by Mona Cox
Trouble in paradise? One article reads, stating all the reasons why Danny wasn’t his heroic self during that last game, all of them, spoiler, concerning me.
“Fiona has to go”, some bald overweight pundit is blabbering on TV right now, telling his viewers that, instead of helping Danny, I’m hampering his performance. Seriously?
You know what I need to do? Tune all this out. I close my laptop, shut down the TV and stretch; maybe I’ll do some yoga to clear my head. I’m sure that in a few days nobody’s going to care about this. Danny will be back to winning, and no one will care about the game he lost. Besides, the media loves me so much that I doubt they’ll completely turn against me.
Yeah, that’s it. In a day or two things will go back to normal, and then I’ll be back to being America’s darling once more.
Or so I hope.
34
Danny
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I’ve just got home and I can already tell that something’s not quite right. She’s usually on me before I take two steps inside of the apartment, and by the time I take off my shoes I usually have already made her cum twice. But now she’s sitting on the couch, wearing yoga pants with a blanket over her head and a giant bowl of ice cream on her lap. Sigh, this again.
“Look at that,” she points at the television without even looking at me, waving the spoon she has in her fingers at the guy on the TV. “He’s saying that I’m a bad role model for young girls.”
Without saying a word I just go around the couch, grab the remote, and turn off the TV. “Hey!” she protests, but I’m not even listening now.
“Why are you watching that crap, Fiona?” I ask her, sitting down by her side and taking the bowl of ice cream out of her lap. She’s gorgeous even in her old yoga pants, so I pull her into me, propping her up on my knees and pressing my mouth on hers.
Her face lightens up with a smile and she turns around, opening her legs and straddling me.
“I missed you,” she whispers, pressing her forehead against mine. She’s happy to see me, that much I can tell, but there’s a sadness in her voice that I’m not really into.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been watching that bullshit on TV since you got here,” I say, and the look on her face gives away the answer. I gave her my spare key, and told the doorman she could come up anytime because I wanted her around, not because I wanted her to be gorging on the news.
“What was it today?” I ask her, vaguely aware that the media has been raising a shit storm since that last game. That’s all I know, though, I don’t give a fuck about what some asshole on the TV says about me. As far as I’m concerned they could be saying I’m a fucking alien from Mars hell bent on dominating the human race, and I wouldn’t care any more than I do right now.
Of course, now that I’m with Fiona, maybe I should start caring. This bullshit has started to take a toll on her. Even though she’s a natural in front of the camera, she’s too green to handle the ugly media beast. And I guess she’s slowly starting to realize it.
“Oh, the usual. They’re still being hard asses about that loss,” she whispers, sliding her hand down my chest and guiding her fingers to my crotch. By now I already have a massive hard-on, and I’m only half-listening to what she’s saying. Hey, don’t look at me like that; when it comes to sex, I’m a one-track kind of man.
“Fuck ‘em,” I whisper, running my fingers through her hair and yanking on it. She throws her head back and I press my lips against her neck, slowly kissing her skin in a downward line that leads straight to her breasts.
“They’ll come around,” she says, placing both her hands on my neck and sighing heavily. Somehow, I don’t like the way that sounds. They’ll come around; what does that even mean? Does she care that much about what these assholes think?
“Fiona, fuck, forget about them,” I say, looking her straight in the eye. “Who cares if they come around, or if they hate us for all eternity?”
“I care,” she tells me, and I just blink my eyes, staring at her in disbelief.
“Why?” Really, why? Why would a normal person worry about bullshit like this? Sure, I get it that having your name dragged through the mud isn’t that much fun, but it shouldn’t be that important.
“Why? Because it matters, Danny!” She cries out, rolling to the side and sitting up on the couch. Folding her arms, she purses her lips and looks at me with exasperation. “I don’t like being accused of… of everything that’s wrong with the world!”
“I don’t like saying this… But I told you so.”
“Well, you’re used to it! You have all the attention, and people love you! You lost that game, and I’m the one being blamed for it!” Okay, fuck, what is this? Are we actually fighting? We've never had a fight before, and I can’t believe that our first fight is about the fucking media. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Okay, Fiona, I don’t know what's got into you, but you have to forget about --”
“Forget, forget! That’s all you know how to say. I can’t forget; I can’t walk around as if this isn’t happening. No matter what they say about you, you still have your career, your contract… Everything! And what do I have? I’m just another overworked twenty-something being massacred by the news because I dare to exist!”
