Before Girl

by Kate Canterbary

  McKendrick held the door open, bowing dramatically. "After you."

  I climbed in, scooting to the far side while he joined me. Once the door was shut, I said, "There will be a video of that too and the owners are going to love it."

  He snickered as he sank into his seat, his legs open at an obtuse angle and his hands folded behind his head. "Did you leave your doctor-man to tell me that?"

  I glanced out the window to get a sense of the traffic. Storrow Drive seemed clear but the Massachusetts Pike was always a gamble. "As a matter of fact, I did," I replied. "When my client gets into a fistfight at The Liberty and refuses to vacate the premises with anyone other than me, yeah, I leave the doctor-man." I turned back to him, shrugged. "You didn't give me much choice tonight."

  "Nah," he drawled, long and loud. "That's made-up drama. Fake news."

  My phone buzzed, drawing my attention down to a message from Flinn. No text, only social media screenshots. McKendrick and Whitelock drinking, arguing, throwing punches. McKendrick's bloody lip, Whitelock's black eye. McKendrick following me through the lobby, pushing the security guard, holding the car door open for me. In certain images, we appeared to be walking side-by-side, our shoulders nearly touching. It was a trick of the angle—but it still looked like we were together.

  I prayed Cal didn't see any of these images.

  I held up my phone, showing my client the photo of his fist connecting with Whitelock's face. "This is what not to do."

  "But it's Saturday night," he wailed. "Gettin' in fights and bein' wild is my thing."

  "Unless you want to be finished with the relief pitcher thing, those cannot be your things."

  McKendrick huffed out a groan. "You should've stayed with your man. I don't need you pickin' me up and tuckin' me in at night."

  I laughed at that, a full-on laugh that shook my shoulders and brought a tear to my eye. It wasn't funny. It was fucking exasperating. I'd done everything in my power to avoid picking him up and tucking him in tonight. I'd wanted one night off from fixing and managing and juggling. I wanted one night where I could be the girl in the empty bedroom, the one who didn't get called away and didn't get lost in the definition of her relationships.

  "I am hysterical," he said, his chin lifting with pride. "It's about time someone noticed."

  He was a major pain in my ass and the only hysterical thing about this was the shortage of dick in my life right now but I wasn't telling him that. He needed the praise, even if it was hollow.

  20

  Stella

  I loved my job. I mean, I loved my job. I loved it when it was stressful and annoying. I loved it after a messy night that turned into a morning of bad press. I loved it when I didn't think I loved it at all.

  But goddamn, I hated being in the office on a Sunday. Working in professional sports meant the weekends weren't my own but I wasn't usually tucked behind my desk during the brunch rush.

  "How should we deal with the noise about you and Lulu?" Flinn held up his tablet, tapped the screen showing McKendrick's arm around my shoulders. "We know it's bullshit but we also know the bloggers and gossip columnists have a mind of their own."

  "And they've decided it's legit," Tatum added.

  "Ignore," I replied with a quick shake of my head. "Can't whack all the moles."

  "Hmm. That's folksier than your usual," Tatum replied. "And it's not going to put out any fires or decrease McKendrick's visibility right now. In case you haven't noticed, people are always interested in knowing who is hooking up."

  Flinn snickered at that, shielded his face with the tablet.

  "No more than refuting it," I argued. "Acknowledging a rumor means we care enough to comment and we'd only care if it was within a shade of the truth."

  "And if we field inquiries about your relationship status?" Tatum asked.

  "Ignore," I repeated. "Not a topic up for discussion. I'm not a public figure."

  "Question for you, boss." Flinn pointed his pen at me while staring down at his tablet. "What's the deal with your quartet of men?"

  I took a second to sit back in my chair, fold my hands in my lap. "I beg your pardon?"

  He looked up, waved the pen in a small circle. "Your men. Stephen, Leif, Harry, and Cal. We've noticed you deleting individual appointments but you haven't deleted the recurring events."

  Tatum bumped his forearm with her elbow, shaking her head. "Cal's not on there. By itself, that's an interesting point to consider."

