Love To Love You (Love/Hate #3)

by Isabelle Richards

I take his hands. “I love you, and I can’t wait to marry you. I’ll marry you in a hotel or a motel. In a drive-thru or in a canoe. On a train or in a plane. I would marry you here or there, I would marry you anywhere. Just as long as it’s you.”

  “You read that book to Calder too, huh? I’m not sure you get sweetness points for ripping off a kid’s book. I’m throwing a flag, Aldrich.”

  “Just shut up and kiss me.”

  ******

  As predicted, Chase is up, so he wants to head into the stadium. With only three games left in the regular season, he’s getting so close to doing the impossible that he’s not about to slow his pace now. We’ll barely see each other for the next three weeks, but… that’s how it goes.

  I get up with him to make us both smoothies, and when he heads out, I take my laptop back to bed. Heisman jumps in bed with me while I check the news.

  Ralph Lauren put out their story in time. It covers their ass as much as possible, but they do make it clear the rumors Cha-Ching referenced in her blog post are completely untrue. They explain that at one part of the design process, it is possible someone in the company may have unknowingly suggested a fabric that was made by a company that potentially could not be certified. It’s vague, but it gets the point across. The statement does praise my commitment to maintaining high ethical standards, referencing my vehement dedication to working with materials that do no harm to people, animals, or the environment. They expressly state that the decision to terminate the AA line was simply because of an over-booked spring schedule. It’s a lot of tap dancing, but it should get me out of hot water.

  Shelly calls as I’m scrolling through Ralph Lauren’s statement. She’s pleased with the way the company handled the situation. It’s not perfect, and portions of their statement are so cluttered with jargon that has obviously been scrubbed by legal that it hints at a corporate cover-up, but it’ll take the heat off me. She has a call into Cha-Ching to see if Miri and I can mend fences. A retraction blog post by her would go a long way to helping me. Personally, I’d like to give her a lecture on journalistic integrity and the civic responsibility that comes with having eight million followers, but I don’t think that would go over well.

  Shelly and I debate the merits of the various ways to handle this situation. As Shelly lists off the interview requests that have been pouring in, I scan responses to Ralph Lauren’s statement. As per usual with the internet, the response is varied. Some people’s minds have changed about me, and others hate me and think I probably have a houseful of children I keep as slaves in the basement. I know better than to read this stuff.

  Shelly must catch on that I’m not actually paying attention and just giving her a “yup” or “um-hmm” every few seconds, because before I know it, I’ve agreed to do a million interviews over the next few days, including a satellite interview in two hours. I know it’s the smart decision—my reputation is on life support, in dire need of intervention—but the last thing I want to do is get in front of a camera right now. At least the crew is coming to my house and I don’t have to deal with an entire news room.

  I shower and do my own hair and makeup, just in case they only send a camera crew. The news van pulls in right around eleven forty-five. Based on the layers upon layers of makeup caked on their makeup girl’s face, I think I made a good call.

  The audio guy gets a mic on me a few minutes later, then I’m on the air. The host thinks I’m going to spin my side of the story, but I don’t talk about myself or what happened with Ralph Lauren at all. Instead, I hijack the interview and talk about child labor. I go into detail about how complicated the fashion supply chain is and how easy it is for a company to unknowingly buy fabric that was made by children. It’s not the interview they were expecting, but hopefully it will educate people.

  The rest of the day is filled with phone and Skype interviews. I try to follow the same model, keeping the story off of me or Ralph Lauren and focused on the topic of child labor. With the lawsuit hopefully coming to an amicable resolution, I have to tread carefully. The last thing I want to do is say anything they could perceive as inflammatory and unravel the progress we’ve made.

  Chase doesn’t get home until ten. We watch a little film, then around midnight I force him to go to bed. I’m woken from a sound sleep by the phone ringing.

  I pry my eyes open and look at the clock. 3:02. Again? What now?

  I check my phone, but surprisingly, it’s not me. “Not it.” I pull the covers up and roll back over.

