by Bri Izzo
“Right,” I awkwardly chuckle.
“Bianca!” I hear from across the cafeteria that someone is calling for me. I look around and see Cara sporting her lime green shirt coming towards me with open arms. Her short dirty blonde ponytail bounces as she approaches me.
“I kind of hate you,” I laugh at her as we exchange a hug.
“Then we’re even. ESPN is here to do a story on you. McCallum wants you in his office pronto,” she announces to me and Sky.
“What? Sky, did you know about this?” I wonder. I won’t be surprised if everyone was keeping this from me so I wouldn’t stress out on the pitching mound. Who knows how long they’ve been here gathering footage?
“No. What the fuck does ESPN want?” he snaps at both of us girls. Shit. Guess he really is clueless.
That’s when I notice a camera currently filming from one end of the cafeteria. It just got my entire reaction to this over the top gesture on tape. Great.
“Come with me and find out,” I suggest instead of him trying to kill the messenger with a worldwide audience. Literally.
The athletic office is lined with camera crews all displaying ESPN on the backs of their shirts. Their equipment is bulky, but they grasp it like it’s their baby I’m about to punch in the face. I internally question their possessiveness and wonder if it’s just my scar that scares them.
“Excuse me,” I reply as I lead Skyler through the crowded hallway. They aren’t filming anything right now, but they certainly are in my way.
“Bianca?” McCallum’s voice carries throughout the hallway.
Before I can answer him, Skyler and I appear in his office and Sky demands to know, “What the hell is going on?”
“Hey,” I gently look at him. Whatever is going on and is about to happen will probably be really cool. He’s overreacting on account of me again.
“What? Too loud? I’m sorry,” he somberly asks me. I feel his hand stroke my back apologetically, and I try to smile at him without making it seem flirty in front of my coach. But it’s hard. One moment Sky is angrily defending me to outsiders and the next he’s comforting me.
“Just relax. Let’s find out what’s going on without yelling at Coach,” I nod as if I’m talking to a child, but I mean what I say.
Giving McCallum our full attention, I pick up on his overly father-like gaze. Shit. He’s onto us. He knows we’re dating. Damn it. There goes our season.
“Swanson, close the door,” McCallum orders. I watch as Skyler gets way too much pleasure out of slamming the door in ESPN’s face.
“Coach, why is ESPN here?” I question him innocently. For all I know, Cara could be joking that they’re doing a story on me. McCallum takes his time in answering me, which makes me fidget like a toddler in a timeout. Just tell me already!
After taking a sip of his coffee, McCallum finally says, “They’re here to do a story on you, like a short documentary.”
“Really? Why? I thought Cara was joking,” I think aloud.
“They got in contact with me and your dad about a month ago after we pitched your story to them via email,” he explains.
“And you didn’t know about this?” I ask Skyler again. He’s fuming. Like actual steam is coming out of his nose. No way did he know about this.
“No, I didn’t fucking know,” he repeats himself from earlier. I’ve never wanted to hold his hand so badly in my entire life. I know it would help him breathe, but I can’t do it.
“Okay, so what’s the story?” I press. It better be something good and not just “girl almost dies but makes an incredible comeback.” Bite me. Do something awesome and focus on my pitching or, even better, my pitching coach. I don’t want my injury to define me.
Skyler looks mad I’m even considering participating in this. I’m basically being forced into it; I’m sure contracts have already been signed if the crew is here.
“The story focuses on your process on becoming such an outstanding pitcher at such a young age. We all know the surface level of your process,” McCallum tells us, giving an approving glance to Skyler. I want him to be done. Stop talking. End it here. That’s a good story. But I know the way his voice inflicts upward that a “but” is coming. It’s the same way I always know the doctors give bad news last. “But ESPN wants more. They also want a little bit of how you recovered from the accident to come back to the game.” Sorrow resonates on his face, like he regrets signing the contracts before hearing everything that ESPN wanted. This must’ve been an addition afterwards. If he would’ve consulted me first, I would’ve told him to be prepared.
