Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
“Sure, there’s a guy right there.” I point out the passing vendor, a guy dressed in stadium vendor clothing with one of those heated vending boxes strapped across his chest.
“Nah, let’s have cheesesteaks instead. We’re in Philly, right? I’ll grab them and a couple beers. Be right back.”
“Okay,” I agree. If he wants cheesesteaks instead of a hot dog, what do I care? I return my focus to the field and pull my sleeves down, sticking my thumbs through the weird hole things in the seam. It really is shaping up to be a perfect day, I think as a breeze blows past and I reach to swipe the hair behind my ears.
Wait. Should I have gone with him? I’m so rude. I should have gone with. I stand up and scoot my way down to the end of the aisle, apologizing to each person I have to slide in front of. Cal can’t possibly carry all that by himself. And I should have offered to pay after he brought me here. No worries, I’ll catch up with him in line. There’s always a long line for food at the stadium.
I make my way up the stadium steps towards the main center walkway that leads to the interior side of the stadium where the food vendors are. It takes me a couple minutes to get there, dodging all the fans trying to reach their seats before the game starts. I hope we don’t miss kickoff, I think regretfully as I glance back at one of the giant jumbotrons over the field counting down the minutes till game time. We don’t have much time.
Once I reach the top of the steps and enter the concourse area I step to the side so I’m not blocking the walkway and glance around, trying to determine where Cal would have gone. I spot a Rita’s Italian Ice and my mouth waters. I didn’t know they had them here. I wish I had time to grab one but I’ve got to find Cal first, I think with one last glance at the Italian ice line. Okay, cheesesteaks… I see a place selling them a few feet away, but I don’t see Cal in that line so I keep looking. I don’t know why he’d have skipped this place, as it appears to be the closest one. Where the heck did he go? Wait, is that him over there? His back is to me. I can’t tell. I take a step in that direction when I feel someone move too close to me in my peripheral vision.
“Miss? I’m going to need you to come with us.”
It’s stadium security.
Three
Chloe
“I don’t understand,” I say again as I’m led into some kind of conference room in the stadium. “Where’s Cal? Is something wrong? What’s going on?” Wait. Not a conference room. That sign said security office. I think this is a holding room of some sort. For criminals.
“Sit.” The stadium officer points to a chair. There’s a table with two chairs on one side and one on the other. There’s even a surveillance window on the wall, like an episode of Law & Order. This has got to be a joke.
I sit. What else am I supposed to do? Make a run for it? I’m not a run-for-it kind of girl. Besides, I’ve done nothing wrong. I am not a criminal. I’m a second-grade teacher. Maybe something awful happened to Cal? Maybe he tripped and hit his head. Stadium seating involves a lot of stairs. Or maybe he got shanked while in line for a cheesesteak. With a plastic knife. It happens. I think I saw it once on TV. What if they need me to provide medical information? I don’t know any medical information about Cal, I’ve met the guy twice.
I glance at the two-way mirror on the wall and wonder if someone is looking at me. I stuff my thumbs through the holes in the sleeves of my shirt and rest my folded elbows on the table in front of me and wait. And wait some more. Maybe they forgot about me? I wonder if I can just get up and leave? That would be rude though. Cal might need me. Unless he ditched me here, in which case I am not helping him.
The door opens and a man walks in. Not the stadium security who brought me here, someone new. He’s in jeans and a gray long-sleeved t-shirt. The shirt is fitted. Fitted quite nicely, I can’t help but notice. Dude’s got some guns under that shirt. Guns? What the heck is wrong with me? I’m spending too much time with seven-year-olds.
He tosses a notepad onto the table and pushes the sleeves of his shirt up, revealing forearms lined with muscle. My eyes trail down and I note that he has nice hands. Smooth, even fingernails. Men too often overlook their fingernails. Bitten nails are the worst. He’s got strong hands, I can tell. I’m certain if I were to shake his hand they would be dry and slightly calloused, but firm and strong.