  As Chase rolls over to check his phone, he knocks Heisman onto the floor, and the poor puppy ends up pulling all the covers off the bed with him. Chase looks at his phone. “Not me either. It’s not the landline, so where the fuck is it coming from?”

  The ringing persists. Still half asleep, I stumble around the room, looking for the offending phone. I trip on Chase’s dirty laundry and land face first in very smelly practice clothes. Pushing myself off the floor, I glare death rays at him. “If I have to ask you one more time to pick up your dirty—”

  “It’s your laptop,” he says through gritted teeth, holding my MacBook and looking at it as though he’s debating just how many pieces he’s going to break it into so he can go back to sleep. “If it’s Shelly, I’m firing her.”

  I cross the room and snatch the computer from him before he can hurl it out the window. I flip the lid open and see a smiling picture of Butch.

  His angry scowl dissipates as Chase’s eyes go wide. “Answer it. She wouldn’t call in the middle of the night if she didn’t have something.”

  As I carry the computer to the bed, I push the accept button, and the call connects. “Hi, Butch. Please excuse the pajamas.”

  “Good morning, sunshine!” Butch says, far too perky for three in the morning. “I’m sorry for the late call, but I thought you’d want to hear this as soon as possible.”

  Chase grabs a T-shirt off the floor and pulls it over his head, then he sits next to me on the bed. “Why? What did you find out?”

  “After a long day of hysterics and temper tantrums, Tate hopped in his car and made the six-hour schlep back to the Bay Area. He pulls into some dive bar, and you’ll never guess who was waiting for him.”

  “Who?” we ask in unison.

  “Just listen… the audio is a little rough. My guy slipped the bartender two hundred bucks to stick the bug on the back of the salt shaker. It’s close, but they’re in a bar. The music’s loud, lots of ambient noise, but you’ll get the gist.” Butch pushes play.

  “One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer,” plays. There’s the low hum of conversations mixed with an occasional laugh here and there.

  Finally a voice we can hear speaks. “I don’t know about this place. What if someone recognizes us? You’re one of the most hated men in the States right now. It’s not going to be good for my rep if I’m seen out with you.”

  “Who is that?” I ask. The voice sounds so familiar.

  “Brock,” Chase replies. “That son of a bitch. I should have known he was involved.”

  “Just listen, guys,” Butch says, then restarts the recording.

  A man laughs. “You’ve been riding the pine for a decade. No one knows who the hell you are. We could put a ‘Hello, my name is Brock Saunders’, sticker on you and no one would know who the hell you are. But all of that’s about to change.” That was Tate.

  “Oh yeah? How’s that?” Brock says.

  “I have a way for you to get Brennan kicked out of the league. Once that happens, all your dreams come true, buddy. You’ll be the one to take the team to the Super Bowl for the three-peat. You’ll become the hero, not Brennan. They’ll name the stadium after you.”

  “That’s a lot of big promises. I seriously doubt you can deliver,” Brock replies.

  “It’s foolproof. Remember that thing I said I might need your help with?” Tate asks.

  It sounds as though Brock grunts or something, but I can’t hear him over the crash of glasses, and then a round of a
pplause.

  “You guys need another round?” a deep, gravelly voice asks. “We got a tequila special tonight. Two-for-one.”

  “Yeah, hit us up,” Tate says. “Two each.”

  There’s a long gap before anyone says anything. I’m almost afraid to look at Chase and see his reaction.

  “I’ll add it to the tab,” the deep voice says.

  “You in or what, man?” Tate asks.

  “Man, I don’t know. There’s so much heat around this thing. I think it’s better to just let it go. If it backfires…”

  “If you don’t do this now, Brennan’s gonna keep winning. They’re not going to trade you, so you’re going to be stuck, wasting away on the sidelines for the rest of your career. This is your only shot.” From the sound of Tate’s voice, he’s losing his patience.

  “If I knew about it and didn’t say anything, won’t I go down too? I’m not looking to get myself busted just to help your sorry ass out of the sling.”

