“Rise and Shine. Kisses, C.”
I ripped the note off and crumpled it up. It’d been blocking part of the photo they’d printed along with the headline. It was the one Caroline had showed me the night before, of us inside Mascarada, blown up to a full page. I blinked and blinked again, confused about why the image was distorted. It wasn’t until my tears started to smear a few words of the story that I realized I was crying.
I wiped my tears away and forced myself to read every detail they’d printed, though my stomach threatened to give halfway through. The newspaper hadn’t held back. Every gory, salacious detail was printed there for people to read, from our rumored meet-ups to my soccer history. They started by contrasting my history with Caroline’s, painting me as the Whore of Babylon and Caroline as Mother Theresa. They juxtaposed an image of me in my sports bra, sweaty and tired after practice with a photo of Caroline in a perfectly tailored pantsuit handing out bread at a freaking orphanage in Croatia. Honestly, by the end of the article, even I hated myself.
I sat on the floor in the entryway and read the article twice before reaching for my phone and googling my name. The day before there’d been a few random interviews from small-scale magazines. My college soccer profile had still been on the front page along with a story my town’s newspaper had printed about me going to the Olympics. All of that was gone. Gossip site after gossip site, magazine after magazine, Facebook post after Facebook post…I was officially the most hated person on the internet.
She’ll never be Caroline.
Shouldn’t she be focused on the games?! How does she have time to become a mistress?
She’s pure trash. She couldn’t keep her legs closed for a few weeks? What part of ENGAGED didn’t she understand?
I refuse to watch the game today! I won’t be supporting her OR her career. #Loser
She’s pretty, but she’s nothing compared to Caroline.
#TeamCaroline
Is anyone else boycotting the soccer game today?
My daughter looks up to these girls.
How does #AndieFoster still have any sponsorships?
What a whore.
I was still reading through #AndieFoster on Twitter when Kinsley and Becca pulled my phone out of my hand.
“Stop! I was reading those.”
Kinsley shook her head. “No. It’s not healthy, Andie. Those people don’t know you. They’re bored and stupid. Ignore them. They’ll be on to the next story in a few days.”
I stared back down at the paper, wrinkly and smeared with tears. “She sent the story.”
“I saw it.”
Of course she’d seen it. Everyone had fucking seen it. Every person I’d gone to high school with, every girl on my college soccer team, my parents, grandparents, enemies, friends. Every single person was waking up across the world and reading the #1 headline on every major news outlet: me.
Kinsley dropped to the floor and wrapped me up in her arms. “I’m so sorry, Andie.”
My tears mixed into her hair as she held me there, keeping her arms wrapped tightly around me.
“What happens now, Kinsley?”
“I honestly don’t know, but there was a media shitshow after everyone found out I was seeing Liam while he was my coach, and here’s what I wish someone had told me then: you’re an adult, and you haven’t done anything wrong—even though they want you to think you have. There’s a little bit of blood in the water, and they think they’re sharks, but they’re actually vultures, Andie, and if you don’t give them anything, they’re powerless. Hold your head up high.”
Easier said than done.
As I got ready for the game—well, got ready to sit on the bench and watch the game—I fielded phone calls from my mom, my dad, my manager, Coach Decker, and a dozen or so unknown numbers that kept hounding me. I ignored everyone I could and spoke briefly with everyone I couldn’t. My nerves were shot and my emotions were raw. I finally stopped crying long enough to dab concealer under my eyes and brush on a bit of mascara, but I knew it’d be gone well before the end of the day. Kinsley and Becca had everything waiting for me by the door when I was ready to leave. We walked in silence to the elevators and then stepped inside when the heavy doors slid open. There were already people inside and when I took a spot near the doors, all conversation came to a screeching halt.
“Are you Andie Foster?” one guy asked.
I kept my eyes on the doors and stayed silent.
“Hey baby, where’s that mask?”
“That’s enough,” Kinsley snapped, turning around and leveling him with a sharp stare. I could feel the tears starting again, but I took a shaky breath and willed them away. Stupid Elevator Guy was only the start of it. As we made our way through the lobby, I heard the whispers and chatter.