by Alexa Martin
We walk to his truck in silence and as he’s opening my door like always, I snatch the keys out of hands.
“What are you doing?” He tries to take a step toward me, but his face scrunches up in pain, and he stops.
“I’m driving.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I saw the way you looked when you stood up on the ice and just now when you tried to get your keys,” I tell him in my most mom-inspired voice. “So you’re going to sit in the passenger seat while I drive and you’re going to call Jason.”
Jason is the team’s trainer, and he has his phone on him 24/7 in case of incidents like these.
I wait for Gavin to argue, but instead he aims a weak smile my way, climbs into the truck, and pulls out his phone. Gavin always fights back, even about stuff he doesn’t care about, so him just getting in? It causes the worry in the pit of my stomach to grow.
The drive back to his condo is relatively short. As I navigate the tight, one-way roads, it reaffirms what I already knew: driving anything larger than a Prius isn’t a good idea for me. I feel like a kid at Chuck E. Cheese riding in one of the cars that is way too big for them. Thankfully, we make it home without any added injuries, and Jason doesn’t sound too worried about Gavin’s ankle.
Once inside, I make Gavin hobble his tight ass up the stairs and get him hot chocolate and an ice pack. When the cocoa is distributed evenly between his oversized mugs and as many jumbo marshmallows that can fit are in them, I bring them upstairs.
When I’m climbing up the stairs, ice pack freezing under my arm and cocoa splashing dangerously close to the edge, I hear Gavin talking on the phone. At first I can’t decipher what he’s saying, but as I make my way to the room, it all becomes clear.
“I’m fine, Madison.” He sounds tired and annoyed, which seems like the appropriate response to the shrill, whiny voice I’m sure is coming from the other end. “Marlee and I went ice skating. We fell. I’m fine.”
When I walk into the room he tries to smile, but it’s easy to see he’s in pain.
“What do you want me to do about it now? I can’t help that everyone carries phones and all phones have cameras. It’s not my fault all of America is always connected to social media.” In the time I have known Gavin, I’ve seen him lose his temper approximately three times. When I left Chris, at the fashion show, and now. I can hear the volume of Madison, but I can’t make out the words. “What do you suggest I do, Madison? Should I stay at home all the time? Should I not go out with my girlfriend? Should I only do football ever?”
She says something else and I swear, Gavin’s phone almost snaps in half.
“You really want to go there, Madison? Maybe if your lowlife boyfriend could catch the passes I throw him, we wouldn’t be on the bubble for the playoffs. I’m having the best season of my career, I think it’s safe to say she isn’t a distraction.”
Of course she went there.
I know they’re friends, and I’m sure she can be sweet. But she’s a horrid bitch, and I hate her.
#BadBlood
“I wasn’t out smoking crack. I took my girlfriend ice skating. I don’t know why you’re trying to get me so worked up about this. It’s your job to handle it, Madison, not mine. Marlee’s here and I’m not spending my night talking to you about this. Figure it out and call me in the morning.”
I still hear her Chihuahua voice barking through the earpiece when Gavin hangs up on her and throws his phone across the bed.
“You know I hate to admit this more than I did about you being a better skater, but Madison is kind of right.”
“What are you talking about?” He takes the mugs out of my hands, places them on the side table, then pulls me onto his lap. “I’m having the best season of my career. Donny called me yesterday telling me the Mustangs are already talking numbers to bring me back next year. He thinks you’re my good luck charm and told me if I do anything to mess up our relationship, he’ll fly here to kick my ass. And that’s saying something because Donny hates everyone.”
“Maybe before this, but I can tell you’re hurting and it’s my fault for dragging you out there.”
“No. I signed the disclaimer relieving you from all responsibility of injury.” He tilts my chin up and touches his lips to mine. “I’m fine. I wanted to go with you, and I had a great time. Now we’re going to stop thinking about it. You’re going to strip out of all of those clothes and lay next to me while we drink our hot chocolate. Then we’re going to take turns warming each other up until we fall asleep, as promised.”
I mean . . .
“Okay.”
It was a fantastic plan, except after we stripped out of our clothes, the hot chocolate was cold chocolate before we got to it.
Twenty-seven
There’s serious truth behind the saying “Ignorance is bliss.” I know this firsthand now.
You’d think, after all of these years dating an athlete and the surprise of Gavin coming to the Mustangs, I’d give in and just download the free ESPN app for my phone. But . . . I don’t.
Even though Gavin and I try to spend as much time together as we can, it’s still not much. So when we’re together, we try not to talk about work. It’s lovely. I spend all my free time with a man who, if you ask Mustangs fans, is listed right under Jesus. He could be with anyone and he chose me. I’ve gotten to know him so well over the last few months and every little tidbit makes me feel like I’m unwrapping a gift.
After #IceSkateGate we don’t talk much about the fall. I know his ankle is bothering him a bit. I get him ice and he uses my lap to elevate it, but other than that, he seems fine. He mentions very briefly he’s on the questionable list for the next game, but I’ve been around for a while and most of the time, questionable gets a thumbs-up. Especially when it’s the starting quarterback.
