I blink and the moonlight disappears, leaving only my reflection in the green room mirror. That’s right, I’m in the green room of the largest news station in Tampa.
Three days ago, Marie got a call from one of their producers asking if we would like to be on their show. They saw us featured in the magazine and said how proud they were that someone local was being represented. Of course we said yes, as it would be even more exposure for Firefly Kitchen, and we squealed with excitement.
“Stop thinking about whatever your mind has drifted to, and instead think about that gorgeous man of yours.”
A blush creeps up into my cheeks. “I wouldn’t say he’s mine.”
“Well, you should. He came to spend the holiday with you and he’s texting you nonstop. That’s gotta mean something.”
“Maybe.”
The only bummer about this trip to Tampa is that Bryan’s team left this morning for Miami. It would have been nice for it to overlap so I could have seen him.
The door to the green room opens, and one of the show directors comes to retrieve me. I would say I’m nervous, but it’s a different kind of nervous, one that stems from opportunity and not fear of the camera.
We use the stage set that is a kitchen. Behind us, the wall, which is a large screen, has my logo stretched from one side to the other, and my pride swells as I think about how far I’ve come. Everyone is all smiles as we take our places, and then a guy starts counting down with his fingers next to the main camera. The light on it flips from red to green.
The interview goes off without a hitch. We talk about how I got started, what makes us unique, and the holiday gift guide, and we even pretend to bake a pie. I brought along with me the five staple pie fillings to display and a premade pie crust to walk through how easy it is to assemble, and then from the oven, we whip out a baked pie. The host slices it, we each take a bite, and I am elated with how smooth everything goes—until she gets this mischievous gleam in her eye and says this.
“All right, before we let you go, the Tampa Bay viewers would be outraged if I didn’t ask about your new relationship with the Tarpons team captain and infamous quarterback Bryan Brennen. He’s always been such a private person, so this has us all buzzing with excitement.”
I try to keep smiling, I really do, and I’m certain the host sees my hackles rise, but that doesn’t deter her. “I’m not really sure what there is to tell.” I’m trying to be vague.
She forges on anyway, completely dismissing how uncomfortable I clearly am.
“How about you start from the beginning, when the pictures of you together first emerged from the team family event. Everyone here—and the sports world in general—was shocked to see him with ‘a mystery girl.’ Did he get you the job at the event?”
I can feel my eyebrow twitching as I try to maintain my composure. I know whatever I say will reflect on him either favorably or negatively, and the last thing I want to do is embarrass him.
“Bryan and I have known each other for a long time. I was very grateful for the opportunity to bring in Firefly Kitchen’s pies for his team, his friends, and their families.”
“That’s right, you two have known each other for a very long time. In fact, you are the sister of his best friend James, and our producers stumbled across this photo of the three of you from his high school yearbook. You look so young, happy, and cozy, if I do say so myself.” She winks and then gestures to the large screen behind us. My logo has disappeared, and there’s a photo of us from the team event then it switches to the older image, the one where Bryan is holding my hand.
“Yes, we were happy. This was taken after they won the state championship.”
“Such an exciting career he’s had, and it’s so great to finally know he’s had someone on the sidelines for him all these years. I know I speak for everyone here at the station when I say we are waving the Tarpons colors proud with their current undefeated season.”
Not having a response, I continue to fake smile as my heart sinks. I can’t help but wonder if this face-to-face time is even about Firefly Kitchen, or if it’s them wanting to be the first to speak to me about him.
“Well, Lexi, we’d like to thank you for coming on the show today.”
“Thank you for having me.”
She turns to face the camera. “If you’re at home, make sure you hop onto Firefly Kitchen’s website and order yours today for the holidays, because one thing’s for sure, with the backing of Bryan Brennen, this business is bound to skyrocket. Congratulations again on your new success.”
The backing of Bryan Brennen. I can feel my ears getting warmer as anger rises in me and I try to tamp it down. Your new success. If she’d done her research, she would know I’ve been successful for years, winning awards all across the state of Florida for my pies. Through gritted teeth, I thank her again, and we cut to a commercial.
Packing up my things, I focus on Marie as I walk off the set without so much as even a goodbye. Her lips are pinched together, but she’s still smiling, and she’s reading my body language as only she can after knowing me for so long. She knows I’m pissed. Never in my wildest imagination did I think I would get ambushed about Bryan here. Maybe asked about it, though I had hoped not, but nothing like that. And to imply that my success is somehow because of who he is and not because I’ve worked so hard to do this on my own makes me more upset than I thought possible. Yes, I am grateful for getting to bring my pies to the team event. I’ve received several orders and requests for catering as a result, but I have to believe it’s because they loved the pies, not because of Bryan.
Together, Marie and I walk side by side, collect our things, and head for the exit door.
Pulling my phone out of my bag, I see there’s a text waiting for me.
Bryan: How did it go? BTW I’m proud of you.
A tiny bit of my anger fizzles out. After all, I know what I’ve done, he knows what I’ve done, and these people don’t matter.
Me: They asked me about you.
