by Alley Ciz
“But my biggest concern is how the internet trolls are going to affect my life. I deleted all my social media years ago, yet…here we are.”
This whole scenario is in direct response to people posting about me, dragging up old pictures and the like, trying to make them relevant again. It already cost me the man I fell in love with; what else will it take from me?
“There are a few schools of thought on how best to handle it, and I can sit here and give you facts and statistics until I’m blue in the face.” There’s this gleam, almost one of mischief, that enters her hazel eyes as she leans back in her chair. “Eric has been very vocal about what he thinks you should do, but…ultimately the decision is going to be up to you.”
I bet that’s a very mild description of how my brother has been. The number of phone calls he has made today while having practice is staggering. Thank god for JT serving as my buffer, because I can only imagine how much E was able to cram into each of his conversations.
I hate that I feel like I’m being forced into a decision that should be inconsequential and is total first-world problems.
My stomach cramps, and the bagel I managed to choke down with my second cup of coffee threatens to make a reappearance as flashbacks from high school hit me.
Cornered in the girls’ bathroom.
The taunting: “If I dick you good enough, do you think your brother can put in a good word for me with the college scouts?”
The whispers: “It’s cute you think you were good enough to lock down someone like Liam Parker.”
Phones constantly pointed in my direction, waiting for the next GIF- or meme-worthy moment.
Underneath the thick blue camouflage cotton of my sweatshirt, my skin breaks out in goose bumps and beads of nervous sweat roll down my spine.
I used to be the girl who could make friends with anyone. Put me in any social situation and I flourished.
With the exception of the woman sitting next to me, you’d be hard-pressed to find a sister prouder of their brother or quicker to boast about his accomplishments.
Then Dad died.
E and I still champion each other, but it’s only done privately.
I’m not the first daughter to suffer the loss of her father, and sadly, I won’t be the last. It’s just his death was the initial spark in setting my private life aflame.
Liam didn’t just betray me romantically by cheating on me. No, he betrayed me on a basic human decency level.
Who was the number one source for the press and stalkerazzi looking for dirt on or photo ops with one of the NFL’s top draft picks? Liam Parker. If only we could have proved it.
What started as a human interest story about how an up-and-coming NFL star eloped with his college girlfriend in an effort to maintain guardianship of his minor sibling was twisted into ludicrous and sensationalized stories of how the great Eric Dennings took on the responsibility of caring for his suicidal sister.
I was extremely depressed, especially during that first week after we learned about Dad being killed. Even now, it’s a complete void in my memory. Though I wasn’t suicidal during that time, the media cared more about selling headlines and advertising space than they did about the truth of our family’s pain.
Stinging radiates from my hands, and I hiss. JT lifts his gaze to me, his eyes dropping to my hands as I unfurl my fingers. Drops of blood mar the skin of my palms from where my nails dug in hard enough to pierce, and a towel appears in my field of vision.
We don’t like to talk about—or even think about—the soap-opera-worthy details surrounding the circumstances of Dad’s death. The press using them as fodder to sell newspapers was one thing. We were able to come to terms with them…sort of.
But having my most private moments of pain turned into memes for my schoolmates’ entertainment is why I ran away from social media and never looked back.
“Eric explained to me—at great length—how you’ve separated your identities to minimize recognition.” Jordan starts to scroll through open tabs on the iPad, and when I catch a glimpse of Instagram, I glance away, physically incapable of looking at it. “I wish I could tell you I think it’s possible for you to continue on this way.” Her eyes flit from the screen back to me, and her throat works with a swallow.
If she’s nervous to say her part when it’s something she is paid to do, how the hell am I supposed to feel? I’m not sure I can handle another bomb. After yesterday, I’m barely keeping it together. The tape holding all my broken pieces together is of the Scotch variety, not the duct.
“But with you dating such a notable player from your school’s football team, the interest in you”—she clicks on the CasanovasMysteryGirl hashtag and scrolls through the posts—“is only going to increase because of the original secrecy.”
Of course it is.
We live in a day and age where people feel they are entitled to know things about their peers. And if that peer happens to be a celebrity—not that Mason is a celebrity outside of campus, but we all know he will be one day—they feel it is their right to have all the information.
The invention of the internet has made that information both easier to come by and more readily available. The problem with the interwebs is it also gives those who should have kept their opinions on said information to themselves a platform to spew them without consequence—at least without consequence to themselves.
“I know E probably asked you to come up with about a dozen different contingency plans because we all knew this was an eventuality.” I suck in a breath, knowing the next words out of my mouth are going to cut me like razorblades. “But how different would your strategies be if I wasn’t dating Mason?”
“Are you breaking up with me?”
“Yes.”
God, I hate being reminded of my new single status.
“What do you mean?”
In the distance, I hear the front door open and close, so T must be home from school.
“In your professional opinion…if I were no longer connected to Mason, how fast do you think the interest in me would die down?”
