“You aren’t seriously letting this get to you are you?” he questioned. The concern in his eyes brought a new rush of tears to mine. I was on the what not to wear list of seven online blogs. Yes, I was letting this get to me.
“Maybe I just don’t fit in here,” I sobbed as he pulled me into his arms. His lips pressed against my cheeks, and I knew he could taste the salt of my tears. “I’m a mess!” I blurted out half crying, half laughing as he pulled away from me and stared into my eyes.
“Baby, you’re adorable. All I want. All I need. I promise you that,” he insisted. “Ace may act like he has it all together, but trust me, I wouldn’t trade my life for his for anything.” His words were soothing and convincing enough for me to dry my tears and apologize for overreacting.
Thing is, it didn’t feel like I was overreacting.
The tabloids had been brutal, criticizing the way I dressed, the way I talked, even the expressions I made. I’d been forced to make my Facebook and Instagram pages private because so many women were going on it and saying things like, what does he see in her?
If I dressed up, the headlines were just as brutal, saying things like Country Girl Misses the Mark in the Big City or What Not To Wear. I couldn’t win, and found myself staying in the apartment more and more.
Which made me lonely.
Which made me depressed.
Which made me temperamental.
And the only person I could take it out on was Calvin, the last person on the planet I should be mad at. Because he was right. I did want him to be a big star. I did want him to sign a multi-million-dollar contract. I did want to go shopping and have nice things. I pushed him in this direction and wasn’t dealing with any of it very well.
So between the tabloids and the arguing, everything was hitting me hard.
“I have to go. Do you want to come with me?” he asked sweetly.
I hated when their scrimmages were in the evenings. It felt like we never got any time to ourselves. Practice in the morning, a break before the game, usually spent with the guys at the bar, not drinking, but certainly getting some female attention. After the game, they were back at the bar for drinks to unwind and relax.
“Yes.” I accepted his offer to ride to the game with him and then quickly declined once I realized I looked like a hot mess. “I’ll meet you there,” I promised.
After a kiss on the forehead and a promise that he loved me just the way I was, he was gone. I jumped up, showered, and found a cute sundress and pumps, then fussed with my hair until it looked good enough to go into public.
Did I look good enough to go into public? I stared in the mirror, judging and double judging everything about my appearance. Back home, I was considered pretty. But here…?
Holly called while on my way to the stadium. I tried to keep my side of the conversation as private as possible since the cab driver seemed to be interested in listening in. I could trust no one. Those tabloid asshole mongrels paid good money for dirt on the players. Holly was rambling about Ace and the picture in the tabloid, not even acknowledging that I was publicly humiliated. “Should I come before next week?” she asked.
“What’s next week?”
She made a “duh” sound. “The ball.”
My head was reeling as I tried to remember if Calvin had told me anything about a ball. Nope, nothing. What the fuck?
“Ace invited you?” I asked, suddenly pissed that even Ace had been more courteous than my boyfriend.
“Yes, unless he’s taking one of those other girls now.”
“You know you two aren’t exclusive. If you want to be with a man like Ace, you have to get used to that fact.” Shit. That was cold and snippy. “I’m sorry, Holly. I didn’t mean that. I mean it’s true, but I shouldn’t have said it like that,” I retracted what I could of my statement.
“It’s okay, you’re right,” she said solemnly on the other end of the phone. “We’re just fuck buddies, so I have no claim.” Without another word, she hung up, and I felt like the vilest bitch on Long Island.
The cabby was staring at me through the rearview mirror as he pulled into the stadium’s private lot. I showed my identification and had him drop me off at the large blue doors meant only for staff, players, and certain VIPs. I didn’t fall under any of those categories, but until the season started, they had granted me access.
The owner, Rhett Hamilton, was the only one in the sky box. I stopped at the door when I realized it wasn’t empty. He turned and smiled. “Whitney, right?” I nodded as he extended his hand to me and then guided me to the seat next to where he had been sitting. “They are doing great,” he said, motioning to the players on the field.
“Good.” I was somewhat intimidated by his presence. He was a handsome man, one with distinguished looks, and he oozed confidence, a characteristic I lacked at the moment, more so than usual.
I took the seat he offered and got a whiff of his cologne as he returned to the seat beside me. I wished I was bold enough to ask the brand so I could buy it for Calvin. It was panty-dropping good.
“Are you excited about the celebration ball next week?” he asked.
Since I had just found out about it, no, excited wasn’t the word I felt. “Certainly,” I lied.
“It’s such an honor that the city is welcoming the team so graciously.” He spoke with elegance, a smoothness that I could only relate to Bond, James Bond. I could listen to him talk all day, about anything really.
“Why wouldn’t they?” I asked.
He leaned close to me, and I got another whiff of that delicious scent. “Well, this city wasn’t exactly thrilled to see another team hit the fields. Yankee fans are tough, as are fans of the Mets.”
I felt stupid for asking the question; of course, I knew the turmoil behind the new team. I had listened to Calvin go on about it for hours, but his presence was so intimidating, my brain just shut off.
“Who do you plan to wear?” he asked, his eyes flicking down to my lips.
“W-who?” I stammered in confusion, looking away and twisting my fingers together.
“Designer,” he explained with a slight smile. Amusement at my ignorance no doubt!
“Oh, I have no idea,” I admitted, feeling my cheeks heat.
The thought of the tabloid pictures plastered in my mind, and I wondered if he was feeling me out just to make sure I didn’t show up in those embarrassing green yoga pants.
“A beauty like you should be a thrill for any designer to dress for the night.” His eyes sparkled as he spoke, I swear they did! “There will be plenty of publicity, so why don’t I hook you up with my stylist.”
“That’s not necessary, I promise not to wear the green yoga pants,” I blurted out. His lips tightened, and his eyebrows rose high on his forehead, then he finally let out a refreshing laugh. Once he started, I joined in. He held his belly to calm his amusement.