Far From Normal

by Becky Wallace

  On bad days, I hate him a little anyways.

  There are negative side effects to living your entire life in your older brother’s shadow. People (read: parents) start to believe you belong there.

  I hold in a sigh. I know I mean more to Mom than a dishwasher, laundry folder, and a younger sibling chauffeur. She and Dad say they want the “best” for me, but sometimes it just feels like they want what’s safe and easy. With Max, they push him to reach for his dreams, expect him to apply and get premier scholarships, but when I told them about my dream school and program they both responded with something like, “Wouldn’t it be better to pursue something you’re good at?” and “Stick with what you can achieve, Maddie.” That’s why I’ve gotta make it happen on my own.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “Call me as soon as you have it.”

  “I will. Promise.”

  I CLIP WATFORD’S LEASH BACK ON HIS HARNESS—I CAN AT LEAST BE honest in that part—and we rush out of the building. Kevin is singing some gospel song as he waits under the awning, and his voice is a gorgeous, rich baritone. He stops the minute I push through the rotating door, concern showing under his flat-brimmed uniform hat. “Where you headed, Miss Maddie?”

  It wouldn’t surprise me if Emma asked him to keep an eye on me. She’s subtler than my mom, but still a worrier underneath. “Just back to the beach. I dropped my phone.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to call a cab?”

  My leg hurts, but it’s not that bad. Plus, waiting for a cab might take as long as it would to walk down there. “No, but thank you.”

  He goes back to humming the same song, but I can feel his eyes on me as I hurry away.

  I take the most direct path, cutting across the park to get to the beach faster, not even reveling in the gorgeous flower beds. Watford trots along beside me, getting pulled up short every time he stops to sniff the trees or fire hydrants. I’m not putting up with any more of his crap.

  As the grandstand comes into view, I worry that maybe I won’t recognize this Gabe guy. Besides the reflective glasses and godlike body, I don’t really remember what he looks like. Luckily, I don’t have to search long. He’s leaning against the side of the bleachers, Super Tall and a group of guys beside him, laughing about something. Probably me.

  Super Tall notices me—or Watford first—and raises his chin in my direction.

  Suddenly, nervousness bites. Little prickles creep over my skin as Gabe peels himself off the side of the grandstand and moves toward me, a smile on his face.

  “Hi,” I say, as he gets closer. “Thanks for finding my phone and calling my mom.”

  Watford lunges toward him, but Gabe drops to a knee beside the dog, ruffling his ears. “Of course. How’s your leg?”

  I look down at the gauze patch Jan taped over the gash on my knee, face flaming in embarrassment. “It’s fine. Nothing a Band-Aid couldn’t fix.”

  He straightens and pushes his sunglasses on top of his head, revealing hazel eyes rimmed with thick black lashes. Something about his face pings in my memory. Where have I seen him before?

  In your dreams.

  Okay, fine. He’s gorgeous. If you see a face like that in person, you don’t forget where.

  “I’m glad you’re all right. And your name is Maddie?”

  Why does he care? Do I care if he cares? I mean—I take a closer look—he’s not that much older than me. Maybe eighteen? Nineteen? Suddenly, I do care that he wants to know my name. “Yes. Maddie. Madeline McPherson.”

  Belatedly, I hold out my hand. The grin on his face goes a little crooked, but he shakes it, hanging on for a second longer than necessary. Either the sun went supernova or I’m blushing. The back of my ears are on fire.

  “And this is Watford? Such an unusual name.”

  I lick my lips. I should flirt, right? Or at least try not to act like I’m suffering from a concussion. “Yeah. He’s my aunt’s dog. I’m just watching him for the weekend. My uncle—well, my former uncle—named him. I guess he didn’t like the soccer team from that city, so he thought it was hysterical to name an ugly dog after them.”

  Gabe laughs, then looks over his shoulder to where his friends are waiting. They’re not watching us, but I can still feel them checking us out every now and then. “Your uncle likes Premier League football?”

