#Bae (The Hashtag Series Book 8)

by Cambria Hebert

  You’d think we’d miss all the fun posts about my life and marriage inside this swanky box, but no. Even the sports channel started covering it. The announcers for this very game mentioned me.

  Several times.

  The end of halftime signaled the end to my tolerance.

  When two male announcers who were supposed to be talking football suddenly changed topic and started debating if I was in a box and not in the stands because I was either afraid to face reporters or I was upset because of the women in the stands, things got a little hard to avoid.

  Anger started bubbling up inside me. It was a relatively new thing for me. Sure, I’d been angry before. Lots of times. But this was different.

  This was the kind of anger that started as a small flame and grew brighter and hotter until, at its core, it was so white hot it burned blue. The kind of anger that bespoke of a mother bear protecting her cubs. I might not have any cubs to protect, but that instinct was still there.

  The need to protect myself, my husband, and the life we had together was impossible to deny.

  “What girls?” Ivy muttered after we’d both stared at the TV, nearly slack jawed from the announcers’ dialogue.

  I had no idea. Perhaps being on a complete media blackout hadn’t been wise. Perhaps burying one’s head in the sand only got eyes full of dirt.

  Ivy was the first to turn away from the bar and stalk to the window. “Where are these supposed women?” Her hands planted on her hips as she stared out. Nova stood beside her, hands on the glass, while she made a bunch of sounds and said Da-da over and over.

  I joined her, and we both peered down into the stands. “Is that them? Right down there?” Ivy asked dubiously, putting her finger on the glass to point. “That girl has enough bleach on her head she could be a human flashlight.”

  I snorted.

  “And here they are folks,” the announcer said in the background as the coverage continued. “Look at those women. Should we call them Romeo’s Roadies, Robb?”

  I spun. Heck, everyone looked up at the TV.

  The cameras were zeroed in on a row of women all dressed to the nines, with their hair all done up like they were at the Oscars and not an outdoor football game. Their cleavage was exposed, their earrings could cover a continent, and their lipstick was layered on like armor.

  They all held Knights flags, waving them around like they were at a pageant. Oh my God, I thought I was rid of girls like this after college. Clearly, some women never grew up.

  One of the women, tall, thin, definitely too blond, who looked like a model was holding a giant sign: I’ll Have Your Baby!

  I gasped.

  Remember how I said I wasn’t a bitch?

  I lied.

  I was done with the rumors, the accusations, and the dirty, no-good hos hitting on my husband. I always knew Romeo was going to be a magnet. I always knew women would fling themselves at him at impossible speeds.

  But a baby?

  This was going way, way too far. What if I truly couldn’t give him another child? What then? These women would be making a mockery of my deepest pain. They acted as if my lack of procreating somehow made me not good enough for Romeo. It implied he would be so shallow as to literally pick a woman out of a crowd and impregnate her.

  Ew.

  Like moldy blue cheese ew.

  “Rimmel!” Ivy called behind me. Up until that point, I hadn’t even realized I’d moved. “Where are you going?”

  I spun from the door and glanced back, taking in everyone in the room. Valerie was watching me with wide eyes, and Tony looked like he wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Everyone is so desperate for a picture of me… Well, I’ll give them one.”

  “Give ‘em hell, girlfriend,” Ivy stated proudly.

  I yanked open the door and strode out into the hallway. I noted the security officers hanging out nearby; they all straightened the instant I appeared.

  I gave them a wave. “Boys.”

  “Uh, Mrs. Anderson, where are you going?”

  “To watch the game,” I replied sweetly and strode away.

  I gathered some attention when I stepped out of the private hallway. A few photographers were lounging on their asses, propped against the walls. The second I marched by, they snapped to it, blinking widely as if they couldn’t believe what they saw.

  Morons. Every last one of them.

  I went past the concession stands, the vendor booths, and the public bathrooms. Toward the end was a wide hallway that led out into the stands. I walked through as the volume of the game grew and grew.

