged here. About a dozen people were staggered at the giant front windows, chatting, drinks in hand, and a few had plates stacked with fancy-looking hor d’oeurves. Reminded me of the same kind of food Grant and I had scratched our heads at at the French restaurant the other night.
From the silver trays lined up along the side wall and the cards listing what was inside, I could tell this wasn’t the place to come looking for a hot dog, nachos, or soft pretzel.
No one noticed us until we were almost at the chairs lined up front, but when they did, they all seemed to notice us at once.
“Miss Hale,” the older gentleman with a full head of silver-white hair greeted me, setting down his plate and steering toward us.
“Oh my gosh,” Charlie whispered beside me, “that’s . . .”
“Ralph Fontaine.” He smiled, holding out his hand toward me. “Glad you could be here today.”
“Thank you for having us. This is really special.” I shook his hand and returned the smile, feeling like a fish out of water. Charlie and I were decked out in head-to-toe Storm gear, while everyone else inside the room was in wool sports coats and tailored slacks. I felt like we’d just been dropped into a country club in the Hamptons or something.
“Quite welcome. When your big gun makes a request, the team owner doesn’t balk. Unless it’s a twenty-percent pay increase.”
Mr. Fontaine chuckled, but for some reason, I felt like he’d just paid me a sideways insult. Or maybe I was just being extra-sensitive, feeling like such an outsider in this room. I was a girl from The Clink—what in the hell was I doing in the owner’s box at Storm Stadium?
“And this must be your daughter.” Mr. Fontaine held out his hand for Charlie too, which she clearly thought was quite the honor.
“Charlie,” she said in her most mature voice.
Mr. Fontaine motioned at the line-up of food and drinks. “Please, help yourself, and if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”
His gaze fell on me, something in his brow suggesting he was studying me. Just enough confusion for me to realize that he couldn’t figure out what this perfectly ordinary girl who came with the “baggage” of a child could be doing with his top player.
Grant Turner belonged with the stereotypical beauty that hung off other players’ arms—tall, leggy models or showy, voluptuous Playmates. I could almost hear Mr. Fontaine’s thoughts as he tried to fathom what his precious number eighty-seven saw in the petite, non-leggy, non-curvy, very-epitome-of-average woman standing in front of him.
I had one middle finger that could answer that question for him.
But I refrained since Charlie was here. I’d rather set a good example for her than prove a point with Mr. Elitist.
“Those two seats on the end are still free if you’d like to place dibs.” Waving at the end of the row, Mr. Fontaine got back to his fellow navy-sports-coat-wearing cronies on the other side of the room.
End of the row. Other side of the room. It was clear we didn’t fit in, and it was just as clear no one was interested in crossing the bridge to make us feel welcome.
And so the hell what?
It was my daughter’s very first time as a spectator at the game she loved and getting to watch her father dominate the field. I wasn’t going to cry over a bunch of stuck-up rich people.