by Crowe, Liz
Marlo rolled onto her side and brushed the tears off Kayla’s cheeks. “I think this calls for a drink.”
“Girl, it is ten-thirty in the morning.” Kayla opened her eyes and kept staring up at the ceiling. “You have a problem.”
“I don’t. And since when does that stop us? I’ve got some decent vodka and I know we have some bloody Mary mix or we can make some. Come on. Get up. Stop moping.”
“I’m actually not moping,” Kayla called to Marlo’s retreating back.
“Okay, then. Today is a good day. You’ve come to your senses and we’re both gonna get our dream jobs. Come on, let’s toast to it,” Marlo said, holding up the chilled bottle of cheap vodka she’d retrieved from the freezer.
She took a long slug from the neck of the vodka bottle, willing the sound of J.D.’s voice out of her head. Not to mention the memory of his lips, teeth, tongue and fingers off her skin.
“You don’t have to take his job offer you know,” Marlo reminded her, not being helpful at all.
“I know that.” She sat in one of their two kitchen chairs and sniffled. “But if I have to fling one more overpriced IPA or bullshit Imperial stout at one more hipster asshole I’m gonna kill myself. I have to get out of that hellhole and this is the only way.”
“I know, honey, I know.” Marlo patted her shoulder before taking the bottle and dumping the remains of it into her glass. “You don’t have to give him up in the process, though. I don’t get why you’re so set on that path.”
“He is…” She shook her head, unable to find the right words.
“Hot as fuck? Rich as God? In mad love with you?” Marlo asked, not helping at all.
“He is not in love with me. That much is obvious.”
“What kind of nonsense talk is that?”
“You said it yourself. He hires his exes, a lot. And then it’s like they’re off limits to him. I mean, part of me admires him for that. He’s, like, the opposite of the creepy boss demanding blow jobs for promotions. But…” She stopped and chewed her lower lip a few seconds. “He’s pushing me so hard to do this thing, I have to think it’s his way to, you know, file me away, to put our … one time behind him, or something.”
“Oh, now…”
“Don’t oh, now me.” Kayla jumped up and ran for the bedroom. “It’s fine. I’m fine. All will be fine. You’ll have a great job at the hot new TV channel, I get to tell my stupid story in front of the camera, and he will have collected us both. Look at that! A two-for.”
“Kay…”
“Leave me alone,” she whispered before shutting her door and dropping back onto her bed, fighting the urge to cry with everything in her.
She’d decided to do it, to be in his damn show and use that to kickstart herself back into soccer … somehow. Besides, putting her at arm’s length seemed to be what he wanted, so she figured she might as well oblige him.
And now, she got to tell her story for an actual audience. Before she would let herself deflate or lose her nerve at that thought, she grabbed J.D.’s assistant’s business card from the pile of crap on her dresser, pulled out her half-working phone, and dialed the number.
After a quick discussion with the soft-spoken, efficient woman she ended the call and sat, dazed by what she’d been told. “Holy shit,” she whispered into the empty room. “Holy. Fucking. Shit. Marlo! Come here!” She made a quick app check of her bank balance, glanced at herself in the mirror, and decided to keep her hair as it was.
“What is it now? More whining? Excuses?”
Kayla grabbed her friend in a hug and spun her around the cramped bedroom. “Girl, I just found out my pay for this stupid movie thing. Let’s go.” She called for a Lyft. “Let’s go. It’s retail therapy time, TJ Maxx style.”
****
The next day dawned gray and dismal, with random spurts of cool rain. Kayla rolled over and smacked the mechanical alarm clock she’d been using since high school and dragged the cover over her head, willing a few more hours of sleep to materialize in the universe. Which worked about as well as usual. After a few minutes, she heard the shower running, so she got up and slouched into the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea.
