“I guess you’re my date for the night.” Kidd puts his arm around me and bats his eyelashes. I push him away and turn back toward the bar. Sports highlights are playing on the television. Right now we have basketball, baseball and hockey – its fan central overload for a true sports fan. On any given night, you can flip through at least three channels to watch some type of sporting event.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and take it off airport mode. It’s only a matter of seconds before the notifications come in.
“Why do you even have notifications on?” Kidd is looking over my shoulder, watching as my phone keeps registering text messages, Twitter alerts and Facebook posts.
“I like to see what people are saying about me,” I say, shrugging. I pick up my drink and almost spit it out when I see Daisy’s name come in as a text message. I angle my phone away from Kidd and contemplate whether I want to know what she has to say. I opt to read my twitter alerts first.
BoRe Blogger @BoReRenBlog – 4hrs
Renegades win despite @TheRealEthanD striking out 4xs! 2 much hype?
My temperature starts to rise as I read the tweet that started the flurry of notifications. This blogger is a piece of work and I can pretty much guarantee you that he’s never played a professional game in his life. If he had, he would show a bit more respect in his posts. These people who hide behind screen names and do nothing but incite hate piss me off. There needs to be a law about this kind of crap.
I scroll through the responses. Some agree, while others disagree. A few women tweet that I’m hot, sexy and they don’t care if I strike out, as long as they don’t. Classy. Another tweet by the blogger catches my attention.
BoRe Blogger @BoReRenBlog – 3hrs
Seems @TheRealEthanD didn’t bother exchanging numbers...
There’s an image attached and I’m almost afraid to scroll up to see it. I can tell by the small sliver showing that there are people in the background. I down the rest of my drink, letting my thumb hover over my screen. When there isn’t a drop left, I push down, dragging my thumb up.
Fuck me. It’s a picture of Daisy holding a sign that says “Call Me”. This has to be what Bennett was referring to during the game when he said she wants a second chance. I shake my glass for a refill and look over at Kidd, who is engrossed in his phone. We’re a sad, sad example of single men. Once my drink is refilled, I down it, needing the liquid courage to read Daisy’s text message.
I close Twitter and click on the green message button. My mom, dad, sister and Sarah have all texted, along with my agent, but it’s only Daisy’s message that I’m interested in. The first line is visible without even opening the message.
Daisy: Sorry…
That’s all I can see without opening the rest. It makes me wonder what exactly she’s sorry for. The sign? Or the fact that she mentioned rumors? The guy that wanted to get to know her yesterday wants to hear what she has to say, but the asshole in me doesn’t care. She’s just another chick in the pool of millions. Unfortunately, I’m my own worst enemy and I love to torture myself.
Daisy: Sorry…
I’m sorry for the stupid remarks I made, how closed off I am & the sign. I tried calling you but couldn’t bring myself to actually press your name. I thought the sign would work but I guess it didn’t. I just wanted to say thank you for breakfast and I’m sorry.
I read and reread her babbling message. She’s sorry for being closed off? Doesn’t she realize that most of us want to be like that, but our privacy is invaded? We’re followed, spied on and can’t do a simple thing like go to the mall without being hounded. She’s lucky that she can be closed off, especially from ridiculous media agencies. They tell the world everything and would probably even like to document when we take a shit if they could.