Groupie (Juked Book 2)

by ME Carter

  “Hold on,” I say leaning on the desk. “What are you talking about? Who is Frederick Schneider?”

  “He played with your dad years ago for a short amount of time. I can’t remember if he got injured or was just cut from the team at some point.”

  “He probably faked that injury, the pussy.”

  She gives him a shut-up-glare. “He was really jealous of your dad. Never had the skills or the looks, but what he did have was knowledge of your dad’s weakness, which was me. For a while, your dad was okay with it. But one day, he crossed the line.”

  “He more than crossed the line,” Dad says slapping the table. “No one gets to call you a cunt and get away with it. He knew what was comin’ when he started spouting off shite about how loose you were. You were as tight as a virgin back then, and you know it.”

  “Ah! Dadaí!” I yell. “That’s my mam yer talking about. I don’t need to know these things.” I grimace and make a gagging sound.

  “Oh stop,” Mam says with a laugh. “You’re an adult, Rowen. Don’t pretend you don’t know what married people do when they love each other. And you,” she says to Da, “don’t be so graphic. You’ll make the poor boy sick.”

  “I think you learned a valuable lesson here, Rowen,” she says focusing on the topic at hand. “This is the first time someone’s gotten into your head this badly, and a really ugly side of you came out. A side I haven’t seen before.” I hang my head. I don’t like that she saw that side of me. I don’t like that anyone saw that side of me. “But you did it because you’re in love with her. I’ve never seen that before either. If you’re willing to throw your whole career away, she must be really special.”

  I smile at her. “You have no idea.”

  She gives my dad a sly smile. “Oh, I think I do. You’re more like your father than even you realize.”

  He grunts and tries to suppress a smirk. He’s still not ready to stop being disappointed in me, but he knows she’s right.

  “Now that that’s out of the way, how is your eating?” We chat about increasing my protein intake while my workouts are so hard and the benefits of carb loading. My mam may not have had a career after college, but she does more research on nutrition for athletes than anyone I’ve ever met. My teammates used to meet with her sometimes to get advice.

  Before I know it, it’s 10:18. Almost time for the sports segment.

  “Do you have the website pulled up?” I ask as I minimize the Facetime screen and plug in Channel Four’s information. “As soon as it’s up, we should all be able to live-stream the segment.”

  “Aye,” Da says as he types. “I’m pulling it up now.”

  Another click of the buttons on both our ends and there it is. “I’ve got it.”

  “Us, too.”

  The sports segment credits roll.

  “Are we going to see Tiffany?” Mam asks. “Will she be on camera, too?”

  “No, Mam. She’s the producer. She’s in the booth right now.”

  “The booth?”

  “It’s like a room where the producers and directors sit and call out instructions on what’s going to happen.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’ve all seen the clips multiple times,” Mannie, the sports anchor, says on the monitor. “Texas Mutiny midfielder, Rowen Flanigan, getting in a fist fight on the field at yesterday’s game.”

  “Here we go,” I say under my breath, nerves flaring. The interview itself isn’t bad. I just don’t like seeing myself on screen. But this is Tiffany’s story, and it’s important for her career. I’m not gonna miss seeing this.

  “After getting kicked out of the game, he didn’t go to the locker room,” Mannie continues as the clip rolls. “No, he climbs into the stands to talk to his girlfriend. What is going on? We sat down with him to talk about it in an exclusive interview.”

  There’s video of the team at practice, including a distant shot of me running laps while the team takes a water break, the reporter making a comment about it being part of my penalty. I groan.

  “Serves you right,” my dad says. I don’t disagree with him.

  The camera then cuts to me sitting on a couch in the PR office.

  “Rowen!” my mother screeches. “I can’t believe you wore that horrible cap on TV.”

  “You know I hate my hair, Mam.” Dad snickers.

  “Your hair is your trademark.”

  “No, it’s Da’s trademark. That’s why I wear the beanie.”

  She stops talking so she can listen.

  The reporter talks about our family and shows old clips of my dad playing. There’s even a couple of pictures of us in one of the European stadiums when I was a kid.

  “Aw,” my mom whispers. “I remember that day.” She looks almost misty-eyed seeing my dad in his glory days, me a little bitty squirt.

  The story shifts to present day and the interview I did yesterday.

  “Midfielder,” the reporter says to me.

  “Yeah,” I answer with a nod.

  “A lot of people assume you would be a striker, like your dad.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “Why such a different position?”

  “I think at first I was trying to distance myself from him.”

  “Distance yourself from being Ryan Flanigan’s kid?”

  “Well, no.” On-screen me shifts uncomfortably. “I’m proud to be my Da’s son. He’s a fantastic father, and I’m not ashamed of that or anything. I just didn’t want to screw up.”

  “How so?”

  “He has awfully big shoes to fill. When I was in those rebellious teenage years, I didn’t want people to compare us, ya know? I wanted to be my own person, and my own kind of player.”

  “You don’t mind the comparison now?”