She’d given herself plenty of time for a shower, make-up, and nervous pacing before her meeting, and almost wished she hadn’t, since the nervous pacing part was making her anxiety worse. She sipped tea and forced herself to sit still, leafing through gossipy news on Marlo’s iPad. She’d been doing some deep diving into J.D.’s personal gossip history since hooking up with him the first time and could practically recite the timelines of both his love life and his glory-filled days as a college and pro football stud. She’d bookmarked a few articles and posts about DSN and how its meteoric rise had been fueled by its own gimmicky-ness, until J.D. Baxter’s pet project had proven itself to be the real deal via hard-hitting and sometimes brutally honest documentaries.
Kayla re-read an interview in Vanity Fair he’d given two years after DSN’s debut and right after they’d received the Emmy for the pro athlete abuse project. She found herself unable to stop staring at the photos of him—one in a designer suit, the white French-cuffed shirt open at the neck, looking like some kind of Master of the Damn Universe behind his massive glass-topped desk. The photo of him in jeans and a wildly patterned dress shirt—his handsome face caught in mid-laugh made her eyes burn and her entire body break out in goosebumps.
“What can I say?” was the call-out quote in the middle of the page, in huge, orange letters next to the third photo of him in his Broncos jersey, preparing to give the football a toss across a photography studio. “I love working with women.”
He’d received full rashes of shit for that, but he’d weathered it. Probably because anyone who really knew the man understood that his love of “working with women” wasn’t about having them at his beck and call for sex. He respected the women he hired. He paid them well above what other high-profile sports commentators and reporters made. The past girlfriends and random women interviewed for the article all agreed. And the station was going gangbusters. He’d even been sold the rights to broadcast all WNBA games and was in negotiations with the women’s pro soccer league—the one she’d had to quit after her accident.
She flipped the iPad cover closed, the screen filled with images of women doing what she’d wanted to do and had worked for her whole life—playing the game she adored. The last thing she needed today was to sink into self-pity. She had herself a damn meeting at this successful TV station, and she was going to prove herself worth of all the insistence at her “perfectness for the role” that had been thrown at her since she’d literally run into J.D. Baxter—dear God had that only been a week ago?
“You know you’re a shoe-in, right?” Marlo wandered into the kitchen and poured water into her coffee press. “I mean, you did fuck the owner and all.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m just keeping it real. It’s what we do.”
Kayla got up and stretched. “Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do and all that.”
“You get it, girl,” Marlo said, giving her ass a swat as she headed toward the bathroom.
Kayla paused at a small mirror next to their apartment door and untied the silk scarf she’d been sleeping in to let her hair spill out and frame her face. “Oh my God, maybe I should’ve done the hair.”
Marlo emerged and rested her chin on Kayla’s shoulder. “You look awesome. And that suit we got is perfect. And those shoes?” Marlo wolf-whistled at her, sticking her face next to Kayla’s.
“Of course, I’m one dead broke bitch now, mostly thanks to those shoes.”
“Getting that problem solved today,” Marlo declared. Their faces were close, reflected in the mirror, highlighting their contrasting skin colors. She and Marlo had been friends since the day they met as Freshman on their college soccer team. An odd couple to some, given Marlo’s fresh as a daisy Midwest farm girl looks—silky reddish-brown hair, big green eyes, a
nd a naturally slim to the point of skinny figure. They’d been paired in a hot, late summer dorm room that first pre-season, both terrified, and half not-believing they were on this nationally renowned team of prima donna players. They’d also suffered through the requisite hazing together. They never looked back and never roomed with anyone else, until Makayla got recruited to play on a pro team. Marlo seemed to give up on her earlier stated goal to also be a pro player, about halfway through their junior year, but Makayla’s own ensuing drama had kept her from noticing like she should.
“You’re way prettier than me,” Kayla said. “You always have been. I don’t deserve you as my friend.”
“Well, you’re right on both counts. But you’re the one Mr. Hot Sports Channel Man picked up that night. Don’t ever forget it.” She gave Kayla a shove. “Go on, get cleaned up and ready. Our future awaits us!”
Chapter Twelve
When they climbed out of their Lyft ride in front of the refurbished building that housed the DSN network, not to mention luxury condos, a state-of-the-art fitness center, and several non-profit agencies J.D. rented to for a dollar a month, Kayla very nearly climbed right back into the backseat and demanded a ride home. This couldn’t be happening. Not to her, anyway.