“Please tell me you aren’t thinking of breaking up with Mason over this, Kay?” Bette’s question is tinged with panic. Guess it wasn’t T arriving. I want to say I’m surprised she drove up, but I’m not.
She’s here to mom the crap out of me. As much as I wish I didn’t need her here to do just that, I do. I totally do. The little girl inside me who only ever wanted her mommy growing up weeps at how quickly Bette has come to lend her support. She doesn’t even know the half of what happened and still she came without being asked.
“No.” I shake my head, rattling the dull throb left over from my cry-fest.
“Good.” Bette lets out a sigh of relief. Too bad it’s premature.
“He dumped me.”
#Chapter5
Hiding out from the guys is harder than I thought it would be. Right now, I’m wandering around aimlessly, walking each floor of The Huntington like I’m a ghost tasked with haunting the hotel.
With the game tomorrow, I can’t get blindly drunk like I did last night, but fuck if I’m not looking for a way to shut the voices in my head up. Okay, so it’s not voices, it’s voice, but my inner coach has been both extremely vocal and suspiciously quiet. It’s an oxymoron I have had zero luck in figuring out.
I still haven’t had it in me to check Instagram again, but based on the questions I’ve been getting when I am around, two things are glaringly obvious.
1. No one has figured out Kay and I broke up.
2. The fact that Eric Dennings is her brother is now common knowledge.
“Bro, why didn’t you tell us Kay is related to Eric Dennings?”
“Holy shit! Was Eric Dennings the family you met in Maryland?”
“This is epic. You gotta hook us up with a meet-and-greet.”
The ones from my teammates were easy enough to ignore—what they were asking wasn’t any of their business. The ones from my boys, though, not so
much.
“Why isn’t Smalls answering when we call?”
“For reals. Doesn’t she know it’s our night-before-the-game tradition?”
“She’s messing with our superstitions.”
Questions like those just kept coming, and I didn’t answer a single one. I didn’t know how.
#Chapter6
UofJ411: Umm…am I the only one seeing this? #OffYourGame #CasanovaWatch
*boomerang of Mason fumbling*
@68blackburnc: Since when does @CasaNova87 fumble? #ButterFingers
@Acolon1729: Is this from his first or second one today? #LostCount #CasanovaWatch
UofJ411: Where’s Waldo? #GetTheMilkCartonReady #CasanovasGirl
*picture of the empty seat where Kay and the boys usually sit*
@Annielaurel: Could this be why @CasaNova87 played like shit? #WheresTheGF #CasanovasGirl
@Ash_lovesbooks: Anyone have connections at Penn State? Is she at their game instead? #PlayingBothSides #CasanovasGirl
#Chapter7
“We need to talk,” Trav says—well, more like demands as we step inside the AK house.
Bypassing the pledges setting up for tonight’s party, I follow my best friend up the staircase to his bedroom. I quirk a brow when I hear the lock click.
“I’m not risking anyone interrupting us before we have it out.” He leans against the edge of his desk, crossing his feet at the ankles and his arms over his chest.
I mirror his stance against the wall opposite him and blow out a breath. I knew I wasn’t doing a good job of keeping anything from him. We’ve been best friends for too long for him not to pick up on the most minute changes in my demeanor, and though I’m loath to admit it, this breakup has affected me in a major way.
Silence stretches and swells between us, both waiting for the other to speak first. I don’t know what Trav wants me to say, but I’m not in the mood to have a Dr. Phil session with him.
“Is it Kay?” Her name slams into me like the tackle I took in the third quarter.
My head thunks against the drywall, no longer able to maintain eye contact. “Is what about Kay?”
“I hate when you try to be all aloof and play dumb.” He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “How quickly you forget I was there when you were losing your shit in the shower.”
The slap of my palm against the wet wall echoes like a gong.
My shampoo bottle gets chucked out of the shower stall, skidding across the floor from the force.
“I would have thought you’d go to Kay’s to talk shit out…” Trav runs his gaze up and down my body, assessing me. “But since you’ve been a miserable motherfucker the last two days, I’m starting to suspect you didn’t and you’re just letting things fester.”
Two days—that’s it? It’s only been about forty-eight hours since I broke up with Kay.
“Nah, bruh. You’re overthinking things.” I try to brush it off again. I really, really don’t want to talk about this.
“Nova, you’re so full of shit your eyes have turned brown.” He shoves off from the desk and starts to pace. I’m not sure how helpful it is, the space inside the room so minimal he only manages two steps before he has to turn around in the other direction. “Fuck!” Trav slaps his hands against his thighs. “This is me you’re talking to. Why are you lying?”
After about a dozen laps, he resumes his position and levels me with a heated glare. I don’t defend myself against the accusation I see in his eyes because, honestly, I can’t. Things are only going to get worse once he finds out the details.
“I’m an idiot.” I lift my hat off my head and toss it onto the bed, running my own hands through my hair.
Trav, being the asshole he is, laughs. “That isn’t new information. What I really want to know is why did the guy who hasn’t had a single collegiate fumble have two”—he waves two fingers in front of my face—“in today’s game?”
