by Sara Ney
The first source wasn’t horrible, accompanied by a boring article with little information—thank God it didn’t include my name. I was dubbed “female companion.”
Female companion? Makes me sound like an escort, but—whatever. Fine. Still anonymous.
Second and third source? Not much better, but still reasonably inaccurate.
It was the fourth article that had me breaking down, a well-known, widely read, televised gossip column that included my name, age, occupation—and a vomit-inducing headline.
BEST RBI, UGLIEST MUGSHOT
“With a face like that, Noah Harding is lucky he’s worth 80 million dollars…”
“I’d fuck him too for that kind of money.”
“Is that girl blind or just desperate?”
My jaw hits the ground as tears well in my eyes.
“Match made in heaven—she’s ugly, too.”
I stare at those words in the comment section Knowing they’re not true, but feeling their sting just the same, the tingling in my eyes stronger, threatening to break through the dam holding back the tears flooding my eyes.
They think I’m ugly too?
First of all, that sentence implies Noah is ugly, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Second of all, I’m ugly too? Fuck you, Walter from Philadelphia! Mind your own goddamn business, asshole.
I hiccup, swiping at the tears on my cheeks, indignant.
Tilt my chin up defiantly.
How dare they call me ugly! How dare they even comment on our looks—they have nothing to do with the article! Except…they do, because the headline screams Ugliest Mugshot.
Don’t look at the comments, Randi—close the search window and get it out of your head.
But I don’t, because I can’t, because I cannot unsee it.
The floodgate is open.
The damage has been done.
So now what?
I’ve been searching and reading, cell phone still in my left palm, and I remember it then, needing to hear Noah’s sweet voice. I need him to tell me what I should do.
What we are going to do.
This happens all the time, he said. He’ll know what to do, so I text him.
Me: Noah, call me please.
Ten minutes go by with no reply, no response, and I check the time—nearing eleven o’clock. I wonder if he’s working or at home. Maybe he’s in the shower?
What do professional baseball players do all day? Does he have a game today? Is Claire wrong—is it possible he hasn’t seen our faces splashed all over the news?
When I try calling him, it goes straight to voicemail, and the knot lodged in my throat turns into a sob so intense I can’t find my voice to leave a message.
Me: Why aren’t you picking up? Please, Noah, I just want to talk to you.
I’m pacing now, back and forth across the empty shell of my office.
Me: I’m not mad, but I need to talk through this, please call me.
Me: Noah this ISN’T FUNNY. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
Defeated, I put my head on my desk and let myself cry.
15
Miranda
I wake up to a pitch black room, the only light shining in from the streetlamp outside the window.
Not my bedroom window.
My office.
How on earth did I end up falling asleep and staying asleep this long?
I lift my head, groggy, stomach growling from hunger, and frown at the scroll of notifications on my lock screen. There are dozens.
Dozens.
My head pounds and the salt stains on my cheeks pull my skin tight, the tears having long dried up, but present nonetheless. My hair sticks to the side of my mouth and I spit, sputtering, to dislodge it.
So hot, I know.
Drool. Tears.
Blinking against the bright ray of blue light from my cell, I crack an eyelid to peer at the messages, one at the very top from an unknown number catching my eye. Not only have they texted me a few times, they’ve also called, one in a long list of many concerned—I’m assuming—friends.
Not a word from Noah.
I blink back more tears, sniffing, inhaling a cleansing breath like my friend Jennifer would tell me to do. She’s the friend who’s always trying to get me to meditate, so I’ll relax a bit and chill out.
It comes in handy now as I go through and skim messages, keep some, delete and block others.
Unknown: Miranda, it’s Buzz. Give me a buzz when you get the chance.
Oh, he’s a funny guy alright with the play on words, even knowing I’m probably a ball of nerves at the moment. But this is Noah’s best friend, so maybe he’ll know where Noah is? Or why he hasn’t called? Or if something has happened to him?
Should I call him or text him back?
Call or text, call or—
The phone starts ringing, and speak of the devil, it’s Buzz Wallace lighting up my phone with his fourth call in a single day. How he got my number is a mystery, but I have others I want to solve, so I hit accept.
“Hey.” That’s the best I can muster up as a greeting considering how shitty I feel, how hard my head is pounding, how heavy my heart feels.
“Miranda, it’s Trace Wallace.”
“Who?”
“Buzz—Noah’s friend that you hate.”
Trace? His name is Trace? That’s a new one—a first name I’ve never heard before, especially for a man. Not that I think it’s feminine, but it’s not common.
I like it.
“Hi.” I’m not in the mood for small talk. “What’s going on, Buzz? Where is Noah?”
“Listen, I’m not going to lie to you—he’s not in a good place.”
What does that mean?
“Noah is…” He clears his throat and I sense his discomfort. “He’s sensitive.”
“Sensitive?”
“Yeah, like—some people are built for the limelight and he isn’t one of them. When shit like this happens to someone like me, I let it roll off my back, ’cause fuck everyone, right? Excuse the language.”