  He says football like “futbol,” and I remember that he’s probably European. Max could probably identify Gabe’s country of origin from his accent and then converse fluently in his native tongue. “Not liked,” I say. “He played for a long time. For Arsenal, I think?”

  I don’t think. I know. Before he became The Cheating Bastard, we all had jerseys with his name on the back. I used to love to watch his games. It’s where my obsession with sports business really started.

  Gabe’s eyebrows pop up, surprised. It’s sort of nice that I can use my ex-uncle’s career for some benefit. Considering what he did to Aunt Emma, something good should come out of my association with him.

  “What’s his name?”

  I almost refer to him as The Cheating Bastard because that’s all any of us have called him for the last four years. His affair with an American Olympian was splashed all over the tabloids in the UK, coinciding with his retirement from professional soccer. My blush flashes to anger on Aunt Emma’s behalf. She covered for him, saving his career and all his sponsorships, playing the forgiving wife. Then, once it was out of the news, she quietly divorced him, took half of everything he owned—and his dog. She did it with such savvy and tact that Velocity Marketing hired her to help their problem clientele.

  “You probably wouldn’t recognize it,” I say, trying to tug Watford back toward me, but he isn’t having any of that. “He’s been out of the league for a few years.”

  Gabe gives me an expectant look and I wish I hadn’t said anything besides, Phone. Now.

  Finally, I mumble, “Geoffrey Jones.”

  There’s a long pause as Gabe evaluates this information. I can feel his disbelief like a slap to the face. “Your uncle is Geoffrey Jones?”

  I nod, not blaming him for the doubt. “Can I have my phone, please?”

  “Wait.” The funniest expression crosses his face, like he’s tasted something bitter and wants to spit it out. “Your uncle is the greatest midfielder of all time?”

  “Ex-uncle.” There’s no way he can miss the emphasis on The Cheating Bastard’s unofficial title. “And as far as the greatest whatever, I wouldn’t know. I don’t really do the whole soccer fan thing.” Anymore.

  He hesitates, then swings the sack-style backpack off his shoulder, digs around, and hands me my phone, miraculously no worse for wear.

  “No offense, but your uncle is an …” He pauses, as if looking for the right term. “Asshat?”

  “Yes.” I smile, relieved that he doesn’t worship at the Geoffrey Jones altar like most of the soccer-loving world. “Or Bastard.”

  “Bastardo.” He nods like we’ve come to an agreement on something.

  We both laugh and a little attraction zings around my belly. “Well. Thank you.” Gah! I sound like my mother instead of Aunt Emma. “Can I buy you a bottle of Gatorade or a hot dog or something?”

  As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I wish I could take it back. “Out of gratitude, I mean.”

  “I’m actually headed out with my friends.” He checks over his shoulder at the group of people who are looking a little irritated that he’s taking so long. “Would you like to come with us?”

  Yes. “Oh. I can’t.” And by that, I mean I shouldn’t. Leaving with four guys, some of whom are clearly much older than I am, is a pretty dumb idea. Even for someone with a normal IQ. “I really should get Watford home.”

  The dog is lying across Gabe’s feet. I know Aunt Emma walks him a lot, so he’s probably not tired, but it’s a good enough excuse.

  Gabe buys it. “Do you bring him to the beach a lot?”

  “Yes.” Of course not. I haven’t brought him anywhere
until today, but because Gabe is ridiculously hot and talking to me with something that feels like interest, I lie. “And to the dog park.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you here sometime?” He cocks one eyebrow, and I wonder if he’s practiced that expression in the mirror or if he comes by this charm and gloriousness naturally.

  I tilt my head, aiming for coy but probably missing. “Maybe you will.”

  He walks off, looking back over his shoulder and waving once, just like he did after he helped me get on the bike.

  I nibble my bottom lip and return his wave, praying that I’ll bump—without actual physical bumping—into him again.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  I SPEND THE ENTIRE WEEKEND NURSING MY WOUNDS, DEBATING whether or not to text Gabe (I decide against it), and watching all of the TV shows that are forbidden at home. Weirdly exhausted and bruised, I startle out of my Advil PM—induced coma at six on Monday morning. Watford is standing over me, breathing loudly, instead of hogging the whole bed and shoving his giant paws against my back.