She flinched when Marlo grabbed her hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “Oh my God, girl, this is actually about to happen to me. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Yeah, right,” Kayla said, tugging her hand out of her friend’s grip. “So, maybe you should go on in and I’m gonna—”
“Don’t you dare chicken out on me, Makayla Jean. Come on. Let’s go meet our destinies.”
She had no choice but to follow Marlo through the bank of automatic doors and into the chic, white-marbled, water-fall-featured lobby. A female guard sat at the marble surrounded desk. They approached her, gave their names and business, and were directed to a line of elevators behind her with a smile of welcome.
Kayla stared at the other people around her, a mix of men and women all suited up and busy-looking with their phones and earbuds and leather briefcases. Was this the life she wanted? Would this actually change the crappy direction she’d been headed in for the last two years? And more importantly, was being here now, today, about to commit to potential embarrassment via documentary, worth giving up on anything more with Jon David Baxter?
“Hey, come on.” Marlo bumped her shoulder and pointed to one of the open elevators. Kayla nodded, unable to speak thanks to the dryness in her mouth and throat. “Stop licking your lips,” Marlo whispered. “You’re about to eat off your lipstick.”
Kayla nodded again. She was at the back of the scrum of people, staring at some woman’s head of carefully coiffed dark blonde locks. Her knees were shaking so hard she had to grab the leather-covered bar behind her to keep from slipping to the floor. This was not her place. She was not of this world. Her world was sweat and running and kicking and cleats and smelly training rooms. Or perhaps, she was more apt to think of her world now as one of smelly kitchens, sticky bars, and praying for twenty percent tips. Whichever it was, it was the polar opposite of this world. She felt nausea rising. Her pulse was racing out of control.
Marlo gripped her upper arm. “Calm down, Kay,” she whispered. “Think of it as just another game, just another team to beat. Remember? Like we used to say even before the big games?”
Kayla nodded, took long breaths, closed her eyes, and gave herself a near-forgotten mental pep talk.
When the first set of people exited the elevator on a lower floor, the blonde chick turned around and stared right at her, her eyes flinty and her lips pressed together in disapproval.
Kayla blinked, worried that everyone in this damn building could see the sign over her head that flashed in bold neon: “Hey, I fucked the Boss. Now I get to be on TV.”
But then the blonde’s pretty red lips split in a wide grin. “You’re Makayla Franklin, right? The soccer player?” She stuck out her thin-fingered hand, keeping the elevator doors from shutting.
Marlo poked her arm.
“Oh, um, yes, I am.” She shook the offered hand, confused, her ears ringing with embarrassment at her imposter-ish get-up of cream, summer-weight wool suit and sky-high, last year’s still-too-expensive-for-her, designer pumps. Her hair felt like a ten-pound helmet. The urge to wipe sweat off her upper lip was too great to resist, once she let go of the other woman’s hand.
“We are so glad you’re here, Makayla. Your contribution to the documentary is really going to make it perfect.”
“I … um … yeah, okay. Thanks.”
The woman’s gaze flickered over to Marlo, taking her in from suited up head to toe then focused back on Kayla. “I’m Regina Lawson. I’m an editorial production assistant. I was a soccer player, too, but I wasn’t as good as you.” Her face flushed, which put Kayla on edge for some reason. “I played at a D-one school, but didn’t really have a shot at anything after that.”
“Yeah, I feel that,” Kayla said, her voice cracking, which sent her pulse racing with anxiety.
“Gosh, you’re even more gorgeous in person. I can’t wait to get you in front of the camera. You’re meeting with LeeAnn today, and of course with J.D.” Her porcelain skin got a bit redder at that.
Kayla sucked in a breath. That kind of knee-jerk jealousy crap was going to have to take a back seat. J.D. belonged to all the women in this building, in one way or another, and she had to wrap her mind around that, or else she’d be a wreck.
She took a deep breath and fixed a smile on her face. “Yes, I am. It was great meeting you, Regina. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” Regina waved her perfectly manicured nail-tipped fingers at them both and backed up so the doors could shut.