If I wasn’t in such a mood, I might laugh at him for apologizing.
“But he’s not me and he can’t just shrug it off. That’s not how he’s wired. Harding is in it for the game, not the fame—being in the paper is the last thing he wants and this bullshit? He’s going to run from it, not toward it.”
“But why is he running from me? I didn’t do anything!” I can’t keep the panic out of my voice, the sound a bit desperate. “I just want to talk to him. I’m freaking out, Buzz. Trace.” Whatever his damn name is.
“He’s running because he likes you and he’s running before you run from him. Does that make sense?”
Not really. “Why would I run from him?”
“He might be a professional athlete, but his self-esteem is shit.”
I have about a million follow-up questions, but Trace isn’t the one I should be asking—I should be talking to Noah, only he refuses to take my calls.
“My hands are tied here, Buzz.” It feels so strange calling him that. Reminds me of Buzz Lightyear to the rescue and now I’m thinking of animated movies and going to infinity and beyond.
“They’re not. Relax, we’ll figure it out—though you’ll have to ease into it with this one. Like I said, he’s sensitive.”
Of all the people who might comfort me and give me relationship advice, I never in a zillion years would have thought it would be this guy. Unreal.
“What the heck do I do? He won’t answer my calls or talk to me. I can’t even get him to reply to a text. He probably blocked me.”
“Yeah, he’s being a bitch about this.” Buzz makes a hmm noise on the other end of the line. “I think you’re going to have to ambush him. He needs to see you, but he’s never going to call you.”
Ambush? Since when do guys like an ambush? Um, since NEVER.
“I’m not doing that!” But also, “What do you mean? Explain.”
I walk to the window, feeling emptier
inside than the office I’m standing in, looking down at the road, not a single car coming or going at this hour of the night.
My stomach growls.
“Hear me out before you shoot it down.”
I sigh. “Okay.”
“We have practice tomorrow—you know where the stadium is?”
“Uh, doesn’t everyone?”
“There’s a side entrance we go in and I think you should be waiting there when we’re done so you can talk to him.”
No.
No, no, hell to the no. “I am not doing that! It’s creepy!” I am not a fangirl, lot-lizard groupie who stalks around the stadium!
“Listen, I know, but it’s the only way you’re going to get to talk to him, unless you plan on waiting for him to come to his senses, which will be never.”
I mull this over, biting down on my bottom lip and chewing.
Now or never.
From what little I know about Noah that does sound accurate.
Ugh, shoot me now!
“What would I have to do?”
“Show up at the side gate, show security the pass I’m going to text you, then wait in the parking lot.”
“Then what?”
“Uh—then you talk.” I swear, the asshole is probably rolling his eyes like I’m the moron here, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’d be a perfect match for Claire—not that I’d wish this guy on anyone. He’s too full of himself, too attractive for his own good, and cocky, although he is proving to be a decent friend.
Color me surprised.
“I won’t have any problems getting in? I didn’t think they let people in when there isn’t a game.”
“Well, you’re not getting into the stadium—you’d be waiting in the parking lot. That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“And you don’t think Noah will think I’m a stalker?”
There’s an uncertain pause. “I doubt it. That’s not how his brain works.”
“So you’re saying there’s a chance he’ll think I’m a stalker.”
Buzz’s laugh is low. “A slight chance, but not likely.”
“How reassuring.”
“Hey, the guy is miserable—don’t you think it’s worth the risk?”
“Miserable? Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“I don’t want to throw my buddy under the bus by telling the girl he likes he’s behaving like a teenage girl.”
If I wasn’t so upset myself, I would giggle at that. “How is he acting?”
“Like a pussy. Not talking to anyone. Bitchy. You know, lashing out at people. He’s not happy and listen—not to make it too personal since he barely knows you, but he’s been shit on by women a lot and I don’t think he needs to get shit on by you. So, you’re going to have to take one for the fucking team, alright? If you have any feelings for Noah, you’ll show up at the stadium tomorrow after practice and let him know he’s not alone.”
My heart constricts in my chest. Clenches.
“Miranda, you got this. Balls to the wall.”
My mouth curves up into a smile. “Are you pep talking me?”
“Do I need to pep talk you?”
“No.”
“Then no, I’m not trying to light a fire under your ass.” He hesitates. “So will you do it?”
I sigh, a resounding exhalation that’s loud enough to make him laugh again. “Yes, I’ll do it.”
“Cool. I’ll act surprised when I see you in the parking lot.”
This time, I do giggle at him. “I hope you’re a good actor.”
“The best. I’ve faked so many orgasms.”
“I have no idea how to respond to that.”
“I think you just did.”
What an idiot. “Hey Buzz?”
“What?”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Hey Miranda?”
“What?”
“I know you don’t.”
Ugh, that bastard.
16
Noah
It’s been a day and a half since I’ve seen or heard from Miranda.
Okay, fine—I’ve heard from her; I just haven’t replied. I mean…I was just humiliated in front of the entire nation—why would I want to confront the one person whose opinion I care about with my tail between my legs?
