by S. J. Bishop
“I get it, I get it. Nothing happened. Sarah had gotten in a fight with her boyfriend, and she was upset. We’re friends, and I gave her a lift home. If anyone asks you about it, that’s the truth.”
“You got it, Mr. Tyler.” Jack hung up the phone. Honestly, I don’t get why people like Ryan and Caz bitch about their agents. Mine was a gem. Super-efficient, didn’t ask questions…
My phone rang again.
“Forget something, Jack?” I asked, picking it back up.
“Who’s Jack?” Yvette’s clipped French sounded on the other end. I blinked, surprised to hear from her this early. It was lunch time over there. I rarely heard from her until late.
“My agent,” I said. I was still angry about Luis, and I didn’t know how to confront her about it without sounding like a jealous dickhead.
“Ah,” said Yvette. I don’t know how one syllable managed to convey so much displeasure.
“What is it?” I asked warily.
“I suppose your agent called you this early because he too has been getting phone calls demanding the identity of the girl you took home last night.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I sound like I’m fucking kidding?” Yvette rarely cursed. Oh hell. She was pissed.
“It was your assistant, Sarah. She got into a fight with her boyfriend. She was crying. I gave her a lift back to her place.”
“And stayed there for nearly an hour!”
“I had a beer and stayed with her until she calmed down.” Okay, that was only partially a lie. I stayed to keep myself from hopping on a plane to Spain and demanding answers.
“Oh!? And how did you ‘calm her down!?’”
“Yvette, for fuck’s sake, she’s your friend…”
“She’s my assistant. We’re not friends.”
Oh. Cold. The way she said it made it sound like she’d never consider herself friends with her assistant. “Listen,” I said, my anger building quickly. “You’ve got some fucking nerve accusing me of foul play. You’re the one who lied! You’re not in Paris. You’re in Spain.”
“Don’t try to change the subject!” Yvette’s voice rose, her words snapping like a bullwhip. “I never said I was in Paris…”
“You absolutely did!” I raged, my voice raising a few decibels.
“…then you misheard me! I have business in Spain, and that doesn’t give you an excuse to go and sleep with my assistant!”
“I’m not sleeping with your assistant! I’m taking her to a fucking baby registry tomorrow. For fuck’s sake…”
“You have a mouth like a truck driver,” Yvette hissed. “And I don’t care if you sleep with the whole of Boston. You do it in private! I will not be humiliated! Are you as stupid as you pretend on TV?”
That had me reeling.
“Do you think,” Yvette continued, “that you can take a girl shopping for baby clothes and no one will speculate whether or not it’s your baby!”
Fuck. That stopped me cold.
“Do you care about me at all?” Yvette was saying. “Do you care what people think about me? About us? How would it look for my boyfriend to take another woman out to shop for baby clothes?!”
“It’s not just clothes…”
“I don’t care if you’re going shopping for baby clothes, baby furniture, or baby blankets! You go out shopping for anything baby with another woman…” She stopped herself, and I could hear her taking a few deep breaths on the phone. “Then we’re done. And Sarah’s fired, too. I’ll not be made a fool of. Not by my boyfriend, and not by my assistant.”
I took a deep breath, too. I was close to shouting, and I didn’t want to make the situation worse. I didn’t want to get Sarah fired, and while a huge part of me was still furious with Yvette for Spain (she misspoke?! I didn’t buy that for a second), I didn’t want to do anything in anger. I wanted to talk to her when she got back. I wanted to do it calmly. If she really was in Spain on business, and I was just being a world-class jerk, then I didn’t want to lose her. At least – I didn’t think I did.
“I’ll cancel with Sarah tomorrow,” I said, after a minute. “I’ll stay away from her. At least until you get back. But we have to talk. Soon. When we’re not both angry.”
“Fine,” said Yvette, curtly. “I’m heading back in two days anyway.”
“Then I’ll see you when you get home.”
We hung up our phones.