“Don’t you hate it when women talk like that?” Marlo asked as she re-applied gloss to her lips.
“Like what?” Kayla slumped against the back wall, exhausted by sensory overload and panic. It was as if she could sense J.D. in the building waiting for her somewhere, but at the same time knowing their time as a couple was over. She felt surrounded by women all of whom had at one time or another been with or wanted to be with him.
She took a long, deep breath. She’d played on women’s soccer teams since she’d been seven years old. This wasn’t any different. The usual amount of fake friendliness disguising serious cattiness and hardcore competitiveness. Except that somehow, it was. And the single reason for that exception had a name—and a movie-star handsome face.
“Like every damn thing they’re saying is a question. You know, with a lift at the end? Well, I get out here,” Marlo said, stepping toward the opening doors.
Kayla grabbed her arm and held on for dear life. “What? No. You can’t go somewhere without me. I mean, I can’t … oh shit.”
Marlo patted her hand and eased out of Kayla’s death grip. “You’re going to be fine. Better than fine. You heard TV Producer Barbie. This place already considers you on board. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go impress my future boss in the PR department.”
Kayla closed her eyes when her friend gave her a one-armed squeeze and a peck on her forehead. “Knock the rest of ‘em dead, sister. I know you will.”
Kayla nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak. She gave her friend a thumbs-up and a smile but when the doors closed between them, she slid to the floor of the elevator and thought seriously about hyperventilating her way out of this whole thing. Before she could convince herself to bolt, the doors eased open again, revealing the top floor office suite. She pulled herself up, then waved her hands in front of her face in hopes of dissipating some of the sweat she knew had gathered on her skin and was currently soaking through her nice new blouse and jacket.
“Get a hold of yourself, Makayla. This is no different than a game. You did that without fainting dead away. Get a grip,” she muttered under her breath.
“What’s that?”
Kayla flinched at the sudden appearance of a short, dark-haired, neatly dressed woman who’d materi
alized out of nowhere. “Um, nothing. Just giving myself a quick pep talk.” She smiled at her.
“I’m Matilde. We spoke on the phone. This way, please, Ms. Franklin.” She scurried away so fast Kayla almost fell off her too-high heels catching up with her. They clickety-clacked their way across a vast expanse of white marble floor before arriving at an opaque glass door. The woman knocked, then opened it. “Ms. Franklin is here,” she said, before moving aside so Kayla could enter the room.
She hesitated, her heart pounding so loud it was all she could hear. Her legs felt like so much Jell-O. Her skin was slick with anticipatory flop sweat. She took a step back from the open door, sensing herself fading. This was not like a game. This was so far out of her league it might as well exist on another planet.
A hand gripped her elbow, steadying her and keeping her from turning to bolt. She glanced at the short woman propping her up, who’d still not cracked a smile.
“Go on in, chica. There’s a whole room full of people in there who want to meet you. Not to mention the one who’s been pacing around like a caged tiger all morning.” Her smile was dazzling when she bestowed it right before she gave Kayla a tiny shove which propelled her into the room with only a tiny wobble.
When she felt brave enough to look around, she realized that “room full of people” was a bit of an overstatement. LeeAnn was there, the witness to her embarrassing disappearing act at the restaurant. A couple of other women sat next to her, both of them darker skinned than Kayla herself, both dressed in high fashion work clothes. Her gaze traveled slowly to the left of LeeAnn and her cadre.
When she spotted her former coach, Rick Gardner, she blinked fast. But the sight of the person to his left froze her in her tracks. Katrina Dawson, former women’s national soccer team assistant coach just named as the new head of the team, sat there, mere feet away from her. The woman smiled at her. “Hey, Kayla, good to see you again.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. When she turned to the head of the massive, granite-topped conference table, she’d swear she could hear the tendons in her neck creak in the silence. The expression on J.D.’s face made her want to giggle, and cry at the same time, which only exacerbated her aggravation with him and his ability to bestow such a bizarre mix of urges.