  He bumped her back. "I recognize this. Considered it too. Thank you." He turned his attention to me. "Would you like me to delete Harry? You haven't seen him since the last week of March."

  "As I've mentioned before," I started, working my damnedest to keep my voice even, "you are not responsible for looking after my personal engagements. I'll change my calendar viewing permissions if that task is too complicated."

  "But you need to drop them," Tatum whisper-yelled. "The calendar boys. You can't hang on to them if you're seeing Cal." She held up her hands when I sighed in response. "And before you tell me I'm not supposed to get involved in your personal life, I just want you to know we think Cal is really great and you should focus only on him."

  "And we're already involved in your personal life," Flinn added. "Your mother sends us Christmas cards and I follow your sister's dogs on Instagram."

  Tatum nodded in agreement. "Right. What Flinn said."

  He glanced at her, his gaze chilly. "Oh, you're agreeing with me now? Funny how you see reason when it suits you."

  I wagged my pen at them. "None of this conversation is Sunday morning critical," I said. "I don't want a lecture on my relationships and I don't want to referee the two of you."

  Tatum folded her arms over her chest, elbowing Flinn in the process. "Sorry," she said, not sorry at all. "Didn't see you there. It's tough, you know, because you're not consistently in the same place."

  Flinn cleared his throat, crossed his legs. His shoe tapped Tatum's calf. "My bad," he murmured. "I hope that didn't hurt. Would you even notice? I mean, how could you? You don't have normal, human feelings."

  "Oh my god," I muttered to myself. "Here's the story, friends. I'm touching base with Travis Veda soon and you're hitting the phones to turn up the volume on McKendrick's apology tour. Get me every friendly, softball interviewer you can find. I don't care if it's a sports columnist from the Andover High School newspaper. As long as they can keep the conversation on the predefined topics, we'll grant the interview and do any promotional spots they want."

  "Got it," Flinn replied.

  "I'm not actually calling the Andover High School newspaper, right?" Tatum asked.

  "You would ask that," Flinn said under his breath. "You never listen to clear, honest words when they're spoken directly to you. Doubt everything because it's easier than trusting someone. And why bother trusting anyone when you don't see a reason to rely on anyone but your own damn self?"

  I pushed to my feet, sending my chair rolling back into a low bookshelf. "I do not have the brain space to care what's going on between you two. If you make me care, we will have a serious problem that will result in someone leaving this team. Solve it and move on. We have a handful of games left until McKendrick is back on the field and we don't have the time to dick around. Understood?"

  "Yes," they replied.

  Another elbowing and calf-tapping unfolded but they managed to keep quiet. About fucking time. "Thank you," I said.

  "Fire me if you want but I'm going to say this." Tatum looked up, her bottom lip snared between her teeth.

  Flinn sank back in his seat, his eyes closing on a groan. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't, Tate."

  Tatum ignored his advice, continuing, "I know you don't want to hear this right now but you need to end it with your calendar boys." Her eyes crinkled as she grimaced, an expression I interpreted as What don't you understand about this? "You don't even see them that much. Why are they so hard to give up?"

  I fetched my chair, tucked it under my
desk, and stood behind it, my arms resting on the back. I thought about sidelining the conversation, but knowing Tatum and her quiet bulldog tenacity that would only tighten her hold on this bone.

  "I haven't thought about it," I said, and that was the real, undiluted truth.

  I hadn't thought about Stephen, Leif, or Harry much. Harry hadn't crossed my mind since the last time he texted me and—oh shit. I'd never responded to him. But no response still qualified as a response. Definitely. It was as good as ghosting.

  "But you're deleting all of the appointments," Tatum argued. "I check your schedule on Sunday nights when I'm work-planning for the week and I've seen you canceling your standing Harry every time."

  She was right about that. I deleted those appointments but they barely registered as proof of a thin but existent tie to those men. But…so what? Where was the problem here? I wasn't misleading anyone. No one was in the dark. Cal knew where I stood. If he wanted me standing somewhere else, he knew how to start a conversation.