“She’s still recovering,” Skyler blurts out in a grunt. He’s slouched in the chair with his hand on his chin, very deep in thought contemplating a way out of this for me. His hair sticks up above his forehead in a disheveled way, but I’m totally digging the badass look he’s rocking.
“I know,” McCallum agrees.
“Then that’s bull shit,” Skyler argues weakly.
“What are you so worried about?” I wonder. Being on ESPN is a dream come true for both of us, and he’s obviously going to be a part of this feature story - he’s my coach.
“Them badgering you like Samantha does in therapy except this will be on fucking ESPN,” he shares this thought process. Makes sense I guess.
“We’ll go through the interview questions beforehand, and her and Allen have rights to some editing,” McCallum interrupts.
“Some editing,” Skyler groans, throwing his hand out from underneath his face.
“Yes. Enough to make the story how she wants it,” he adds.
“I want Sky to be a part of it,” I demand before either of them can continue their argument. I feel like a little kid who can’t get a word in between these guys.
“Of course,” McCallum obliges. Then all of a sudden his entire demeanor changes from openly with us to totally against us with one movement of straightening his posture. “You guys can also explain how my pitching coach is dating my best pitcher.”
Skyler and I both deadpan. We saw this coming. Even though we did our best to keep the flirting off the field, it didn’t always happen. Our chemistry is more obvious than the sun blinding someone without sunglasses. I’ve been waiting for McCallum to bust us all season.
“Mac, I can explain-” Skyler tries, but McCallum cuts him off.
“Swanson, I asked you at the beginning of the year if you were and you both said no.” He’s right. But things changed. Sorry? We’re kids. Give us a break.
“And we weren’t… at the time,” Skyler defends us.
“I told you I couldn’t have a coach dating a player. What? Did I put the idea in your heads?” he banters.
To answer this, Skyler mimics McCallum’s body language in sitting up straighter, trying to appear taller and more superior. If I wasn’t his sunshine, I might be timid of the thunderstorm he’s brewing. I just let him defend us until we can see blue skies again. “No. We fucking grew up together and everyone around us has been trying to keep us apart. We’ve kept this a secret from everyone. If you knew, why didn’t you just fucking fire me?” Skyler complains. I love how feisty he gets, especially with my coach, and he isn’t afraid to just say how he feels, no matter how many detentions he could get for throwing f-bombs. Teachers gave up on him years ago when they realized detentions only make him swear more.
“Because you’re a great coach, and I wasn’t sure if I was just reading the situation wrong.” McCallum is a young guy, only eight years older than Skyler. He’s a baseball legend at Central, but Skyler and him talk like they’ve been buddies for years.
“So I can’t be her coach because I’m dating her?” Skyler deadpans again. McCallum remains silent and shrugs, defeated. “But you don’t even pay me. I’m a student, just like Buzz.”
“I know,” he tells him.
“Then there’s no problem,” Skyler decides. “Let’s do the fucking story.”
I exchange a look with Skyler that says I don’t really know what tha
t was but ohhhhh-kay.
38 Skyler Swanson
Buzz and I are basically excused from classes today to appease ESPN. I say basically because she still has to attend her algebra class and I have to go to my calculus class. After school they are going to pull Cara, Alex, and Tiffany for interviews as well because we justified how their perspectives will add to the story. Benny and I have one of the melodramatic interviews this afternoon that I’m dreading.
The ESPN crew leads Buzz, McCallum, and me into the gymnasium where they set up their cameras and lights while we were arguing in McCallum’s office about doing the story. We really don’t have a fucking choice. Allen is waiting for us in the gym also, with my dad by his side. They run an advertising production agency together in downtown Chicago, so it doesn’t surprise me that they’re trying to use the ESPN exposure for their company. Nothing sleazy, just smart.
“Why didn’t you just fucking tell us?” I quietly ask them both as Buzz stands next to me.