15
Sarah
I should have woken up devastated. My boyfriend – the guy I’d loved for almost six years – had walked out on me in a very public and dramatic fashion. I was pregnant with my boss’s boyfriend’s baby and was probably going to lose my job soon.
And yet, I felt jubilant. I felt light, like anything was possible. Because Burke Tyler was taking me shopping for my baby registry. And that had to mean something. Because I was going to tell him that I was carrying his baby.
I got up and showered, taking extra care to blow dry my hair. I picked out a cute outfit and did my makeup so that I looked exactly like I wasn’t trying. I spent a good half hour in front of the mirror trying to rehearse exactly what I was going to say to Burke.
Then I realized that I’d gotten so wrapped up in getting ready, I hadn’t even checked the time. It was eleven.
I’d slept late, and if Burke was picking me up at one, I had just enough time to run an errand or two before…
I hit my home button, looking to find my calendar, but I saw that I had missed a call and had a message waiting. It was from Burke.
“Hey, Sarah.” His deep, rumbling voice rolled through my speaker, making me melt just a little inside. “Listen, I hate to do this…”
No. Oh no. Oh please, no!
“…but I have to cancel our outing for this afternoon. Apparently, we were photographed getting in the car together last night, and Yvette’s pretty pissed about it. Things are messy between her and I, and I really don’t want you caught in the middle of it. I care about you, Sarah. I hate to do this, especially over the answering machine – but I think that by the time you get this, I’ll be in practice… I’m rambling. I’m sorry. I have to take care of Yvette. I’ve got to think about her feelings, and she’s right: If I take you baby shopping, people are going to think it’s mine. Anyway. Be well. I think it’s best if we keep our distance for a bit. But I hope I get to see you around.”
I sat there, holding the phone and staring at the wall. I don’t know how long I sat there for, processing what it all meant and processing what I’d let my life become. They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. My mom likes to call it stupidity: stupidity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. And I’d been pretty stupid. I’d dated Andrew over and over again, expecting each time that we’d be better, that it would be different. I’d gotten my hopes up with Burke more than once, thinking that he’d actually see me as a person – not just someone’s assistant. And Yvette? I couldn’t blame Yvette for any of this. She was my employer. Could I blame her for paying me a great wage? For distracting me from my future? This wasn’t on Burke, this wasn’t on Yvette, hell – it wasn’t even on Andrew. I’d been living in a fantasy – a fantasy where I was relying on the hard work of other people to give me the life I wanted. Yes, I was working hard too, but I was working hard on other people’s lives. Not my own. And now, it was going to stop.
It took three phone calls, but I finally got through to Andrew.
“Can we meet?” I asked.
“Why?” He sounded cautious and no more interested in seeing me than I was in seeing him. But I wanted some closure. He agreed to meet me for coffee, but I had to come to him.
We met in the financial district, finding a table at the top floor of a local Starbucks. Andrew was dressed for work and looked great, save for the bluish shadow on his jaw where Burke had punched him.
“Andrew,” I said. I felt a strange sense of disinterest upon seeing him – as
if his reaction at the museum had solidified something I’d been suspicious of all along. He pretended to be a good guy, but he was selfish. He loved on his own terms. I needed to be a little selfish now. “Why did you want to get back together with me?”
He looked startled and then uncomfortable.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not trying to make a case for us staying together. You made it very clear last night that staying together would be the stupidest thing both of us ever did.”
To his credit, he looked slightly guilty. He cleared his throat.
“We’ve broken up and gotten back together three times now. I never broke up with you. You always broke up with me. Why? Why break up with me, and why get back together?”
“You want the truth?” he asked. There was enough anger in his voice that I knew he was still upset that I was pregnant with another man’s child. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. What a dick.
“Sure.” I needed the truth.
“You’re fun, Sarah. And you’re beautiful and you’re comforting. You make me feel good. And then we get into this routine, and it’s like…you’re just a bit unexciting, you know? I keep thinking there’s something better out there.”