  "I promise I will put the appropriate time into reevaluating things once we've cleared the biggest hurdles with McKendrick." Another undiluted truth. My brain was at max capacity right now. I needed a few more weeks before I could engage in any soul-searching or priority shuffling.

  Flinn cracked an eyelid. "Wouldn't you recommend dealing with an issue when it's first identified rather than putting a rug over it? Don't we know from years of experience"—he swiveled toward Tatum, gave her a one-eyed glare—"that pretending the issues don't exist is a terrible offense? It requires the defense to work overtime when the shit starts spinning, and someone always finds out that we've been sitting on the info all along."

  Tatum met his glare and shot one back at him. "As much as I hate to admit when he's right," she said through gritted teeth, "you shouldn't wait."

  "Wow," Flinn muttered under his breath. "So you can acknowledge when you're wrong."

  "How am I wrong about anything?" she asked him. "I was the one who raised this topic when you were slouching into your chair and telling me to shut up."

  He closed his eyes again, crossed his arms over his chest. "I never told you to shut up."

  "Yeah, basically," she replied.

  "Not really," he argued. "You should listen to the things I say to you, Tate. Maybe you'd realize they're not the bullshit you've cooked up in your head."

  "Now you're saying I'm delusional?"

  "Oh my fucking god, no," he cried. "Do you see this, Stella? This is what I'm talking about."

  "I'm telling both of you to shut up." I pressed my thumb to my temple as I ran a finger over my eyelid. I hated being in the office on Sundays. "Thank you for the impassioned commentary. You need to learn how to work together again. If you can't, I'll send you to a Myers-Briggs retreat. The easier solution would be to reassign one of you but—as this weekend meeting should illustrate—I don't have time for a game of musical assistant chairs. Is that what you'd like? A day full of exciting reflection activities and teamwork exercises? Strategies for working with your personality type?"

  Without consulting Tatum, Flinn said, "Neither of us want that."

  "But neither of us want you driving your personal life off a cliff," Tatum added.

  I glanced at my phone. I couldn't text Harry now. I couldn't. It had been weeks since he'd asked if I was ending it with him and responding now was the wrong tactic. As for Cal, I could deal with him tomorrow. On the trail.

  "Again, thank you for the commentary. We need to get through this month and then we'll have some breathing room." Hopefully, in a much larger office. "I'm sure these issues will keep until then."

  Flinn and Tatum shared an eyeroll that should've told me I was dead wrong.

  21

  Stella

  "Question for you," I said, bright and early Monday morning. May mornings were the best. Sunny but still cool enough that I didn't feel gross as a result of simply walking outdoors.

  "This weekend would be fine," Cal replied. "Assuming I can get my mother on a flight. I'm sure I can make that happen. She'll bring something old. She always has something ridiculously old hanging around."

  I peered at him, confused. "For…what, exactly?"

  He aimed a lopsided grin in my direction. "Once again, we are not talking about the same things," he replied, laughing. "What did you want to ask, Stel?"

  "Are you okay with this?" I'd dedicated the better part of my Sunday to figuring out the right way to broach this topic with Cal. I wasn't sure this was the way but it was the best I could do. Since I had an evening event with McKendrick—one of several this week—Cal and I weren't meeting for dinner tonight. Not that hashing this out over food would've been easier, but wine helped many things and I sensed it would help this. "With us? With this—thing?"

  I didn't want to say arrangement or relationship or agreement or anything similar because it wasn't like that and I didn't want those words in our world.

  "Last weekend," I continued, "it seemed like you had some thoughts and I want to make sure I hear those thoughts. If you have them. And want to share."

  I glanced over at Cal as I chewed my lower lip, not sure which kind of response I wanted from him. No, that wasn't true. I wanted something totally strange, completely unfamiliar. I wanted him to want me. To insist this thing wasn't all right, we weren't okay. None of this was good enough because it was a flimsy excuse for everything—and he wasn't settling for anything short of that.

  And what a mess of contradictions I was. Just a big, damn mess.