“We didn’t want you to have to keep this secret from her. We needed her to just play her game without thinking about ESPN,” my dad reasons. Touché.
“You know you can’t swear during the interview, right?” Allen states firmly in his business suit. I feel like I’m looking through a time warp of myself in thirty years, which is weird because he isn’t even my dad; he’s just my future father-in-law and Godfather.
“This should be interesting,” Buzz snickers under her breath. When she sees I heard her, she widens her eyes and giggles herself away from us for a moment until Erin Andrews walks into the gym with makeup artists giving her finishing touches.
“Wow. Her and Tiffany could be sisters,” I mumble, thinking aloud. I didn’t realize I fucking said it clearly enough for anyone else to hear until I feel Allen’s glare trying to kill me.
Buzz slithers her way through the crew and back to my side as we wait for our cue to join Erin. Her arm slings around my back in a comforting manner but also a little possessive. I kind of fucking love it. It's definitely new coming from Buzz.
When we are finally called over, the makeup artists start playing with Buzz’s long, wavy brown hair and bare cheeks. I try to hold in my laughter as she literally puts her hands on them trying to shoo them away. Eventually she takes it upon herself to stand on the chair so she’s out of their reach completely.
“This isn’t about how pretty I am,” she complains, wiping her newly blushed cheeks with her hands.
“Guys, she doesn’t want or need it. Leave her alone,” I warn and they step back from her. When she believes they won’t come back for a second round, she squats in the chair and then flings her legs out from underneath her to sit down again. Even with ESPN in her face she’s still crazy Buzz. I love her even more for it.
Soon the gym lights dim and the production lights brighten creating the image that it’s just me, Buzz, and Erin in the room, despite there being dozens of other crew members on our perimeter.
Buzz winces at the light before Erin can even introduce herself to us, and she doesn’t come back from bowing her head to get away from it. I jump out of my chair so I can squat below her, seeing what she needs so I can convey it to the crew.
“The lights. They’re too bright,” she states. Bless this girl for expressing what bothers her without whining.
“Alright. I’ll see what they can do. Just keep your eyes closed for now,” I suggest, giving her a kiss on the top of her head. I walk over to Erin and the two crew members on either side of her holding the lights and an overhead microphone and calmly inform them, “She can’t do this with the lights like that. They’re too bright.”
The guys exchange a weird look like we’re taking orders from this adolescent now? If they want to do this feature story, they will. The executive in charge of doing this whole story steps up into the light so I can see all of him in his fitted suit and nerdy, yet probably latest trend, glasses. His hair is slicked back like someone straight out of Grease. He almost looks like a younger version of Allen when he was climbing his way up the corporate ladder.
“The lighting gives us the shot we want. It blurs the background and puts you guys in the light,” he explains as if I’m as big of a moron as his two crew members I tried giving directions.
“I’m sorry. Do that shot with someone else. She can’t do it like this. The light is too bright,” I enforce, turning my attention back on Buzz so he’ll look at her curling into her knees with her eyes closed, avoiding the lights at all costs. Allen nods approvingly at me in the background for not swearing… yet. He goes to his daughter’s side while I continue bantering.
“Can she at least try?” the producer presses like a total fucking asshole. How can they come do a story on a girl with brain trauma and not be accommodating?
And then Buzz pukes in between her legs on the basketball court, no holding back.
Everyone steps back as I continue to argue with the producer.
“She did. You either want the story or you don’t. It’s not about the fucking shot; it’s about her. And she can’t do it like this,” I threaten that we’ll walk away from all of this if they won’t make the conditions better for her - because we fucking will in a second. If her throwing up isn’t enough proof to him and the crew, then Buzz and I are done. I don’t care about some fucking ESPN feature. I mean, it’s cool, and I’m proud of her, but I won’t compromise her health for it.
“Give us a minute,” he says.
So I return to Buzz’s side and whisper to her, “You okay, B?”