  “Nah, man. You’re a whistleblower. You’ll get all sort of protection. And remember, you’re not doing it for me, you’re doing it for you. Aren’t you itchin’ to get back at him? It’s his fault you’ve been blackballed from getting a chance at a starting gig. Him and that dumb bitch. Don’t you think it’s about time you got yours?”

  During a long gap in conversation, the jukebox switches to AC/DC. It sounds as though one of them is doing a drum solo along with the music.

  During the second verse of “You Shook Me All Night Long,” Brock asks, “What do you need me to say exactly?”

  Someone claps. “Now you’re talking. All you’ve got to say is how Brennan was a pussy, didn’t think he could beat Marshall. He thought we needed an edge. You have to say you heard him offer me money to get Marshall carted off. Maybe that he talked to you about the best ways to bring Marshall down.”

  “Is that going to be enough? If I do it, I want to know this thing is going to work,” Brock asks.

  “It’ll buy me some time. One of my girls is a computer programmer and shit. I’m trying to get her to make me some emails between me and Brennan showing the plan. She knows how to do that shit, but she’s fucking dragging her feet. I’m going back over there tonight, see if I can smack some sense into her. If I have you and a few emails, I’m golden.”

  Oh, shit. I bet that’s the woman from Facebook.

  “Butch! We have to do something,” I shout. “He practically killed the kid last time.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got someone sitting on her house. We won’t let her out of our sight.” She presses Play again.

  “Why are you doing this, man? I don’t get it,” Brock asks.

  “Trust me, I’ll get mine. I just need you to start the dominoes falling. Are you in, or are you out? I need your word.”

  “Yeah, man. I’m in.”

  “And that’s all we need,” Butch says as she stops the recording. “He’s tied the noose and wrapped it around his neck for us. All we have do to is kick the trapdoor.”

  I try to follow that, but I’m too tired to get the metaphor. “So what happens now?”

  “Now we let the media work for us for a change.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chase

  Ari closes the lid of the laptop, then tackles me. She straddles my waist and peppers me with kisses. “It’s over! It’s finally over!”

  I link my hands behind her back. “My fingers are crossed, but I’m not holding my breath. This won’t even begin to be over until the NFL releases a statement. Then we have to count on people being willing to change their minds.”

  She puts her hand on my cheek. “It’ll happen. Once the story gets out, the NFL’ll want to get on the right side of the story or this will just be another example of Eckert’s ineptitude. The rest of the world will follow suit. The whole thing will unravel like a cheap sweater. Just hold on a little longer, and I promise this will all be a thing of the past.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears.” I tug on her sweatshirt, pulling her down toward me. Her lips just touch mine when my phone rings. Groaning, I drop my head back on the bed. “Do you promise when this is over we’ll stop getting calls before dawn?”

  She gives me a quick peck. “We can only hope.” Pushing against my chest, Ari sits up, then reaches across the bed and picks up my phone. “Carmen. Looks like Butch’s spreading the news.” She pushes the speaker button. “Hitting the ground running, aren’t you, Carmen?”

  But Carmen’s as hesitant as I am. Right now, all we have is an illegally obtained audio recording. That’s a long way from exoneration. Tate’s a loose cannon who has shown time and time again there are no limits to what he’ll do or how far he’ll go. There’s no way he’ll go down without a fight.

  By the time we finish with Carmen, Scott’s beeping in on the other line. Ari and I strategize with him and Shelly for a bit, then my alarm goes off. I’ve got to get to the stadium, so Ari takes over the discussion.

  After a quick shower, I find her in the kitchen washing dishes and fighting with Scott about what our next move should be. I hit mute on the phone, spin her around, and kiss her.

  “Thank you,” I say when we break our kiss. “There’s no way I could—”

  She holds up her finger, then hits unmute. “Scott, that is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. There’s no way that plan doesn’t backfire.” She grabs a travel mug out of the cabinet and fills it with smoothie. She kisses my cheek, then hands me the mug. “Get to the field. I’ve got this.”

  I kiss her neck, then whisper in her ear, “Where would I be without you?”

  “Lucky for you, you’ll never have to find out,” she says.

  “Find out what?” Scott says.