I don’t want to complain to him. None of how I’m feeling is his fault, but he needs to know what’s going on.
Bryan: Why? I thought this was about the gift guide?
Me: It was, but they still asked. Don’t you know . . . I’m the mystery girl.
I’m certain he can hear the sarcasm through my words, and I feel a little bad, but not that bad.
Bryan: I’m sorry.
Me: Don’t be. I handled it.
Bryan: Okay. I’ll let our publicist know in case she gets called on it. I’m sure it’ll happen again.
That’s just what I’m afraid of. I know he would understand how I’m feeling if I tried to explain it to him—after all, he would be first in line to be defensive if he felt his hard work and efforts were being characterized as the result of someone else’s efforts—but I don’t want to overreact or make him feel bad because of who he is.
Me: Is there anything I’m not supposed to say?
Bryan: No. Say whatever you want—I trust you. Besides, maybe it will help sales . . .
Ugh.
Me: Maybe.
Peach Pie
THINGS HAVE ALREADY started changing. I can tell, my teammates can tell, the coaches can tell, and hell, even the media can tell. It’s not I’m playing different, at least I don’t think I am. The season is still the best it’s ever been, but they’re all looking at me differently, curiously, like they’ve never seen me before, and it’s strange.
Most people don’t realize there’s an actual media policy we as teams in the league are required to adhere to. Every year, at the beginning of the season, the public relations staff holds a meeting that outlines the details of the policy and the expectations, and this year, they’ve increased open locker room periods to four times a week. The sessions don’t last long, but it’s long enough to have people who are not on the team walking around and being up in our business.
We are not allowed to say or do anything that could jeopardize the image, integr
ity, or balance of the team, and that includes being rude and ignoring them. Mostly, they steer clear of me. Over the years, I’ve built a reputation for being a man of few words, and I’m fine with this. I’ve always subscribed to the philosophy that actions speak louder than words, and everything I need to say, I say on the field. But still, when they’re here, I play the media game. I smile, nod hello when needed, and if I’ve had an exceptional day, I’ll stop and chat. But, that’s rare. Over the last two weeks, however, I’ve seen them eyeing me differently. I know they’re interested in Lexi, but it’s more than that. It’s like they smell blood in the water and they’re circling.
Just the thought of Lexi has my heart thumping in my chest, and I smile. These smiles are small and mostly inward, but all of them are involuntary and make me feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Instead of the ding of the metronome causing me to salivate, it’s the thought of her. Lexi—smile. Lexi—smile. I just can’t help it.
We’ve talked every night this week, and we’ve texted throughout each day. While eating an orange cream pie she mailed to me, I’ve completely rediscovered who she is, and I’m even more fascinated by her than I was before. The only problem is that the calls are starting to leave me unsatisfied. I want to touch her, feel her, and taste her again. That one kiss wasn’t enough, it isn’t enough, and I’m going crazy. Sometimes I want her so badly, my mouth goes dry when I think about her—like right now. I should be focused on the game, but all I can think about is getting it over with so I can get back and get closer to her. One week down, one to go.
Jack sits on the bench next to me and quickly pulls off his helmet. There are five minutes left in this away game against the Dolphins, we’re up twenty-four points, and our defense has just taken the field after a three-point field goal. For being December, it’s hot as hell, and sweat is dripping off us like it’s late summer.
“You see Slendenski out there,” he snaps, waving his empty hand toward the field. The people in front of us have shifted to give us a view of the game. I glance across to the opponent’s sideline, but I don’t see him.
“Yeah, I saw him.” I picture his face on the line, snarling, almost as if foam wanted to come out of his mouth, and I cringe in disgust.
“I swear, if that asshole spits on me or tries to bite me one more time, I’m going to lose my shit. He has got to be the dirtiest player in the league, and I can’t stand that guy.”
I shift to look at him, and Jack’s face is beet red with anger. He’s so mad. “Dude, relax. It’s almost over, we’re done playing this team for the season, and you don’t have to see him again.”
“I know, but it’s just so bad. Have some fucking respect for other players. We may play on different teams, but we’re all in this together.”
People are moving around us as the Dolphins offense moves. Other team members, sideline assistants, coaches, and those who see or hear Jack instantly give us a wide berth. I can’t help but chuckle at his outrage, and his sharp gaze flips to me. “What the fuck are you laughing at?”
My grin grows even wider. “Do you remember last year when we were at the Sports Network awards show and he was nominated for the top ten defensive linemen award?”
“Yeah, so? His sportsmanship sucks, so there was no way he was going to win it.”
“I know, but that’s not the point.”
“Well, then get to the point.” All around us, the crowd cheers, and we both turn to refocus on the game.
“Come on, you have to remember the photo that was taken of him knuckle-deep picking his nose, and then it was blasted all over the Internet.”
“Oh yeah. Fucker. That was gross, too.”
In my peripheral vision, I see Jack shake his head in disgust.
“Yeah, exactly—he’s gross, and it’s been used in a thousand memes since. The world has been relentless in making fun of him. Dude will never live it down, not that I think he cares, but who knows, maybe he does.”