When Naomi calls to come over and watch the game with me, I notice the tightness in her voice right away. I figure it’s because Dre is still on the inactive list, and even though he can’t play, they’re still making him stand on the sidelines and travel with the team. But no matter how many times I ask what’s wrong, she won’t give me a straight answer. Until she gets fed up with me asking and says, “Maybe you should call Gavin.”
Ominous.
We hang up and I go to call him, but before I do, I notice an unread text cluttering my clean phone screen. As soon as I open it, I wish I hadn’t. I know what Naomi was worried about, and I know Madison has just received the ammunition to hate me for eternity.
Hey babe. I didn’t get cleared for the game. I’ll call you when it’s over.
Oh. No.
Then I do the thing you should never, ever do.
I Google him.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the internet. It’s the only reason I ever have recipes to make, I don’t get lost, and how I can kick Gavin’s ass in Jeopardy! all the time. But the internet is also where faceless assholes cloaked in anonymity get the confidence to say the vile things they would never say in person. They’re everywhere—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram—but the truly terrible ones always seem to gather in one place: the comments section.
You know how girls have a bad rep for being catty and gossipy and mean? Well, I’d be willing to bet money men are a thousand times worse on any given Sunday.
I know this because ta-da! Meet their new target.
Me.
Now, to be fair to these giant asshole men picking on a woman they don’t know and saying things that, in my opinion, should get them arrested, Madison’s the one who threw me under the bus. Apparently when Gavin said handle it, she heard, “Here’s your chance to slander and passively attack my girlfriend. Have fun!”
And boy, did she run with it.
Not only is my name listed in every single article, so is the fact that I’m the ex-girlfriend of Chris Alexander. Reading article after article, even I
think I might be a gold-digging groupie who did nothing short of drugging, kidnapping, and then depositing Gavin’s unwilling body on the ice. Plus, thanks to all my friends at the rink that day, there is a crystal clear image to go with the multiple accounts of our trip.
One article not so cleverly titled “Pope’s Costly Sin” is basically an entire article simultaneously telling men they’re the rulers of the universe and they’re too weak to stand up to the wicked, tempting women in the world. The sexism shows no limits.
By the time Naomi shows up at my place, I’m on the brink of hysteria. Laughing, maybe crying, no . . . definitely laughing at the absurdity of the situation. My boyfriend took me ice skating and fell. That’s it. But to some of these people, you’d think I committed murder.
The hell with politics. Screw religion. I had united men and women, white and black, all on the common ground of hating me. I don’t know if it’s an accomplishment or a reason to seek out witness protection.
“Are you okay?” Naomi asks as soon as I open the door.
“Why wouldn’t I be? I, Mrs. Harris, am public enemy numero uno.” I wave my index finger in front of her face.
“I know. The chatter started on Wednesday when he sat out of practice, but they kind of hinted Kevin would be starting today instead of Gavin, and people lost their damn minds. I know Gavin ignores this stuff as much as you, but with Dre being out, he’s treating ESPN like a soap opera and reporting every last detail to me. I’m blaming it on the brain injury, but he’s driving me nuts.” And being the best friend I could ever ask for, she punctuates this very unfortunate news with two bottles of wine pulled from her giant purse. “These are for both of us, don’t try and hog it.”
See—that is the only reason to carry a duffel disguised as a purse around.
“I’m trying to ignore it.”
“Marlee.”
She says my name like she’s said everything. And truth be told, along with her pursed lips and the serious side-eye she’s throwing at me? I crack.
“Okay. Fine! That’s a lie. I’ve read every article I could find and then every single comment left on them. I even snooped through some sports forums. People have Photoshopped my head into a GIF of Kanye’s ‘Gold Digger’ song!”
And the bitch laughs. Come on!
“If you want me to seem sympathetic, which I am, I’m going to need you to not tell me things like that.”
I narrow my eyes and go to find the bottle opener. These wines aren’t surviving the night.
“Oh stop it. You can’t tell me your head bobbing around on a video girl’s body with Kanye dancing next to you wasn’t hella funny!”
“You just said hella, which voids everything you said previous to it.”
“Hella, hella, hella!”
“I can’t with you right now.” I hand her a glass of wine and cheers her before we both chug the contents of our glasses.
Because you know . . .
#HellaKlassy
“Anyway. The GIFS were funny. The words were not. It’s one thing for Courtney and Madison to hate me, it’s another thing entirely when it’s the whole city.”
“I bet Courtney was giddy hearing about Gavin’s injury. She might even like you now if she thinks you’ll be able to get Kevin his spot back.”
“She’s delusional. Kevin was losing his spot with or without Gavin. He had an average season last year and a terrible preseason. Kevin’s on his way out, I hope she’s enjoying her final season in charge of the Mustangs.”
“True. And for someone who ‘hates football’”—she uses air quotes. I freaking hate air quotes—“you sure are mighty informed.”
“Not about other teams though,” I defend myself. “You’ve gone to games with me. You know how hard I go for them. But that’s only when I’m sharing a bed with one of the players. If I don’t know somebody on the team, then I don’t care about them.”