  He gives a soft woof of warning.

  “What is it, Watty?” I whisper. It’s not that I expect him to answer, but I swear he understands the tone of my voice. “Did you hear something?”

  He doesn’t move, and a strand of drool stretches closer to my nose, so I push him away as I try to figure out what woke us up.

  My cell phone screen is glowing, meaning it must have been ringing. I’ve got a missed call from Aunt Em. She’s supposed to be in London until tomorrow. My heart races to an even higher rate. I can’t imagine her calling me this early without it being an emergency.

  She picks up on the first ring. “Thank goodness. No one is answering their phones.” There’s beeping and shuffling in the background.

  “Em?”

  “Yes. Sorry. I’m just leaving O’Hare. I know it’s early, but you’d think one of my employees would be awake by now. I’ve already sent an email, but I need to make sure that it’s handled immediately.”

  I legitimately have no idea what she’s talking about. “What email? What’s handled?”

  “We’ve got a client issue, and I need someone to pick up a breakfast catering order.”

  She’s calling about a catering order? At six o’clock in the morning? “Okay.”

  My aunt knows me well enough to hear the question in my voice. “I’ve got Scott Van Baxter coming in at seven for a planning meeting. He’s got a problem client who made a mess this weekend, and I’m working on a plan to turn that around. It’ll be tight to get there from the airport, but I need to make sure breakfast is set up in the Lakeside conference room.”

  I’ve only been interning for like five minutes, but everyone knows Scott Van Baxter is the biggest agent in the business. Working with him is a huge deal, so I understand Emma’s concern.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks, Mads. I knew I could count on you.” There’s a smile in her voice. “The order will be in my name at Allium, the restaurant on the Delaware side of the building.”

  “Got it.”

  “See you in an hour.”

  I’m already moving before I hang up. I need to prove Aunt Emma right about the internship and so much more. Last Thanksgiving, I heard her whisper-arguing with my mom about me trying to get into the University of North Carolina. She was pissed that my parents didn’t want me to apply to her alma mater and wanted an explanation. My mom said UNC was suited for people who were naturally good at school, not people who study for three hours every night to get good grades in high school. Emma told her that I had grit and determination and they should support me. Then Cube walked in and I’m not sure how the conversation ended, but since then Aunt Em has been on Team Maddie—convincing my parents to let me intern for her company, sneaking me money for extra ACT prep courses.

  I want her to know I’m worth that investment. I can be responsible and helpful and not a walking disaster.

  On the bus to work, I text my brother Max and give him the breakdown of my weekend, including the crash. He sends me every laughing emoji, some GIFs of people walking into walls, and a link to a song called “Dumb Ways to Die.” If it had been anyone else, I’d probably be pissed, but Max doesn’t pity me. He laughs, and he’s loyal. He’s exactly the brother I need.

  My heart pinches, and I realize (not for the first time) that I’m really going to miss him next year.

  I make it to the restaurant just before seven, but it takes the waiter five minutes to find Emma’s order and five more to show me every box of breakfast goods. I know this is part of his job and that I shouldn’t be frustrated, but there’s a clock in my head that’s ticking louder with every second that passes. Is Emma back already? Are the clients already there?

  The walk back to the office takes too long. The elevator moves too slow. And when it opens onto Velocity’s lobby, the front desk is unmanned. The giant white catering bags cut into my arms as I rush toward the conference room. Leaning close to the smoked glass door, I hear the low buzz of voices.

  I’m late.

  I lever the handle down slowly, turn to the side, and slide through the narrow door frame. From the corner of my eye, I see Aunt Em sitting on the window side of the table—the blinds have been lowered and closed tight—and across from her is a man who looks like he might play linebacker for the Bears. Partially hidden by his bulk is another body, slumped in the chair, arms folded, hoodie pulled up.

  Problem client for sure.

  Magazines and newspapers litter the table between them (probably more tabloids I’ll have to comb through later) and a slim charcoal folder with the Velocity logo is open in front of Em.

