by Lulu Wright
“Geo,” I whine. “Say something.”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Go to Miami.”
“What? No way.”
She shoots me a look. “Going to Miami is the best thing to do. For one, it just might give you the opportunity to apologize to Mark. I happen to think there’s a chance for you—for you both. You guys found each other and forgave one another for all of your high school crap. You’re older now. Smarter, both of you. I really believe you guys can overcome what happened.”
“But—”
“And honestly, being back on the air is the best thing for your career. It’s your dream, Rose. Even if things don’t work out with Mark, this will open up so many doors for you.”
“How? So all the diehards can hate me live on the air? So I can become a pariah nationwide?”
She shakes her dreads. “Have ever thought that maybe going down there might be just the right way to rehab your image? When you’re on the air, you can talk to these haters directly. You can control the spin of the story. You can tell your side, apologize, and make this right.”
As I watch Paramus shoot by me, I think of the disaster that awaits me in Miami, if I do go. Just how bad is it going to be? Can I take it?
Snow is coming down now in big, fat flakes. Tonight would be a great night to curl up with a bottle of wine on Mark’s couch, clasp each other and watch lame movies. Or venture out into his hot tub and watch the flakes fall firsthand, while we get all warm and toasty and probably naked…
Right now, I miss Mark more than ever before. Shit. It hurts, how much I miss him.
“Hey,” Geo says. There is a smile on her lips.
“Yeah?” I stare out the window.
“I guess I need to make you more s’mores, huh?”
My eyes well up. “Thanks. But I don’t know if that will help.”
27
Rose
When I step outside baggage claim to catch a cab, it’s like I jumped into a warm bathtub. Miami is hotter than hell and as humid as a sauna. Jesus. Three seconds outside and I’m sweating like I’ve just run a marathon. The air is tough to breath, it’s so heavy and wet. It’s like Jersey in the dog days of August, but worse.
After balling up my goose down jacket and securing it to my wheelie bag, I hail a cab and pop in, grateful the driver has the AC on Arctic blast.
“Where to, Miss?” he asks in an accent I can’t place.
“The Hilton on Miami Beach.”
He nods and the cab lurches forward. We drive by a world completely different from New Jersey and New York. Everything here is clean and bright and brand new like a shiny penny. I have left behind a cold, gray winter for endless warmth and summer. Palm trees and stucco. Convertibles and half-naked gorgeous people. Eyeing the beaches, I am lost in the beauty, forgetting everything in the dizzy moment a new environment can give you. For a moment I forget why I’m here. I forget the pit of dread pooling in my stomach, where it’s been seething for the whole trip down.
Then I see it in the distance. An enormous billboard, plastered across the highway. “GAME NIGHT WITH YOURS TRULY.” And oh, look. Mark’s face. Fifty feet wide with his violet blue eyes gazing through me.
My hands squeeze into fists and so does my heart. I am back in a swirl of anxiety and sadness. I hear Geo’s words in my head as she fed me the best s’mores she ever made. “You got this, Rose.”
Closing my eyes, I take several deep breaths of the cab driver’s spicy incense. Yeah. I got this. I am a Rose, which means I’ve got thorns.
My Halcyon producers here in Miami are a dapper little fellow named Cody and a tall sinewy blonde named Jessica. We meet in a rented room at the Hilton for a planning sesh. Cody is cheery and dressed down in jeans and a 21 Pilots T-shirt. I think I may have found an ally in this corporate crazy, since it turns out he started out as the program director at an alternative rock station in Detroit. “I always loved W-ALT,” he says with a smile. “Really cool set lists.”
“Thanks,” I say. “How did you end up working corporate?”
He shrugs. “What can I say? I have a wife and two kids and the moving around and the alt rock salary wasn’t cutting it anymore.”
I press my lips together and look down at the equipment Halcyon has provided. State of the art. “I guess I’m a company gal now too.”
“I feel ya,” Jessica says. She rolls up her sleeve to reveal a Grateful Dead tatt on her forearm. As she rolls it back down, she smiles at me. “We all have to grow up sometime.” Then she looks at the time on her phone. “OK, let’s roll. We’re going to interview a couple players before the game.”