“Whatever. Do you want me to feel sorry for him or something?”
“Nope. Absolutely not. But next time you’re up against him, think of the memes, because no matter how well or how dirty he plays, he’ll always be remembered for that.”
“All right, Dr. Phil. I get where you’re going with this, but I still hate him.”
“Never said you shouldn’t.”
Silence settles between us as he takes an offered water bottle and squirts some of the clear liquid in his mouth. He’s calmed down significantly from a few moments ago, and I’m glad. Jack has always worn his heart on his sleeve. He’s very transparent with his emotions, and it wouldn’t hurt him to hold them in sometimes. Granted, he wouldn’t be Jack if he did, but it also wouldn’t give our competitors a one-up on him.
Looking around at my teammates who’re hovering on the sidelines, I spot a journalist from NFL Today. The team knows her well—some very well—and she’s aggressive with her interviews but fair at the same time. Only one time has she attempted to initiate a conversation with me, and she found herself disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm for answering her questions. Since then, she’s avoided me and found others who are more willing to stand in the spotlight.
Speaking of the spotlight, my mind drifts to Lexi and her television segment. I know I probably shouldn’t be happy that she was asked about me, but I am. Cat’s out of the bag. Between the team picnic and the photos circulating from last weekend, people know. They aren’t stupid.
Leaning closer to Jack, I ask, “Do you see Dee Peterson over there?”
He looks over my shoulder to spot her. “Yep. Same spot as usual, just waiting for tidbits to be thrown her way. Why?”
“She won’t stop staring at me. It’s weird.”
“Maybe it’s because you won’t stop with that shit-eating grin, which you need to get off your face so you can start focusing more on the plays they’ve been running on us today.” He points to the iPad I forgot was sitting in my hands, and I toss it on the bench to the left of me.
“This game is almost over,” I tell him, shrugging my shoulders, and his forehead wrinkles with confusion.
“Who are you and what have you done with Bryan Brennen? Because this”—he waves his hand in my direction—“bro, it’s not normal.”
The smile on my face drops. He’s right. I never smile, at least not until the game is over. No wonder people like Dee are looking at me.
Around us, the volume of the fans again increases. Jack and I stand as the clock hits the two-minute warning, and the ball is declared dead just as the Dolphins get a first down. Our defense has been on fire this game, and there’s no way they are scoring. Our offensive coordinator looks over at us, and without even speaking, we both know what has to happen. We’ll get the ball back here shortly, I’ll take a knee to run the clock down, and then we’re only four games away.
Four more games until playoffs, then three more until the Super Bowl.
So close I can almost taste it.
Orange Cream Pie
EVERY BIT OF anxiety I had about coming to the home game today against the Steelers is washed away the minute I find Camille by the players entrance gate. She’s so tiny and so perfectly put together. In another life, I would be completely intimidated by it, but her smile and personality have a way of putting even the harshest person at ease.
Bryan asked me to come after he got home from the Miami game, and all week I’ve been dreading the unknown—where to go, who I’ll see, and who will be staring at me.
“I’m so glad you could make it!” She squeals, grinning from ear to ear, and wraps me in a giant hug.
“Me, too.” I think to myself, I can do this. They’re just people. I can blend in with them and it won’t be a big deal.
She loops her arm through mine, and we walk in together.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to make it. I’ve been so busy with work, but my business partner Marie and I got a little ahead, so here I am.” I smile at her.
“From what Reid has told
me, your business is doing very well. That’s so exciting.”
Reid told her—that means Bryan has talked about me to his friends. A blush rises and heats my cheeks.
“It’s surpassed everything I imagined,” I tell her, and it really has. For years I’ve known I wanted this to be my full-time business. I’ve also known it isn’t going to be super lucrative, but I’m happy. I have everything I need and I love what I do.
“I’m so thrilled for you! I actually bought a couple jars of the honey balsamic blueberry as Christmas presents.”
“You did?” I turn to look at her, and she’s smiling conspiratorially as I hand my bag over to security. “I didn’t know that.” He hands it back and we make our way to a set of elevators.
“Yep, and you weren’t supposed to. I bought them for my mom and my mother-in law. I’m going to wrap each jar with a pie dish and tea towels.”
“Such a cute idea.”
A while back, Marie and I actually talked about branding a few items. I’ve been hesitant because it requires an upfront cost, but it might be something we should revisit.
“Maybe next year I’ll expand and offer some of those things as well,” I say, not realizing I’m speaking out loud.
“I think you should. You could totally sell them.”
Instantly, I have visions of fireflies, and my heart rate picks up in excitement at the potential product additions.
“And you think people will buy that stuff?” I ask, looking at her to see if she’s blowing smoke or being sincere.
“I don’t think—I know. I would have.”
And I believe her.
As we enter, my uneasiness drops significantly. This box belongs to the team captains, and it isn’t very large. It’s filled with wives, girlfriends, and a few kids, most of whom I remember meeting at the picnic.
Camille and I make a drink and then head to the front row of seats to await the start of the game. The warm-up is over, and the team is in the tunnel as the pregame activities begin.
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 12