I tried not to let that comment sting too deeply. What was he looking for? Didn’t he realize that exciting often means crazy? But I’d asked him for the truth. I shrugged. “So if I borrow your logic – you keep coming back to me because there isn’t anything better out there?”
Andrew frowned, and he opened his mouth, but I wanted the last word. I got up. “Thanks, Andrew. That’s the clarification I needed. I brought your stuff.” I’d packed it up after we’d set up a time to meet. It was sitting at my feet in one of those reusable grocery bags. “We don’t need to talk again. Bye.”
I said it kindly, and before he could respond, I walked out.
16
Burke
“Check out the MILFS,” muttered Mac, standing near my ear. I looked over to where his gaze was focused. There were at least fifty mothers lingering around the sidelines, watching their kids run drills up and down the field. Caz and Omar were taking a group of Patriots Clinic kids through a series of professional football drills. Usually I’m down for Clinic days. We do them about once a month where kids from Boston and the surrounding area come in to meet us and do some workshopping on their sport. My session, with some of the older kids, had been earlier that morning, so I was just hanging out.
“Look at that blonde; she’s got to be forty. And you know what they say about older women?”
I tried to see which one he was talking about. There was a tall, blond woman who was pacing the sidelines, dressed to be noticed. She had a lean body and wore tight jeans and a strapless red shirt that didn’t seem too appropriate for a day out with her kid. But if her goal was to get noticed, it had worked. She had Mac’s interest. Without warning, an image of Sarah rose up in my mind – but, like, some older future Sarah, with her hair tied back and her arms crossed, watching her kid run football drills. Where had that come from?
I shook my head, trying to clear the image.
“Not your type, man? Is Yvette that controlling, that you can’t even look at other women?”
“I have taste,” I said, trying to dismiss Mac. Actually, lately it seemed like my self-control had been off. It was one of the reasons I’d been staying away from Sarah. Even after Yvette had come back last week, I’d stayed in the car when I picked her up from her loft.
Some guys were real idiots about avoiding temptation. I wasn’t. The less I saw of Sarah, the less I needed to think about her - at least that was the logical conclusion. To be honest, my new strategy wasn’t working all that well. She was on my mind a lot.
It didn’t help that things with Yvette were still unresolved. Her idea of solving a conflict was to pretend it hadn’t happened. When I’d tried to bring up our fight, she’d interrupted me with a kiss, saying, “Let’s let it go, shall we? Why rehash something unpleasant when there are so many more pleasant things to do?”
“Speaking of Ms. Delacroix,” said Mac, turning his back on the blonde he’d been eye fucking and staring me in the face. Mac was one of the few who could almost look me eye-to-eye. He was a big guy. “Are you bringing her to the dinner tonight?”
Fuck. I’d forgotten about the charity dinner. The Patriots sponsor a whole bunch of charities, and part of our contracts obligate us to attend these functions. Fucking parades. To be honest, I was beginning to get sick of the whole “Berserker Burke!” routine. But you gotta give the public what they want, right?
“No. She’s in Spain.”
“Again? Wasn’t she just in Spain?”
I frowned at Mac. Yes. She was just in Spain. And now she was back in Spain. Did he want to say something about it?
“Dude. If looks could kill. Things all right between the two of you?”
I shrugged. Things I’m not doing? Unloading my shit onto Ryan Mcloughlin.
Behind us, a sharp whistle sounded, indicating the end of the session. I checked my watch. It was four o’clock.
“Well, good chat,” said Mac sarcastically, clapping me on the shoulder. “See you tonight, big guy.”
I had to wait a few minutes before heading back to the locker room. A bunch of the kids wanted autographs and wanted to say goodbye, so I reverted to the Berserker again, giving too-heavy high fives and flexing for a few photos.
When I got back to the locker room, I passed one of the big defenders who patted me on the arm. “Hey, B-Man. Doing okay?” He looked sympathetic, and I frowned at him. “Fine, thanks, Leon.”