“Whatever the case, you need to download the ESPN app on your phone before I leave. I’m over having to blindside you because you’re too busy to type in your Apple ID password.”
“Fair point. Having an advanced warning would be nice.” I grab my wineglass and plop down next to her on my comfy couch.
“I don’t know if I’m glad to hear you’re giving in or worried that you’re not denying something like this will happen again.”
“I mean, there is one more home game left, and I’m thinking with the recent headlines declaring me enemy of the state, I might cause quite the reaction when I show my bedazzled ass at the game.”
“Remind me not to sit by you next week.”
“Please. Deny it all you want, but you love it.”
I just know the Mustangs better win today. I think it’s bad now? I don’t even want to imagine what it’ll be like if they lose and are out of the playoffs.
Twenty-eight
They lose.
Of course they do because Kevin Matthews is their backup quarterback and he’s terrible. He threw three interceptions in the first half alone, and the rage toward the slut who drugged Pope and threw him down on the ice grew as the game went on.
By the end of the game, I was afraid if I opened my curtains, a mob complete with pitchforks would be filling the street.
They weren’t, of course.
But it doesn’t ease the fears running through my mind. Football is religion to these people, and wars have been started over less. And even though there’s still a game left, the chances of the Mustangs making the playoffs are practically nothing.
So when my phone rings in the middle of the night, waking me from a dreamless sleep, every horror movie I’ve ever watched flashes through my head before I see Gavin’s name lighting up the screen.
“Hey,” I try to answer, my voice scratchy from sleep.
“I’m outside your door. You wanna let me in?”
Duh.
I was already halfway across my apartment when he asked.
“Eh. I think I’ll pass.”
“Liar. I heard your sheets, and I can hear your footsteps through your apartment,” he says, laughing. “You know, for being so petite, you walk harder than a rhinoceros.”
Busted.
“Do not.” I open the door, my phone still at my ear.
“You do, but a super sexy rhino.”
“You really need to work on your sweet talk, Pope.” Not true. Only Gavin can make me feel butterflies when he compares me to a rhino. “But I’m glad you came to visit the evil seductress who injured you.”
“Evil seductress? What are you talking about?” His head slightly flinches, and his eyebrows scrunch together—no idea what I’m referring to.
“I’m glad I’m not the only one who doesn’t stalk the internet and stare at the ESPN app all day.” I close the door and follow him to my room. He strips out of his suit (gray this time, still perfectly tailored—pants nice and tight, cropped at the ankle, jacket equally snug) and falls into my bed naked as the day he was born.
Death threats and all . . . I’m the luckiest woman ever.
Once we’re both in our cuddle positions under my comforter—the new one Gavin bought me for Christmas after I raved about his every time I spent the night in his bed—I hand him my phone. While he was changing, I pulled up one of the articles pointing all fingers toward me being the reason Gavin was injured and therefore, the reason the Mustangs lost. This article was my particular favorite as it not only told the world where I grew up and went to high school, but that I’m also the head of marketing for HERS.
“What the fuck is this?” Gavin semi yells, scissoring out of the bed.
And I was comfortable, I should’ve waited until the morning.
Ooh! But maybe he’ll want to work off his aggression in bed?
“Apparently when you told Madison to handle it, she did so by throwing me under the bus. My na
me, my job, my dating history? All there.” I plaster on my most fake smile. “Did I ever tell you how much I love Madison?”
“I can’t believe she’d do this.” His tone has changed, and the outrage he had only seconds prior is gone. Now he just sounds broken . . . betrayed.
God. I hate Madison.
“I get what she was doing to take the heat off of you. She did her job very effectively by making you the victim. She protected her client and her friend.”
“But she did it in a way I clearly told her not to. She knows how I feel about you, I can’t believe she would throw you into this mess.”
“How do you feel about me, Gavin?” I crawl across the bed toward where he’s pacing.
At my question, he stops moving, brings his hand to my cheek, and looks me straight in my eyes.
“Well, I was thinking since the chances of going to the playoffs are slim to none now, I could take you on a trip when the season ends.”
“A trip?” Intrigued with where he’s taking this, I sit up on my knees. “To where?”
“Surprise.” He smirks. “You tell me the days you can get off, and I’ll plan the trip. Sound good?”
“Sounds amazing!” I’m not huge on surprises, but I think I can get over it if the outcome is alone time with Gavin.
“Oh, and also, I love you.” The words come out quietly, but I don’t need him to yell it. The power, the sincerity, is enough to knock me over. “I know this is fast, and I don’t expect you to say it back. But I know, without a doubt, what I’m feeling for you is love. I’ve had girlfriends before and I’ve never felt an ounce of what I feel for you.”
My stupid mouth, that never closes, chooses this moment to forget how to work.
I stare at him, mouth open, eyes wide for who knows how long. If it was any other man, I’m sure their ego would’ve been demolished by now. But it’s not any other man, it’s Gavin. And instead of insecurity or anger at my reaction, he’s staring at me almost laughing.