  The second I stepped between the rows, I stood at the bottom and scanned the crowd. I looked toward the general area where Ivy pointed before. I figured I’d know them when I saw them… You know, the sign offering to have my husband’s child was like a giant YOU ARE HERE insignia.

  The photographers were right with me, taking pictures and on their phones. They hurled questions, too, but I ignored them. I was drawing attention, but really, what was new?

  Then I saw them.

  The I “heart” Romeo fan club.

  Groupies.

  Malibu Football Barbies.

  I walked along in front of the bottom row of seats. The railing was at my side, and I stayed with it, keeping my eyes locked on the women.

  I started hearing my name murmured; people started pointing. I glanced out over the crowd and waved and smiling.

  Act like this is entirely planned. Like you aren’t partly dying inside and your smile is more real than those bitches’ boobs.

  Fans waved back. That part was kinda nice.

  By the time I reached the section the women were in, I’d drawn a crowd and a harem of people following along behind me. From above, a camera crew appeared. They had the great big cameras and headsets strapped on their faces and started down the stairs in my direction.

  I waved at them, posing a little right there with the field as my backdrop.

  Then I turned to the wannabes.

  They were all giving me dirty looks. You know the kind of look you see on the movie Mean Girls. The kind every other woman who isn’t your friend gives you when you go out in public. Judgement. They were measuring me, trying to decide how hard I’d be to get rid of and wondering what it was Romeo saw in me. They snickered at my clothes, my glasses, and the lack of makeup masking my face.

  I strode up some steps and stopped beside their row. They were all openly staring now.

  “You’re embarrassing yourselves,” I said loud enough for the sections nearby to hear.

  “The only embarrassment I see right now is your wardrobe.” The woman closest to me snickered.

  So original.

  I gave them my best Mean Girls smirk, pinching the fabric of the Knights hoodie between my fingers. “Oh? You mean this old thing? It’s a team hoodie. It has my husband’s name on the back.”

  “Quit trying to hold on.” One of the girls stood and faced me. “A man like that doesn’t want half a woman.”

  Okay. Ouch.

  Sometimes the worst insults are the ones that prey on our deepest fears. Even though I tried not to let the fear haunt me, tried to reason it away… I was deeply afraid I’d never get pregnant again and it would make me less than.

  I didn’t even openly acknowledge the comment. Instead, I angled toward the one with the sign. “Put it down,” I growled.

  Yep, I growled.

  Go me!

  She laughed.

  I lunged forward, past a couple fangirls (who, my God, used WAY too much perfume), and grabbed the sign to yank it away.

  The woman was ready and kept her hand on the corner. We ended up getting in a tug-of-war over a stupid sign right there in the middle of the row.

  Not my finest moment, but how much disrespect could a girl take?

  “Get off her!” a girl behind me screeched. I felt her talons dig into my shoulders.

  Talons = acrylic nails that were frighteningly long.

  I los
t the grip I had on the sign and stumbled backward. I knocked into the girl yanking me, and we both fell into her seat, with me directly in her lap. I scrambled up, making sure I stomped extra hard on her stiletto-clad foot.

  She howled, and I felt sick satisfaction as I righted the glasses on my face.

  Security came rushing forward, trying to get through the press crowding me from every angle.

  The noise from the crowd suddenly burst into my wild mood, and I realized what the hell I was doing.

  Stooping to their level.

  And I wasn’t doing a very good job. I was getting pushed around by Barbies.

  This was going to be in every magazine for a month at least.

  I stood and moved along the row, back out into the stairwell.

  “Security!” the men in uniform yelled as they pushed closer to us.

  “Ow!” one of the hos pouted. “That was assault!”

  I rolled my eyes. Beneath my resolute exterior, the anger and upset I felt drained away. It circled around my feet before running off and leaving me there alone and shaken. My knees were trembling; my fingers ached. Everything inside my brain became foggy, and an overwhelming sense of panic stole over me.