My head nods, but inside I feel gooey and sick. Jessica catches my eye and gives me a gentle smile. She knows. She must know. Who doesn’t at this point? My failed romance is all over the WWW. “It’ll be fine,” she says. “Cody and I got your back.”
Cody nods. “After we check in with the suits, we’ll be there with you in the locker room.”
“That means a lot,” I say. Then I blink. “Wait. Locker room?”
The stadium is mostly empty, just some media people and other production people. I look down at the bases on the field and remember Mark and me racing around them. Sigh.
Shaking it off, I follow Cody and Jess to Halcyon’s private suite, perched over home plate.
The suite is packed with Halcyon executives and their guests, everyone slurping cocktails and champagne from the open bar. Oh, wow. This place is choked with celebrities. I spot at least three rappers and more than a couple of Hollywood B-list actors. As I’m introduced around the room, eyes light up in recognition. Most people try to suppress a chuckle or deliver a patronizing hello.
Tania Scully is here slugging champagne as she rolls her eyes at a suit who is invading her body space by touching her arm. Ew. Poor Tania. I can’t say I’m a huge fan, but I can admit Geo and I have watched all of her chick flicks. She always gets the guy and she always looks great doing it.
“Harry’s finance. Yankees shortstop,” Jess whispers in my ear.
Tania catches my eye and must recognize me somehow, because she makes a beeline to me. Then it’s all air hugs and air kisses. “Rose Taylor,” she coos. “Great to meet you.”
I can’t believe the star of Lost in Kisses and The Breakup Cruise knows my name. Weird.
She’s shorter than I expected, and pretty, though with a lot of makeup on. But that’s not a stupid thing to do, I realize. Cameras are constantly clicking in this room.
Shit, I hope I look ok. I air-kiss her back. “I love your movies,” I stutter, then wince. Wow. Smooth.
“You want some champagne?” She holds out the other glass in her hand to me. A sparkly gem dominates her ring finger. Jeez. It looks bigger than the Hope Diamond. The weight of it must kill her wrist.
“No thanks. I need to keep a clear head. Going to do more interviews in a few.”
“That’s right. I heard…” she looks over her shoulder and then leans into me. “You’ll be talking to Mark, right?”
My stomach churns. I mean, Jess didn’t exactly say so, but I kind of figured. After all, Halcyon just wants me here so they can make bank off our relationship drama. Fanfuckingtastic. I nod dumbly at Tania.
“He’s a great guy. He’s…” She presses her lips together, then downs the last bit of champagne in her one hand so she can take a fresh slug off the other. “He’s been really down,” she whispers after she swallows. “Harry told me.”
Harry. Her Yankees man. Got it. I nod. “I’m sure he’s been comforting himself with all sorts of models.” I try to sound nonchalant, but I feel like I’m dying inside.
She shakes her head. “He only comes out of his hotel room for training. No clubs. No parties. No nothing. Harry tried to talk to him, invite him out, but…” She shrugs her dainty shoulders. “Mark doesn’t talk to anyone. He’s being living like a monk. A vow of silence type, too. I’m really glad you’re here. We were all getting worried.”
My heart jumps. I feel
like I might be in one of her movies. Prisoner of Love, maybe, or Ten Ways to Happiness. As she is pulled away from my side, she gives me a little wink.
A monk. Like, as in, not fucking anyone else? Is that true?
I imagined him drowning in vagina by now, returning to his old playboy habits. Moving on and putting his dick in every actress and cocktail waitress on South Beach. But if this is true, if he’s really holed up and monking out, what does that mean?
I don’t get much time to revel in the explosion of confusing feelings, because Jess is tugging at my arm. “Show time.”
I take a deep breath and paste a fake smile on my face. Here goes nothing.
28
Rose
Hot, well-built men stand in various states of undress around me.
So far, I have interviewed six of Mark’s teammates, all of them thankfully fully dressed. Standard stuff with the clichéd questions that Scott has assured me our 18 to 34 male demographic eats up with a spoon. I feel like a robot. I guess this is my corporate life now.