  "I enjoy spending time with you, Stella," he replied, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "That's my only thought."

  No, it wasn't. It couldn't be. Unless Cal had fallen and bumped his possessive head, he wasn't content. He wanted to lock it down and wife me up. He didn't enjoy an empty-bedroom blowjob and then shake it off like it was nothing.

  "Ice cream," I whispered. Then, more loudly, "Ice cream, Cal. Speak up or get stuck with another bowlful of black raspberry."

  "But I like watching you suck on the spoon," he replied with a knowing smirk.

  "I'll suck anything you want if you tell me the truth."

  "Whoa." Cal reached over, pressed his palm to my belly, stopping me in my tracks. "Don't play like that, Stella."

  "Don't tell me what I want to hear," I shot back.

  The best part was that he wasn't telling me what I wanted to hear. Far from it. I didn't want to languish in another month of walking and talking and wanting each other like a sickness we couldn't cure. I wanted him to give all of him and demand all of me because he knew I couldn't. I couldn't jump off that cliff again, even when I believed I wouldn't hit the ground this time around. He could take me with him but I couldn't jump alone. I couldn't meet him on the other side; he had to come around and bring me there.

  "I'm not doing that," he replied, dropping his hand from my belly. We started walking again. "I'm telling you what I think. I enjoy spending time with you. I'd enjoy more time but I know your schedule is demanding right now."

  "Mmhmm." I bobbed my head. Pushing at a different seam, I said, "My assistants liked you."

  "Did I pass their tests?" he asked.

  Yes. Flying colors. They liked you so much they staged a small coup.

  When I didn't respond, Cal tugged on the hem of my t-shirt. "What did they say?"

  I removed his hand from my shirt, laced my fingers through his. "We didn't get a chance to discuss you in depth." That was true. We discussed everyone else on my calendar. "But you made quite the impression on them."

  "Is that typical?" he asked. "Making an impression?"

  I heard the question he wasn't asking. How did I fare against the others?

  "Hard to say," I replied with a shrug. "I've never introduced anyone to them before."

  "Not even…" His voice trailed off. He wasn't going to say it. He wasn't going to come out and acknowledge the existence of the other men in my life.

  "Nope." I glanced up at him. "Not even."

 
Another truth. I didn't mix work and sex. I didn't hook up with men from the sports world and I didn't bring my calendar boys to professional events. Not even playoff games when tickets were worth my body weight in gold. I didn't blur those lines.

  Not until now.

  "Good," he replied, giving my hand a squeeze. "Good."

  "Hey," I started, "it looks like the Bruins will go to the Stanley Cup this year. My firm usually gets a couple tickets. If they make it, will you go with me? I mean, I'm not sure if you like hockey or—"

  Another squeeze cut off my words. "I'll be there, Stella."

  I blew through emails and texts while the car service headed northwest, toward McKendrick's estate. I'd spent the past four hours of this Friday night at his elbow, clearing my throat when his language grew colorful or his commentary veered into inappropriate territories. The children's health and athletics foundation fundraiser at a craft brewery outside the city should've been an easy appearance but my client was in rare form.

  I'd expected him to do the basics—meet and greet with big-dollar donors beforehand, red carpet and rope line, and then a bit of schmoozing and a quick exit. He came through on the meet and greet and the red carpet but seemed determined to shut the event down, lasting three hours longer than I'd anticipated. Everyone who wanted a wild Lucian McKendrick story got one plus another for the road.

  The only upside was the complete lack of black eyes and busted lips.

  "You're in a mood tonight," McKendrick remarked. He rested his arm on the window ledge, leaned his head against his hand. "That's a real mood you're rockin'."

  "It might surprise you to hear this, Lucian, but I have moods just about every day," I replied. "If I'm lucky, several moods. It's one of my many gifts and talents."

  "It's not a gift today, lady."

  This, from the man who wasn't allowed within ten feet of a bottle of Hennessy.

  I shifted, stared at him. "You're suggesting my temperament is an issue?"