She definitely hates me. I made sure of that by being too chickenshit to reply.
How could she not? I ghosted her out of fear and embarrassment, ruled by that boy inside me who doesn’t want to be laughed at by the girl he asked to the homecoming dance, the girl who only said yes because her friends dared her to.
Fear of rejection is a powerful deterrent and it courses through my veins like an undammed river, quicker now that my face is splashed all over the morning news, pimped out by strangers for the few hundred bucks they got for the lead. I hate admitting to my weaknesses, but there they are.
No one says anything to me in the locker room; each of my teammates has been in the headlines at some point for one reason or another, usually a huge signing bonus announcement or their contract being renewed. Obviously we get the occasional paternity claim. Cheating scandals. Public fights with spouses or the paparazzi. A few of my buddies date celebrities—actresses and other athletes and shit—and that’s in the news, too.
I can’t recall a single time any of them have been raked through the mud because of their face.
And yeah, I read the comments, too, cringing when I got to the one about Miranda being ugly. Match made in heaven, the trolls declared, and my blood boiled. Who the fuck do they think they are calling her ugly? Miranda is gorgeous—I’m the lucky bastard she went out with and then this shit happens to her?
Worst part is other people agreed with the asshole who made the original comment.
The whole situation kills me and I know she’s hurting because I could read it in her words, could see it as she pleaded with me to call her back.
You’re a pussy, Harding. You don’t deserve a girl like Miranda—smart, beautiful, and full of spunk. I pulled a dick move that wasn’t justified and now there’s no going back.
“Did you just call me a pussy?” Wallace asks beside me as we shove through the giant swinging doors separating the tunnel from the parking lot.
“No, I was calling myself a pussy.”
A solid hand gets clamped on my shoulder and I glance down at it, alarmed. Great, he’s comforting me now? Ugh.
“Don’t get so down on yourself, bro—you know how the paps are giant wankers. They want a reaction out of you and they’re not going to get it.”
They’re not. Any reaction or statement of my own will trigger a feeding frenzy of articles and then they’d really be all over my ass in search of a bigger story.
No. Best keep my lips shut, despite Phil wanting to issue a statement about how Miranda is an old friend and we were just having dinner to catch up.
Spread more lies? I don’t think so.
“I couldn’t care less about them printing shit about me—I’m used to it,” I lie. “It’s the whole shit about Miranda. What fucking right do they have to call her ugly?”
Wallace shakes his head from side to side, looking morose. “Don’t know, man. That’s fucked up. We both know she’s a little hottie.” He pauses, and I feel his sidelong glance. “I tried to bang her, but she wasn’t interested.”
“Gee, thanks for bringing that up.”
“What! I’m trying to make a point here—she wasn’t interested in me and I’m clearly a fine specimen.” Buzz Wallace thinks he’s the real life version of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast and I’ve never been one to argue with him. “No one can resist me, except her. I haven’t been shot down like that in years.”
“Alright, I get it.”
“No—you don’t get it.” Our bags are slung over our shoulders and he hefts his. “She went out with you. Not me—you.”
Yeah…why is that?
He reads minds now too, apparently. “Because beauty is only skin deep an
d when she looks at you, she sees what she likes. Blah blah blah, attracted to your personality.” Wallace stops in front of the gate that leads to the parking lot, bracing both hands on my shoulders and looking me in the eye. “Dude, listen to me. She likes you—attraction doesn’t last long if there isn’t chemistry to back it up. Did you feel chemistry with her?”
I give a stiff nod. “Yes.”
“Were you worried about what everyone might think when you were out with her or were you just there in the moment with her?”
“Jesus, did you go to shrink school over the weekend and get your psychology degree? What is this, a therapy session?”
Yes, I realize how dumb that question sounds coming out of my mouth.
Wallace does, too, and he rolls his eyes. “Just answer the question, asshole—did you feel a connection?”
I shrug his hands off my shoulders, irritated. “Yes, obviously—god, Dad.” I sound like a teenage girl annoyed with her mother. Or Napoleon Dynamite feeding his llama Tina.
“So why are you acting like this?”
He will not climb down out of my ass about this. “Why do you care?” I move past him, toward the exit gate, shooting a terse smile toward the security guard, Stan.
“Because I’m your best friend.”
There he goes again with that best friend business! I’m telling you, all he ever does is raid my fridge and show up unexpectedly and—
Shit. Those sound like things a best friend would do. Plus, he seems to have my back considering he will not quit riding me about my relationships—or lack thereof.
“What do you want from me?” I shoot the barb over my shoulder at Wallace as Stan releases the lock from the metal gate, parking lot in the forefront.
“I want you to be happy, bro.”
Happy.
I thought I was happy—back when life was fucking simple and everyone didn’t want something from me. I was happy when I played baseball because I loved it, not because it paid the bills for the big, dumb, empty mansion I felt pressured to buy. I was happy when I could see my parents more often. I was happy when my friends from home could afford to come sit in the stands and watch me play in our hometown, when they didn’t have to hop on a damn jet to see me.