  “Not you. You, on the other hand, are lucky I’m here to stop you from ruining your client’s career,” Ari snaps at Scott. She points at me. “You go. You have a game to win.”

  “Listen to your woman,” Scott shouts.

  When I pull into my parking spot, like every morning, dread and guilt bubble in my stomach like some sort of hot spring. Another day of asking my team to prepare for another week of bad calls and overly aggressive defenses that will probably result in another injury. We’ve had five major injuries, three of which have resulted in surgery, as a result of this vendetta against me. I feel like a selfish prick asking my team to put their bodies, their careers, and their livelihoods on the line week after week. At least when I walk in today, I know there’s an end in sight.

  It’ll be hard to keep my mouth shut though. These guys deserve to know what’s going on, but I can’t say a damn thing in case something goes sideways.

  Ever since I heard that recording, I’ve been mentally playing out how I’ll handle seeing Brock. I head to Coach’s office to tell him he needs to keep Brock and me on separate sides of the stadium today. But before I can give him a long-winded explanation full of vague generalities, Coach cuts me off and tells me Brock’s not coming to practice today. Apparently, Brock called Coach last night and let him know he has a video conference this morning with the commissioner and his union rep in regards to the investigation.

  I suppose I could fill Coach in on what’s going on so he’s not caught off guard when the shit hits the fan, but Carmen ordered me to keep my mouth shut, so I don’t say a word. Instead, I change the conversation to this week’s game. Coach and I are discussing play calling for this week’s game against Chicago when Dean, our quarterback coach, pops his head in.

  “Wait until you see this,” Dean says with his thick Southern accent. “You’re about to be happier than a dead pig in the sunshine.”

  Coach yells, “How many times do I have to tell you to stop speaking Southernese? I’m from Nebraska, not Georgia! For the love of Pete, I need a freaking translator app. Is a dead pig good or bad?”

  “Just click on the link I emailed you,” Dean says as he walks over.

  Coach swipes his mouse to wake up his screen, then he looks for the email from Dean. I expect it
to be the audio recording, but it’s not. Together we watch a video of Tate in cuffs being hauled out of a house I don’t recognize. A woman sporting a swollen eye and a bruised jaw is hauled out in cuffs after him.

  “That’s his girl. The one he beat up in the video and swore he’d never laid a hand on,” Coach says.

  In the corner of the video, I notice Vic, one of Butch’s guys, talking to the cops. Thank God he was there. Who knows how much worse this could have gotten.

  “At least he was caught in the act this time,” I say as the cop car drives away.

  “I can’t believe he went back there,” Coach says. “He weaseled his way out of that mess and was totally scot-free. Why the hell would he go back and stir up more trouble? Leave the poor woman alone.”

  “That boy ain’t got the good sense God gave to a goose,” Dean says, shaking his head.

  Coach and I turn to him with puzzled expressions.

  “He’s a moron,” Dean translated. “He couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the instructions on the heel.”

  “Do you piss in your boots often where you come from?” I ask. “Is that a Southern thing I’m not aware of?”

  He slaps me upside the head. “Watch it, or I’ll make you run your ass off all day.”

  That Southern charm only goes so far.

  “Not wearing piss boots, I hope,” Coach says through his laughter.

  “Y’all can go to hell.” Dean flips us both off, then storms out of the room. Picking on him is too easy.

  “Coach, in all seriousness, we need to send someone to check on that kid. After all this, I’m really worried about him... Can we do anything?” I ask.

  “Good idea,” Coach says with a nod. “I bet Jeb’ll want to go himself. I’ll give him a call.” He points at the door. “Now get your ass on the field. We’ve got a game to win.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Arianna

  After Scott, Shelly, and I agree on a strategic approach, I get dressed and head to my lawyer’s office for a long day of tying up loose ends. Since every single project I was working on has fallen apart, we have an exorbitant amount of legal issues to resolve. The documentary, Jenna, Candy and the reality show, Vespers—there are lots of i’s to dot and t’s to cross. I’ve had enough things come back and bite me in the ass in the past month. I can’t afford for any other vulnerabilities to be left exposed.