Page 54 of Playing it Safe

She likes routine, so the plan should be specific: drive to the arena, find seats, watch the game, drive home. If plans change, explain why clearly and give her a minute to adjust. She has a curfew — eleven o'clock, no exceptions, even for overtime. This all sounds manageable.

"She might not tell you if she's uncomfortable," Dominique says. "She tends to power through. Watch for her rubbing her wrists or tugging at her braids. That means she needs a break."

"Wrists and braids. Got it." I nod, then hesitate. “What does a break look like at the arena?” Dominique hesitates, and then I remember I’m a superstar athlete with pull. “Forget it. I’ll take her to a suite or something.”

Dominique nods with a smile. "She'll need to use the bathroom at least once. She's independent, but she might need you to wait nearby."

"I can do that."

Dominique studies me for a moment — measuring, deciding —then claps her hands. "Okay. She's been talking about you, by the way. The boyfriend with the sparkle presents."

A woman in scrubs appears in the hallway. "Oh my god, you're Mayhem." She covers her mouth. "Sorry, I'm Wendy. Can I get a photo?"

I pose with Wendy, who asks me to flex, which I decline. Then Anton from the evening shift appears and asks me to sign a napkin at the kitchen table. Two women wave from the living room, where they are watching the pre-game show on TV. I sign things. I shake hands. I promise Dominique I'll have Deen back by eleven sharp. And then a voice comes from the end of the hall.

"Is that my sister’s boyfriend?"

Deen stands in the doorway in her Uprising jersey with her hair in two slightly uneven braids and a constellation of gold and silver face gems dotting both cheeks. She looks like a tiny, fierce, sparkly general preparing for inspection.

"That's me," I say. "You must be Delphine."

"You can call me DD.” She glides down the carpeted hall with a deliberate, measured pace. She stops three steps away and gives me a thorough once-over— really looks, head tilted, assessing. "You're very large."

"I get that a lot."

She reaches me and extends her hand. "Thank you for the sparkles."

I shake her hand. Her grip is firm and brief. "You look great in them."

"I know." She adjusts the strap on her clear stadium purse. "Are we going? I want to see the warm-ups."

In the car, Deen sits in the back seat with her headphones around her neck and her purse on her lap. She's quiet for the first few minutes, looking out the window, and I let the silence exist.

Then: "Briar says you have a cat."

"I do. His name is Puck."

"Like the fairy."

"Like the fairy." I glance in the rearview mirror, remembering she works in a bookstore. She nods, satisfied with the information.

"I wanted a cat, but the house voted for a fish. His name is Gregory." She pauses. "Gregory is boring."

"I believe it."

"Puck sounds more interesting."

"He has his moments."

Another silence. Then: “Do you have our tickets?”

“Ah.” I smile at her in the rearview mirror. “Is it okay if we sit with my friends? They have pretty good seats.”

Her eyes get very wide. "Fury friends?”

"That's us."

"Briar is going to be so surprised." She clutches her purse strap. "Do they know I'm coming?"