  “Not any more, but I think part of that is because I’m confident in my own skills now, and it’s almost impossible to be that way as a kid. We have similar styles on the field, but we also have very different skills. He’s always been more aggressive. It makes him a good striker. I’m an assessor. It makes me a good defensive player.”

  “Do you still scrimmage with your dad?”

  A big smile crosses my face on screen. “Scrimmage is the least of it when I go home.” The reporter and I laugh. “He has me running drills and doing heavy weight reps. A couple months ago, he didn’t like my flexibility, so he made me take a yoga class with him every day. I had to get back to practice just to get some rest.”

  My dad snorts a laugh while my mom giggles. I’m nervous, because I know the question is coming, the question I didn’t want to answer and a question Tiffany doesn’t even know I was asked. Sure enough, the clip of me climbing up in the stands crosses the screen. Again.

  “The incident over the weekend—”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And, the girl.”

  I rub my face and groan. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask about her.”

  “But of course we have to.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s the question on everyone’s mind.”

  “I know.”

  “Who is she?”

  “You don’t have any guesses?”

  “It looks like you’re dating our sports producer, Tiffany Wendel.”

  “Am I allowed to say no comment?” I’m bright red, even though I’m smiling.

  “You can say no comment, but the video kind of speaks for itself, don’t you think?”

  I sigh. “Yeah, it does. I’ll just say… um… man, she’s gonna kill me for this later.”

  Mannie laughs. “She’s going to kill me first, so don’t think you’re the only one.”

  “I will say she’s a great girl. You’re lucky you get to spend all day at work with her. I’m kind of jealous actually.”

  Mannie is back on-screen as the video ends. “You got that right, Rowen. We are very, very lucky to have her as part of our crew. In the meantime, to go along with all that laundry duty, Flanigan is serving out a two-game suspension
and has to pay a $5,000 fine. League officials say because he has no prior incidents of any kind, they felt it was a fair punishment. Moving to baseball, the Houston Astros are getting ready to start their season….”

  I turn the volume down on my computer.

  “Ye did good, son. Real professional.”

  “Thanks, Da.”

  “Taking responsibility was the right thing to do. League officials will see that and know they made a good call.”

  “Even if they don’t, it’s all true. I know anything I do reflects on your reputation, and I’m sorry I put yours on the line.”

  He scoffs. “Rowen, anyone who judges my reputation based on your behavior, well, they just aren’t paying attention to us being two people, are they?”

  “That’s not the way it works.”

  “I don’t care if it’s not the way it works. You said it yerself in that interview. We have two different personalities. We’re different on the field. We’re different in our lives. I raised ye to be yer own person, and yer strong in that. Yer my son, and yer mom and I raised you to act better.”

  “I know, Da. It won’t happen again on the field. But I’m warning you now, Tiffany is the best thing that ever happened to me. Even better than soccer. If it comes down to choosing one or the other,” I shake my head, “she wins.”

  He looks at my mam, who puts a hand over her mouth. He puts his arm around her and pulls her close as she holds back tears.

  “What?” I ask, confused. “What did I say?”

  “My baby’s getting married,” Mam says.

  “I’m not… what do you have in that tea, Mam? You’re delusional.”

  My dad chuckles. “Let her have her moment, boy. You’ll learn that soon enough with your own woman.”

  She playfully slaps him on the chest.

  “On that very weird note, I need to take a hot shower and rub down with some Icy Hot before I go to bed. So, put the Jameson away, Mam. Those hangovers can be brutal.”

  “Hush up, you.” She smiles. “I love you, Rowen. I’m really proud of you.”

  “Love you, too, Mam. Da.”

  We disconnect, and a text message comes in as I wait for my computer to shut down.

  Tiffany: I’m going to kill you.

  I laugh. Kill him first. He put me on the spot.

  Tiffany: He already got an earful. You’re next.

  It was good, though, right?

  Tiffany: It was perfect! We’ve already gotten requests from all the affiliates for the package. You’re going national tomorrow, baby.

  I groan.

  Tiffany: I know you’re groaning. Stop. This is a good thing.

  Lol. I know. And if it made you happy, I’d do it all over again.

  Tiffany: You’re sweet. You really want that rub-down tonight, don’t you?

  I hurt so bad, babe. I’m not above begging at this point.

  Tiffany: No need for begging. I have a meeting in less than ten minutes. I’ll head straight over after that. Will that work?”

  Perfect. Be careful. It’s late.

  Tiffany: I will. Go soap up so you’re nice and clean. And ready to get dirty again.

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  I love it when Steve is on vacation. Because I, the lowly associate producer, get to be producer for the night.

  There’s nothing like the feeling of writing the entire sports segment, making sure all the graphics are correct, ensuring all the editing is done, and sitting in the production booth producing my five-minute block of a newscast.

  I smile as I think about the five o’clock show and how smoothly it ran. Mannie, our main sports anchor, delivered everything perfectly. The videos rolled on queue. The stories flowed seamlessly.

  I’m proud of myself. I hope Rowen was watching. He knows how excited I’ve been about Steve taking a few days off. I hope he’s proud of me, too.