  What have I done?

  Security was going to reach me any second. All these girls were going to blame me, and they wouldn’t exactly be wrong.

  Romeo was going to have to bail me out of jail.

  He was going to be so mad.

  Good thing Tony was in town. I was probably going to need a lawyer.

  Around me, people started yelling and gasping. It took a minute for it to penetrate my own internal dialogue.

  I blinked and followed where everyone was pointing. A giant uniform-clad football player was jogging this way. In one running leap, he jumped up on the wall and straddled the rail.

  I stared as the larger-than-life athlete reached up and yanked the helmet off his head. Blond, messy hair flopped over his forehead, and impossibly blue eyes locked on mine.

  My lungs remembered how to breathe. I sucked in air, not even realizing how badly my body needed it.

  “Romeo!” people yelled and surged forward.

  “Excuse me,” he said, and the crowd literally parted.

  The girl beside me made a sound, then elbowed me. “Bye, Felicia.”

  That wasn’t my name… Who in the world was Felicia?

  “What the hell is going on here?” Romeo asked as he jogged the short way up the stairs.

  “Romeo, I—” I balked. I had no idea what to say.

  The blonde on the end actually stepped in front of me and offered her hand to him. “I’m—”

  He held up a hand. “I don’t care.”

  Without touching her, he reached around and held out his hand.

  “C’mon, Smalls. This is no place for my girl.”

  My hand slid into his. He felt like a furnace. My fingers curled in close to his palm.

  I stepped around Bright Lite Barbie (‘cause you know, her hair practically glowed) and gave him a sheepish smile.

  “Baby, what did I tell you about putting the smack down on fans?” he asked and blinked down at me.

  “They had it coming,” I grumped.

  He threw back his head and laughed. The crowd cheered.

  He could do no wrong. Literally. I think it said so in the laws somewhere.

  “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes.” He shook his head sadly. “This is the second football game I’ve had to stop for you.”

  “Well, I didn’t tell you to come charging up here,” I retorted. He smiled like my sass amused him. I sighed. “I’ll go back to the box,” I vowed, aware of everybody watching. I didn’t even have to look to know our image was being broadcast on the jumbo screens.

  “Oh no you don’t,” he drawled.

  Next thing I knew, he swung me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His shoulder pads were hard against my middle.

  “Roman Anderson!” I yelled. “You put me down right now!”

  “Can’t do that, baby. Security is coming for you. You don’t want me getting in a fight defending your honor, do ya? I have a game to finish.”

  I tried to kick him. It didn’t work.

  He started down the stairs, bringing me with him. I tapped his back. He paused. “Yes?”

  “That sign,” I growled. I’d be damned if I watched the rest of the game with that hooker waving around that insult.

  “What sign?” he asked, clueless. Seriously. How could he be so oblivious?

  He spun, and my head went wonky.

  “Romeo,” I intoned.

  “What the fuck?” he muttered and stalked back up the stairs. He set me on my feet right beside him. I felt like the smallest person on Earth standing there at his side. He was even larger than usual with all his football gear on. Right now, he was easily three times my size.

  “Ladies,” he charmed. “Is that sign for me?”

  They giggled, and my upper lip curled.

  “I just wanted you to know”—the bitch slid a glance at me, then back at him—“that you have options.”

  Romeo reached for the sign. She gladly surrendered it.

  A few self-satisfied looks were thrown my way.

  Romeo lifted the sign and ripped it in half. The girls all gasped. I smiled like I’d won the lottery. He dropped the pieces at his feet.

  “Sorry, ladies. I’m taken, and that ain’t changing, ever.”

  Romeo reached for my hand and tugged me down the stairs. At the railing, he vaulted over and landed as gracefully as a cat. He looked up at me, holding out his hands. “C’mon, then.”

  My mouth fell open. “What?”

  “Get down here.” He crooked his finger at me.