While doing the interviews, my eyes dart around for a glimpse of Mark, but all I see are bare chests and the occasional dick dangling by. Wow, these guys are not shy. I guess they’re used to reporters traipsing around in here though. And it’s not like they have anything to hide.
Cody pushes Harry Fortier toward me, Tania’s Yankees man. A handsome guy, he’s lanky, with slumped shoulders and downcast eyes.
I cue up the tape. “So, how do you feel?” I ask.
He answers with the standard feeling great, ready for this game, can’t wait to get onto the field that every player has already said, but he’s nice and grins as he does it. Plus he has a nice Cajun accent to boot. He calls me ma’am, even though he’s gotta be around my age. Aw, southern boys.
“Thanks Harry,” I say when we finish.
“No problem, ma’am.”
Then he does the same thing his girlfriend did, quickly peeking over his shoulder before he locks his eyes back on me in a conspiratorial gaze. He looks down at the mic. “That thing off?”
I nod.
He puts his mouth to my ear. “Mark’s bad off. If you still care about him, please, try to right this. We’re all worried.”
Before I can ask what “bad off” means, he melts away into the sea of naked men.
He’s bad off.
About us? When he sat on that couch, avoiding my eyes as he told me to get out, I had never seen him look so miserable. He hasn’t returned any of my phone calls. As far as I can see, he’s washed his hands of me. But so far two separate human beings have approached me to offer hope. Against my better judgment, a tendril of optimism snakes into my heart.
Maybe I am one of the plucky gals Tania plays. Maybe I can still get the guy.
Jess taps me on the shoulder and points behind me. Turning, I see Mark. Suddenly it’s like he’s moving in slow motion. He’s in his uniform from the waist down, but above the hips, he is in his glory. His chest is more toned than the last time I saw him and he’s sporting a full beard.
Then he sees me and smiles. My heart about explodes from my chest. Maybe he listened to those voicemails after all. Maybe he will forgive me.
As he walks toward me I hear a thousand clicks of cameras and feel the hot lights of TV cameras trained on me. Shit. This is going to be in HD. This interaction is in front of the entire world. I can’t break down.
I steel myself as he approaches. This is just a standard interview, I tell myself. A standard interview with my heart and all my emotions on the line.
“Hi, Rose.” Damn. Was his voice always this sexy? My knees want to buckle already. He pecks my cheek, and his beard tickles. “How have you been?” He’s rubbing my arm and giving me such a warm look I can’t help but smile up at him, hopeful.
“Fine. Good. I, uh…” I missed you, I think, but I am aware of the cameras on every side of us.
He looks down at my equipment. “That thing on? Shall we?”
I clear my throat and lift the mic. “Rose Taylor here, live from the Yankees locker room speaking to Sporty Talk’s own Mark Carrington, the Bad Boy at Bat for the Yankees,” I recite. “Mark what are your thoughts on the upcoming season?”
I take a breath and oxygen lights up my brain. OMG. I am so happy right now, so relieved. His gorgeous blue eyes are on me and he’s smiling and flirty. There is hope and it is springing eternal.
“Well, Rose. What can I say? The lineup is strong and I feel this is our year.”
The words are all standard, but they are delivered with a twinkle in his eye and he’s standing so close to me as he says them that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. He smells amazing. The beard suits him and I almost reach out my hand to stroke it. It’s so hard to control the impulse. We talk for a few more minutes about the game, the warm ups, the season in general. The whole time, I want so badly to touch his chest. To kiss him. To throw my arms around his neck and never let go.
“We done?” he asks finally, still with his gorgeous eyes on me.
“Yes.” I reach down and switch off the equipment. When I look back up, his face has changed. His jaw is clenched and his eyes have gone cold. He turns and walks away without a word.
I am left feeling chilled. Empty. Alone. I want the locker room floor to open up and swallow me whole.
I feel Jess put her arm around my shoulders. “Are you OK?”
“Can I take five?” My hands are shaking and I want to burst into tears. That was only for the cameras. Everything he just did. The smile, the touching, the affection. Fuck, I am an idiot. Of course he doesn’t forgive me. How could he?