  “News Four Sports, this is Tiffany,” I say into the phone absentmindedly. I’m scrolling through the sports wires to see if there are updated scores on any of the college games we’ve been following.

  “Fucking groupie whore,” someone says. “Women like you are an abomination.” I hang up quickly and pull my hand away like I’ve been burned.

  Who the hell was that?

  The phone rings again and I reach for it, hesitating momentarily. Surely that last call was a fluke.

  “News Four Sports, this is Tiffany.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, sleeping with other women’s husbands like that.” I hang up again.

  What is going on?

  The phone rings a third time, but I ignore it, opting instead to pick up when the caller ID says it’s Caleb calling from downstairs.

  “Caleb, what is going on? What are these weird phone calls I’m getting?”

  “I’m not sure how to say this, Tiff.” He coughs as my cell phone rings. I look at it. Unknown caller. I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Just say it, Caleb. What’s happening?”

  “Are you looking through the wires yet?”

  “I’m scrolling through the scores now.”

  He takes a deep breath. “You’re trending.”

  “What do you mean, I’m trending?” I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  I open my Facebook page and see thirty-seven notifications. I have a lot of friends, but even I know that’s unusual, especially since I’m only on Facebook for work purposes. Instagram is more my speed.

  Glancing at the stories that are trending, my heart stops.

  Tiffany Wendel is says in big bold letters. Underneath, a little snippet of the story. Mack Shivel, Seagulls midfielder posts naked pics of alleged groupie.

  “Ohgod.” I click on the link. “Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.” I scroll, and sure enough, there is a picture of me, a naked picture of me that has gone viral.

  I have no idea when this picture was taken, but it looks like it’s in Mack’s old living room. I’m sitting naked on the table, legs spread with a hand between them. My eyes are closed and my head is back, pushing my breasts forward.

  It’s obvious it’s a screenshot from Mack’s Instagram account. His handle is right on top. The caption makes me hyperventilate.

  News Four Sports Producer by day, soccer groupie by night, Tiffany Wendel is the reigning champion of the Texas Mutiny’s Blow Job Races. Easy on the eyes and easy in the bedroom. She’s the man of Rowen Flanigan’s dreams.

  “Tiffany, are you okay?”

  I’m so shocked at seeing myself in all my glory, I forgot I was on the phone. “Have people….” My throat feels scratchy, and I find it hard to speak. “Are people looking at this?”

  Caleb pauses, and I know what his answer is about to be. “Just don’t answer the phone, okay? I’ll be up there in a few minutes to field calls.”

  “How did… where the hell did that even come from? Is this… is this on the internet?!” I’m on the verge of hysterics and have no idea if I’m even making any sense. I immediately jump on Facebook and go through my notifications. The messages are horrific.

  Damn girl, if I had a body like yours, I’d be kicking it, too!

  Eh, she’s not that hot. She’s got a big nose, and her right tit is slightly smaller than the other.

  YOU. ARE. A. TRAMP. People like you are bringing this country down. You’ll regret your behavior when you’re in the food stamp line, trying to feed your bastard child.

  This is probably the most surreal moment of my life. There are messages and comments and friend requests. I can’t take looking at the derogatory and hateful remarks anymore. I deactivate my account.

  I vaguely hear the phone ring again. It doesn’t even register when Caleb starts answering calls. I’m too lost in my own thoughts. I grab my phone and see two missed calls. One is from Rowen. The other is my mom.

  A fresh wave of panic takes over as I think about those two seeing this picture and what their reactions are. I can’t talk to anyone right now. I can’t even
get my thoughts straight. I open my text messages. My mother left one there as well.

  What in the world is going on, Tiffany? Is this a real picture?

  I close my eyes and blow out a breath. This can’t be happening. My mother can’t be involved in this. She expects better from me. I shoot her a quick text back.

  I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know anything. I don’t know where it came from or who even took it. I’m trying to figure it all out right now. I’ll call later.

  I’m lying. I have no intention of calling her later. I have no intention of calling anyone later. My phone alerts me of a new text message.

  Mom: No matter what, I love you, Tiffany. Nothing can change that.

  I relax a little. Then I remember my Instagram account. I tap the app to open it. The bottom of my screen looks like a Christmas tree, with all the red alert lights. I look to see what I’ve been tagged in. Very quickly I discover that’s a mistake.

  The picture Mack posted was removed, but not before it was shared over five thousand times.

  Over five thousand people have seen me naked in a matter of minutes. It hits me so hard, I can hardly breathe. These are people I don’t know. People I do know. People I don’t like. People I admire and respect. But none of them, none of them has permission to see me like that. And for the rest of my life, whenever I meet someone new or walk down the street, I’ll never know who has seen me nude, and not just nude, but naked, spread-eagled and masturbating.

  I grab the trash can under my desk and throw up lunch. I want to break my computer so no one can see this terrible picture of me. I want to run the entire thousand miles to Mack’s house and punch him in the face multiple times. I want to go home and hide under the covers.

  I stare at the wall while Caleb continues to answer call after call. My cell is clutched so tightly in my hand, my knuckles are white. I can’t concentrate on anything as I keep going through it all in my mind.