  “I’ll go back to the box.”

  He shook his head adamantly. “Oh no you don’t, you little troublemaker.”

  I put my hands on my hips and scowled. I show one act of defiance in my entire life and now I was labeled a troublemaker. As if.

  “No.”

  He laughed. “Now, baby. Don’t you want to watch the game from the sidelines?”

  Well, it did sound appealing.

  Not to mention it would a great big neon sign to all women on the list of potential baby mamas that I wasn’t going anywhere.

  He chuckled and held out his arms. “I’ll catch you.”

  I hesitated, then thought, What the hell.

  I jumped off the railing and landed in Romeo’s arms. The next thing I knew, he was running across the field to where his team waited, bringing me the whole way.

  “One a scale of one to ten…” I began as he ran. “How bad is this?”

  His lips curled up. “A ten.”

  I groaned and dropped my head against his chest. The team surrounded us, and I was congratulated on my “scrappy” skills.

  Oh my goodness. They were going to call me Scrappy now.

  That might be worse than being on the news.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Anderson?!” Coach yelled as the team parted. “That was a valuable timeout.”

  I peeked up from Romeo’s chest at the coach.

  “Sorry, Coach. Had to collect the wife.”

  Pretty sure I was in danger of dying from embarrassment.

  The coach muttered some very inventive choice words and pointed to the field. “The game! Get back to the game!”

  Romeo rushed forward and deposited me on the bench. Before jogging off, he snagged his heavy team coat off the ground and slung it around my shoulders. I snuggled down into it. His lips brushed my forehead.

  “I kinda like the jealous side of you,” he said.

  I groaned.

  “Sit tight, baby. I gotta game to win.”

  I stared at his butt when he ran back onto the field.

  Please. You would have, too.

  I spent the remainder of the third quarter and the rest of the fourth right there on the bench. The players entertained me, and Romeo kissed me between hi
s turns on the field.

  It was the best seat in the house.

  Romeo

  Scrappy wife. Happy life.

  Rim was a fighter, tougher than she looked. Most of that strength was internal, though. People took one look at her, and she was dismissed faster than a room full of boys who never showered and farted too much.

  Hell, even I was guilty of looking at her and worrying about her fragility.

  But then she went and pulled something like she did today.

  One minute I was throwing passes into the end zone, and the next I was rushing the stands because my girl was taking on a pack of mangy wolves.

  Here’s the thing: when you back a wounded dog into a corner, it’s going to come out fighting.

  Rimmel was starting to fight, ignited by a most surprising source.

  Jealousy.

  Ah, the sweet taste of watching her get all riled up because some ho thought holding up a sign would make me notice her.

  While I might be hella amused she was riled up over skanky women I wouldn’t even think twice about, I knew it went deeper than that. She’d seen the media coverage and was likely also subjected to the press when she pulled into the parking lot.

  I appreciated her scrappy will. I did.

  But seeing her being pushed around, stumbling into someone’s lap, while the paparazzi circled like buzzards wasn’t something I found entertaining.

  It was one of those moments I saw her vulnerability. I’d be damned if some bitches would break her.

  No one was going to break her while I was around.

  It was pretty much unheard of to pull a wife or anyone down on the sidelines during a game. Didn’t stop me from doing it.

  Ron Gamble wanted higher ratings. He liked that Rim was a draw for a new kind of crowd. Well. He got what the fuck he paid for tonight.

  I didn’t do it for that, though. I did it for her. It was a public display of I’m with her. Didn’t think I could get much clearer than that.

  When the game was over (we smashed it and took home the win) I had post-game shit to do, and she couldn’t come hang around the locker room. If she did, she’d likely be scarred for life.

  Seriously. Some of the dudes were akin to wild animals.

  I escorted her back to the box, then had security accompany them all to the cars. I went to the locker room, where I was ribbed mercilessly for the stunt I pulled. I was a big boy; I could take it.