  “The simplest way to solve this problem is for him to lie low for the next month, stay focused on his on-field play, and be advised—”

  “This ain’t his first offense,” the agent interrupts with a surprisingly heavy Southern accent. “Heck, this isn’t his fifth offense. He can’t just lie low and hope people forget. We’ve gotta turn this around. Management isn’t happy. Sponsors aren’t interested. We need a Hail Mary. If we don’t get this worked out, I don’t know that anyone in the whole flippin’ world is gonna want him either.”

  “Oh please,” says a disgruntled, gravelly voice. “Someone will want me. I can go to Eredivisie if I have to.”

  I pretend not to listen as I set the first bag on the floor next to my feet and the second on the top of the sideboard. There’s way too much food for this little space.

  “That’s not the point,” the agent says. “You’re too valuable for some backwater Dutch city. You’re worth too much for MLS.”

  “It all comes back to your cut of my paycheck, doesn’t it?”

  Cringing a little at the venom in the client’s voice, I slide the water jug and a stack of Velocity-branded plastic cups to the side so I can make more room for the coffee and pastries.

  “You signed with me ’cause you knew I was the best. ’Cause you wanted the best!” A fist thumps against the table. I jump at the noise, and my elbow bumps the cups, sending them cascading off the edge and clinking into the metal blinds with more noise than I could have imagined possible.

  I peek over my shoulder, hoping that my little disaster has gone unnoticed.

  It hasn’t. All three heads have turned toward me.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, but I freeze before I reach for the cups.

  Em’s face is blank. The agent’s face is red. But it’s the third face—with dark, slightly curly hair peeking out from the edge of his hoodie, lips parted in surprise, and hazel eyes rimmed with thick black lashes—that has me stuck in a demi-plié.

  The problem client is the guy from the beach. The problem client is … Gabe.

  I don’t know how long I stand like that, but it’s long enough that Em says my name and nods at me to get moving.

  “Sorry,” I say again, even softer this time, and start cleaning up my mess.

  A chair rolls out from the table, and I feel a prese
nce behind me. Gabe is holding out one of the cups that must have rolled away.

  “Is this some sort of a joke?” he asks, looking from me to the table and back. His face is hard, the sardonic grin doing nothing for his good looks. “A setup?”

  “What?” Confusion lines Em’s forehead. “This is our newest intern—”

  “Madeline McPherson,” Gabe finishes for her, and gives a cold laugh. “We met on the beach this weekend. Wasn’t that … fortuitous?”

  Fortuitous isn’t exactly the word I would have used. Catastrophic. Cataclysmic. Awful.

  “Scott, do you have someone spying on me?” Gabe gestures to Emma with the cup. “I’ve been stalked by paparazzi. I’ve had women sneak into my hotel rooms. But this …” He finishes with a shake of his head.

  I pick up the food boxes, trying to move as quickly and quietly as I can. I have to get out of this room. Like now.

  “What are you talking about?” Scott says, sounding perplexed enough that I don’t need to look at him to imagine the expression on his face.

  “The bike crash. The dog.” Gabe’s words are directed at my back. “Were you hoping that I’d rescue you and then … what exactly?”

  “It was just an accident,” I say, staying focused on the boxes. “I had—have—no idea who you are.”

  “I’m Gabriel Fortunato. Everyone knows who I am.”

  Gabriel Fortunato. I’ve heard that name. Soccer. MLS. The pieces are starting to line up. I turn slowly to face my aunt, the agent, and Gabe. And then it all clicks. Gabriel Fortunato. The Italian soccer player who missed the goal in last year’s World Cup shoot-out and wrapped his Maserati around a telephone pole shortly after.

  “The bike crash was a little over the top.” Gabe holds out the cup to me, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “But the Wednesday panties certainly got my attention.”

  “What in God’s holy name is going on here, Emma?” Scott thumps the table again.

  Emma’s face is pale, her mango-colored lipstick a bright slash against her pallor. “I’d like an explanation myself.”