“Sure.” She points toward the massage room. “Go shut yourself in there for a few minutes. We have enough here. National is on a hard break anyway.”
Lugging the equipment, I quickly move to the back of the locker room, shut the door and run right into a massage table. Exactly like the one Mark has in his loft. Exactly like the one he gave me a massage on, before he carried me off to his bed. Great, reminders everywhere.
I jump up and sit on it, dangling my legs. That was awful and I can’t blame him. I mean, how was he supposed to act? Of course, he was going to be warm and friendly on camera, in front of the world.
What did I expect? Him to forgive me just like that?
The equipment is heavy on my lap, so I move it to the side. That’s when the idea hits me. Instead of crying, I need to do something proactive. I need to fix this. Somehow. I pick up the phone and dial a direct line to Halcyon’s latest acquisition in the heart of Paramus, New Jersey. “Chad? I need you to patch me through live.”
There is a pause and I swear I hear Chad closing his laptop. “For what, exactly?”
I take deep breath. “I have an idea. And you will love it.”
29
Mark
The room is quiet and cool. I’m sitting in one of the meeting rooms in the back of the stadium, away from the press, away from people. I am laying on the floor face-up, staring at the ceiling. I wish I could turn off the speaker above me piping in MIAMI SPORT TALK FM, but it’s automated. The pre-game speculation is annoying, but at least I’m alone.
Before every game, I like to take a few minutes to myself to just breathe and relax. This is how I hone my focus. This is how I hit the ball out of the park. Closing my eyes, I try to find that space of ease, of bliss. I try to picture being on the mound, my eyes trained on the pitcher, the ball hurling my way as fast as a bullet. I try to hear the roar of the crowd and smell the roasted peanuts and popcorn. I try to feel the sting of sweat in my eyes as I choke the bat.
How does it feel in my hand? How much does it weigh? How does it feel to take a practice swing?
Breathe in. Breathe out.
“And we are throwing it back to Rose Taylor in Miami with a special announcement…” the radio drones.
Fantastic. I can’t even avoid her in here. I shut my eyes and try to drown out her sultry voice with thoughts of swinging bats and roaring crowds,
but I can’t.
“I just wanted to tell you—and you know who you are—that I’m sorry,” she’s saying.
Yeah, sure you are, I think. Sorry you got caught.
“And I love you.”
The floor feels like it’s falling out from under me.
“Good luck tonight,” she adds, like it wasn’t already obvious to everyone listening who she just said that for. But somehow it makes my stupid monkey brain like it more, that she admitted to the whole world how she feels. She knows she could be humiliated now. I could use that against her. And still she told me. Told everyone.
Fuck.
Everything was decided. Everything packed away. I was good to go before that speech. I was good to move on. The last several weeks, when I wasn’t at practice, I was Skyping with Todd and ironing out the mess that is my personal shit. I have been hitting the therapy hard, processing the emotions from years ago all the way up through me kicking Rose out of my life.
It’s been a roller coaster this last month. Facing all this shit has been draining, but also freeing. At least, I thought I was free. Until I saw Rose this morning. Now her heartfelt words ring in my ears.
She looked good today. Too good. She kept staring at my beard. But standing so close to her, all the hurt came back. And now I am torn in two by her words, by that confession. The words I wanted to hear for so long. I love you.
No. Fuck that.
I’ve worked too hard to slide back now. One of the issues I examined with Todd was the connection between my romantic relationships and my mother. Paging Dr. Freud. Gross to examine, for sure, but I made some breakthroughs. I could see the connection. Except for Rose, I always had this stand-offish thing with the chicks in my life.
And then I opened up to her and look what happened.
Fuck that and fuck her.
Anger hits me with all the old symptoms. Clammy skin, pounding heart, racing thoughts. But I’ve become an old pro at reeling them back in. In a few seconds, I’m back on the mound in my head. Soon, I’ll have to go back into the locker room for the pre-game pep talk. Soon, I’ll have to go out there and perform in front of millions.
But I can’t focus right now. I just can’t fucking see the game.