“I’m just getting a headache now,” she informs me, still shielding her eyes from the production lights. She knows not to apologize for puking; it was completely out of her control. Some of the crew members have began scrambling, probably looking for a school janitor to clean up the mess.
When I go into my backpack to fetch her a piece of mint gum, my dad approaches me and says, “Skyler, you’re not supposed to tell them what to do."
“I’ll tell him what to fucking do if what he’s doing is hurting her,” I argue, glaring at him. “She just threw up, Dad.” I’m always protective of Buzz, but this time is a special case. Not only is my intention to protect her physically, but it’s also to protect her emotions and her story. ESPN knew what they were getting into with featuring Buzz; she has brain trauma, so they need to be considerate. “Buzz,” I acknowledge her. When she squints up at me and takes the piece of gum, I suggest, “Let’s go outside for a minute.”
“I can’t see. Can I hop on your back?” she asks me. Of course she fucking can. I bend down and let her jump on me and pop her bottom up so she won’t slip as I walk.
We aren’t outside for thirty seconds before Erin Andrews trails us. It’s a slightly overcast spring day, a perfect day for a game. The wind lightly blows out her long blonde hair like she’s a supermodel on a runway, and for a moment I’m lost in her until Buzz nudges me. Oops. Fuck.
I grab Buzz’s hand as Erin approaches us since I don’t care if she fucking knows we’re together. I’m sure it’s going to come out in the interviews anyways, but for now no one else is around.
“Would you prefer to do the interviews outside?” Erin asks us. If we say yes, she can make it happen. She may be just the interviewer, but she has tons of power with the ESPN crew.
“Yes,” I answer at the exact same time that Buzz says, “No.”
“B, you can’t even see in there. At least out here it’s natural light,” I try.
“But they’ll have to move everything,” she says, and I realize she’s just trying to make everything easier for them. Oh, fuck no. They’re exposing Buzz to the sports world, so she should be running the show, not the other way around.
“You threw up all over their equipment. They’re going to move everything anyways,” I tell her, knowing it may sting. In the end it’s more convincing and gets her what she really needs.
“Ugh,” Buzz whines as her cheeks darken to a rose color.
“Miss Andrews-” I begin.
“It’s Erin,” she corrects me with a down-to-earth smile.
“Erin,” I respect her interruption. “Can we please do the interviews outside? Maybe on the softball diamond?”
“I’ll see what we can do,” she promises.
When Erin turns to go back inside, Buzz hits me on the arm way harder than I ever expect from her. I feel bad that her scar is scrunched together as a result of her glaring at me with her entire body. It always makes her look madder than she actually is when that happens.
“What the hell?” I back away from her, attempting to keep some airiness in my voice to lighten the mood.
“What the fuck was that?” she asks me, putting emphasis on my favorite word. It isn’t out of anger, but she certainly is expressing her sassiness. “I thought you didn’t like blondes.”
Buzz = not blonde. Therefore, “I don’t like blondes.” Skyler Swanson, be fucking careful what you say next.
“I love you,” I affirm. “But she’s on my list.”
“Your list? What list?” she snickers, and I realize my declaration fell on deaf ears. All she heard is that I have a list.
“My list of celebrities that if I’m ever stuck in an elevator with I can…” I partially explain, but I know it’ll be better if I just shut the fuck up. The ditch I dug is deep enough; I don’t need to get to the center of the earth.
“Guys have lists like that, too?” she gasps. She now turns an even deeper shade of red from realizing she just outed that she has a list of gorgeous, sweaty, muscular guys of the same nature. She could probably be classified as a cleat chaser - a girl who likes baseball guys - so I’m sure that’s how she made the majority of her list.
“Yes, but you know I would be thinking of you the whole time,” I tease, reaching to tickle her stomach and feel her squirm in my arms. Before I have time to stop touching her, we have an audience of camera crews, coaches, and dads pouring out from the gym. This is a little fucking awkward. Oh well.