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the phone is ringing, loud, in erin’s ear, an incessant and boring brrring brrring that could be anyone, and probably not anyone that erin wants to talk to.
“would you shut that off, too early…” the warm body next to her mumbles, breath blowing against the sensitive skin of erin’s neck, and she rolls over to shut her cell off, catching just a glimpse of the name before the screen goes black. her eyebrows raise, but she ignores the blinking notification light and curls back into the woman next to her, bare skin against hot bare skin.
even as the woman – whose name escapes erin, it really is too early – nuzzles into erin’s neck, arm wrapping around erin’s slender waist as she presses herself against erin’s back, all erin can think about is the black flash of letters.
ROMO
xoxo
across the country, toni sprawls across her bed – well, as much as someone can sprawl with a fucking broken clavicle – and tosses her phone to the side, mumbling, “stupid rodgers,” under her breath. her shoulder is throbbing, she hasn’t had her meds yet this morning, and bright flashes of pain shoot down chest every time she breathes.
the silence of the room seems to mock her, the ceiling fan clicking with every rotation, and toni presses her palm against her closed eyelids hard enough that white shoots across her vision.
why she thought it would be a good idea to call rodgers, she didn’t know; maybe because she thought rodgers would have called her already, probably to taunt her with that dumb smug tone in her voice, or maybe because toni just wanted to vent to someone who wouldn’t try to drown her in sympathies and “the docs are saying you should be back in 8 weeks” like that’s supposed to make her feel better, like her season isn’t completely over.
she’s not sure how this thing with rodgers started anyway, but she suspects it has something to do with them running into each other every year despite not being in the same division, and the constant comparisons between the two of them; they started in the league around the same time, and it’s no surprise really that their numbers match up so evenly.
but really, this thing with rodgers, the thing where toni calls her at 6:48 am the day after a nearly season ending injury and is upset that rodgers doesn’t answer her? that’s an entirely different beast, and one that toni has no intention of facing.
ever.
xoxo
kicking one night stands out of her bed is never an easy thing, but this morning’s is one of the worst, taking erin’s 1000 count egyptian cotton with her as she putzes around erin’s house like she belongs there, and erin feels a headache coming on.
“i’m sorry, you have to go,” she says again, for what feels like the hundredth time, and the woman – anna? amber? – grins at her from her spot on erin’s barstool.
“sure we can’t go another round…” she starts, trailing off in what is probably supposed to be seductive and instead just sounds confused, and erin internally sighs.
“i’m sure,” erin is firm but nice as she starts searching for the woman’s clothes, which are scattered around her house – in the bathtub, really? – and finally escorts her out, paying for a cab because like hell if she’s driving this woman home.
“you sure know how to pick ‘em, rodgers,” she mutters to herself as she weaves through the hallway, trailing her fingers gently against the framed jerseys hanging on the wall, “no more vodka for you.”
as erin wanders into her room, she spots her phone on the nightstand, and she hmms thoughtfully to herself. the missed call notification light is still blinking at her, green and steady, and erin settles herself on the edge of her bed, picking up her phone gingerly. she wonders if maybe she misread the name this morning, but there it is, clear as ever, when erin presses the power button.
MISSED CALL
ROMO
SEPTEMBER 21, 2015
6:48 AM
erin puts her thumb over the home button and the home screen lights up, the notification smack dab in the middle of her screen. she stares at it for a moment before she sighs and swipes it to the side, falling back onto her sheet-less bed and staring at the ceiling.
she knows what happened yesterday in the eagles game, saw the replays on sportscenter and nfl network last night, but she doesn’t know why romo is calling her. there’s been hardly any contact between them since their january playoff game, and as far as erin knew, whatever had been there between them wasn’t anymore.
the january game aftermath comes back to erin in a flash, of champagne being popped in the locker room, of clara grabbing around erin’s neck and noogieing her like erin was clara’s little sister, of coach slapping erin’s shoulder with a huge grin and a “great fucking job.”
(and then there’s the part that erin’s pushed to the back of her mind, the part that involves romo appearing suddenly out of the shadows in the corner of the parking lot, where romo’s shoulders are slumped but her eyes are wide and fierce. where romo presses erin against the driver’s side door, pins erin there with a knee between her legs and her fingers digging bruises into erin’s shoulders. where erin fumbles with the lock behind her and pulls romo inside with her, drags her fingers through romo’s still wet hair and makes a breathy sound when romo bites at her mouth.
where it’s fast and hard and neither of them speak a word during it, where romo is gone just as fast as she appeared and erin is left with her suit pants pushed around her knees and stickiness clinging to the insides of her thighs, sprawled in the leaned back driver’s seat like she was a teenager again.)
erin shakes herself out of her thoughts and narrows her eyes at her phone, dropping it onto the pillow next to her and then rolling off the bed, feeling an uncomfortable sense of unease tightening her chest and dipping into her gut.
like hell if she’s going to call romo back, even if the woman does have a broken clavicle. she refuses to make romo her problem.