“You need to chat, man, I’m around. You just call big Leon.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze and headed out to the exit.
Odd. I got to the locker room where my phone was tucked into my bag – we’re not allowed to have ‘em out when we’re working with the kids.
Fuck. My phone was blowing up. I had about twenty missed texts and more than a few phone calls. The first one I landed on was a text from my sister Elise. U see this?? And she’d sent a photo.
It was grainy and dark, but I could see the people pictured clearly enough. It had been taken from a distance, with a long lens, looking through a restaurant window. A woman and a man sat across from each other at a small table. The woman, Yvette, was leaning over the table. And the man she was dining with? Real Madrid Striker: Luis Abasolo.
17
Sarah
I’d seen the picture of Yvette and Luis that had come out late yesterday afternoon. A part of me felt guilty because I’d known, when Yvette had said she was travelling to Spain again and hadn’t asked me along, that she was seeing Luis. I might have told Burke – but why? He’d been nice to me a few times, but we weren’t friends. I’d had to call a few news agency to give Yvette’s official line, No big deal. Just old friends catching up! But I wondered how much Burke had bought that story?
To be honest, I wasn’t feeling that guilty. Yvette out of the country meant a few more days of vacation for me. I’d decided to go running around the fens that morning – intent on getting all of the exercise I could before the pregnancy weighed me down. I was on my third mile when some guy caught up and started jogging beside me. At first, I tried to ignore him, but when it was clear that he was pacing me, I looked up, and up, into the gleaming brown eyes of Ryan Mcloughlin.
Whoa. I pulled my headphones out of my ear. “I admit,” said Ryan, not sounding the least bit breathless as he kept up his jog, “I could have stayed behind you and just watched you run for another hour. Damn, girl. But I thought I’d come up and say hi.”
“Hi,” I said breathlessly.
“We met at the ring ceremony. Do you remember me? You’re Yvette Delacroix’s assistant.”
“Yes, I remember,” I said. And even if I didn’t, I knew who he was. Trouble.
“How long you running today?” he asked.
“Another two miles.”
“Mind if I join you?” asked Ryan. “You’re keeping
a great pace.”
This coming from a professional athlete. “Sure,” I said. “Mind if I stick my headphones back in?” Ryan beamed at me and shook his head, so I did. And we ran beside each other in silence.
At the end of the last two miles, I slowed to a walk, and Ryan slowed with me. To be honest, he’d been fun to run with. When I’d flagged on the last mile, he’d kept up his pace, touched my shoulder, and pushed me the rest of the way. I was breathing hard and overheating.
“Let me get you a water,” he said, wiping the sweat off his face with his shirt, revealing a set of rock hard abs and the glimpse of a series of tattoos on his chest. “There’s a Starbucks down the street.”
“I’m dying of thirst,” I panted. “So I’ll take you up on that.”
While we waited for the light to change, we both stretched our quads. “So, things seem pretty exciting with your boss right now,” Ryan said, making conversation. “Is she really just friends with that guy?”
“Are you asking for your buddy?” I retorted. I don’t give away Yvette’s secrets.
“Burke? Naw. He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.” The light changed, and we crossed the street.
In the Starbucks, a few people looked our way, but no one came over to ask for an autograph. Whereas Burke was instantly recognizable wherever he went, no one seemed to know Ryan, although an older gentleman reading a newspaper at one of the tables kept looking over.
“I think that guy recognizes you,” I said, keeping my voice low. Ryan had to bend down to hear. He was nearly as big as Burke, and he was incredibly handsome, albeit in a different way. Burke’s handsomeness was rough and rugged; Ryan’s was suave and all-American. He looked like he might have come off of a Tommy Hilfiger ad – if Tommy models were body builders.
“Nah, he’s probably just interested,” Ryan winked. When the barista asked for our orders, Ryan got us both waters and ordered a shot of espresso for himself. “It was a late night last night,” he told me.