And there it is, the real kick in the jockstrap. The Hawks lost our first game of the season—a conference game, no less. I played like shit. Honestly, I’m shocked Coach Knight didn’t bench me. For the first time ever, my heart wasn’t in the game. Instead, it was somewhere on the floor where it landed after it was ripped out. And, yes, before you get on my ass like my inner coach, I am well aware that the wound was self-inflicted.
“I feel like this is a dumb question because you’re fine at away games, but was it because Kay wasn’t at the game?”
I told you girls were nothing but drama, but NOOO, you didn’t want to listen to me. I bet Brantley has been blowing up your phone. What would your future agent have to say about how shitty you played? *taps chin* No wonder you’re too much of a chickenshit to turn it on.
“I thought she never planned on coming today anyway? Didn’t she have cheerleading shit to do with her friend who’s in town?”
My hands clench into fists and a growl rolls through the back of my throat at the mention of her “friend”.
Don’t you think it’s time to find your balls and tell him what you did? My inner coach is a dick.
“I broke up with Kay.”
“WHAT?!” Trav jumps to his feet. “Why the hell would you do a dumbass thing like that?”
“So what I really want to know, Kayla—if that’s even your real name…”
“Because she’s just like Chrissy!” I shout, taking my frustration out on him because he’s here.
“The fuck she is.” He may have cursed, but his tone is calm and even.
“Look at all the signs.” My fist punching a hole through the drywall echoes through the room. Trav, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch at my loss of control.
“You really had me fooled.”
Secret Instagram profile.
Secrets in general.
Different name in an official capacity.
Claimed by someone who isn’t me on Instagram.
I tick each of these off, the expression on Trav’s face only darkening with each one.
“You know what?” Trav shakes his head, his disappointment dripping off of him. “You’re right.” See? It isn’t just me. “I should have seen this coming. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“Not your fault, man. At least this one didn’t try to ruin our friendship.”
I’m barely managing to function as it is. If I had to worry about the strength of our bromance right now, I don’t know what would happen.
Also…
For as bad as the Chrissy/Tina thing was, I didn’t love her. Sure, my dick and my immature teenage heart thought I did, but that’s because I didn’t know how to differentiate lust from love like I do now.
That’s what makes all this that much worse. My love—present tense, not past—for Kay is so strong, it might have ended up being the one thing capable of destroying my lifelong friendship with Trav.
What the fuck does that say about me?
“I’m not talking about Kay. I’m talking about how I should have seen how you”—his finger presses aggressively into my pectoral—“would lump her”—another poke, his finger bending back with the force—“in the same boat as Tina.”
What the what?
“It’s been four years, Mase. Stop letting the bitch fuck with your life. Tina is not worth it.”
“But Kay—”
“Is not fucking Christina Hale. She’s not pretending to be Kay with you and PF with her friend.”
He resumes his earlier pacing, this time with a lot more agitation. He’s muttering under his breath, yanking at his hair, and a few times comes close to punching the wall himself. For as fucked up as I was—am—over the whole Chrissy/Tina thing, it hit Trav twice as hard.
“Did you even stop to think that maybe the reason her gym has her listed as PF is because of her brother? You would think people wouldn’t care, but the Gram is insane with posts about her right now.”
My gut churns, acid pushing its way up my esophagus. “What do you mean?”
“Hashtag Casanova’s Mystery Girl h
as far surpassed Casanova Watch.”
“They already know who she is—why would they still be using that hashtag?”
Worry prickles along the base of my skull as I recall E talking about bringing in his publicist if needed. Kay laughed it off, like her brother was merely overreacting, but…
Could it have actually been more?
Dammit, Kay! Why did you never go into detail about your bullying?
You were the one who threw the bullying back in her face.
FUCK YOU very much, inner coach.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong…” Trav’s voice breaks me out of my internal argument. “They still wanna know everything about our girl down to the type of toothpaste she uses, but now all the conspiracy nuts are out.”
A part of me I didn’t know still existed sparks to life at my best friend calling my girl ours. Fuck me for jumping to conclusions. I had Trav with me when I was spiraling and yet I held everything in and jumped off the deep end.
“What conspiracies could people be coming up with?” My eyes roll. Everything about all this drama is ludicrous.
“How she was only dating you to break up with you and give Penn State the edge over us, stupid fucking bullshit like that.”
A grinding sound fills my head as my molars rub together.
“What?” Trav asks at my Oh, shit! expression. That particular theory is about to get worse.
Now I’m starting to see why E could be worried about the press. No one really cares about an athlete’s family unless they themselves are famous, but something like this? Juicy tidbits that can fan the flames of rivalry? Fuck, I’ve lost count of the number of times Brantley has harped on using anything at your disposal to sell tickets and magazines.
“Back in high school, Kay dated Liam Parker.”
Trav’s blue eyes widen enough that I can see a full ring of white around them. Guess he wasn’t expecting that to come out of my mouth.