Well, fuck, I don’t even know what to say. I try and reach for her, but she swats my hand away. Before I think of anything to say, she gets up, tears welling up in her eyes and walks upstairs to the bedroom. I go after her, but by the time I’m walking up the stairs, she’s already coming down, her purse against her chest.
“Fiona, I--” Without allowing me to say a fucking thing, she walks past me and goes straight for the door. She bolts out, slamming the door on her way out and leaving me alone in the apartment.
I stand there, looking around completely dumbfounded. I just got home, for fuck’s sake. I drove here as fast as I could, anxious to be with her, to feel her naked body against mine… And now this! I feel angry, but I don’t even know to whom I should direct that anger—if to her, to me, or to the media. Forget about money, fame, or even the Super Bowl. I just want things to work out with Fiona.
Is that too much to ask?
35
Fiona
THE END IS COMING.
Four words, and they are written with such confidence that they sound like the truth. I’m standing outside a newsstand, holding the latest New York Daily Journal in my hands, and that’s the headline over a picture of me running out of Trump Tower. That was yesterday, right after my fight with Danny. Somehow, there must've been some paparazzi waiting around for something to happen, and I guess they got what they wanted.
I left the house for a walk, thinking that it’d help me clear my head, but now I wish I had just stayed home. I read the article, my fingers trembling with each sentence.
Twenty-two-year-old Fiona Barnett was seen yesterday leaving Trump Tower in a hurried state. Judging by the way she left, completely alone, it seems that her fiery romance with the Nailers’ quarterback star is coming to an end.
An intern at Price Coopers, Fiona saw her chance to climb the social ladder when Daniel Manning asked for her number on live TV, minutes after accidentally crashing into her. What started as an invitation made out of pity for a young girl, turned into a nightmare for Daniel Manning. After somehow dazzling the Nailers’ quarterback over dinner, Fiona Barnett soon started taking credit for his success, and even moved to his high-rise condo at Trump Tower.
Still, there’s hope for Nailers’ fans. It seems that Daniel Manning finally came to his senses, and a separation seems to be imminent.
The article goes on and on, blaming Danny’s faltering performance and, somehow, putting me as the main culprit behind the rise of a vain society. Like, seriously? I don’t even know if they’re really talking about me, because this is total garbage. They went as far as digging into my personal life, and a few passages are particularly vicious.
Friends with some of New York’s crème de lá crème s
uch as the wife of the notorious St. Alban’s prince, Connor d’Avington, and the wife of billionaire Apollo Kane, it seems that Miss Fiona will stop at nothing to achieve the same thing her friends have: a high-status marriage.
I feel like killing someone right now. Or crying. I’m not sure which. Feeling lightheaded, I place the newspaper back on the rack and start walking back home. People are staring at me in the same way they used to do when I started dating Danny, but now… Now it’s different. New York feels hostile. Maybe it’s all in my head, but it seems that when people look at me, they’re not smiling.
There she goes, that gold digger, I can almost hear them think. And maybe it’s true. Maybe I let myself be swooned by the media because I wanted to be something I’m not. I mean, look at all my friends… They've all found their Prince Charming, and they’re living in mansions and palaces. And I’m just fighting trying to survive my internship while trying to scrape enough money to pay the rent of the apartment I share with Becca.
Maybe my romance with Danny was just an illusion. And maybe the newspapers are right too; maybe I’m hindering him, distracting him while he should be focusing on the playoffs. God, I feel so worthless right now.
I start walking faster, desperate to get home as soon as I can. I think I’ll just sit down in front of the TV, put on some Grey’s Anatomy and forget about the whole world while drowning in ice cream. Sure, go right ahead and add walking cliché to the horrible list of things people are calling me. See if I care.
I’m so distracted that I don’t even notice there’s someone blocking the way to my building, so I just bump against him.
“Sorry,” I cry out, taking a step back and realizing that the person I bumped against is Danny himself. My heart sinks inside my chest; after yesterday’s fight, what other reason is there for him to drive here? He’s breaking up with me, oh God. This day is quickly going downhill.
“Fiona,” he says, his eyes locked on mine, and a sad smile on his lips. “I had to see you.”
Before I can let him break up with me, I just take one step forward and wrap my arms around him. I press my face against his chest, closing my eyes as I feel the tears making their way to my eyes.
“I should've listened to you,” I whisper, making one tremendous effort to choke down a violent sob. “I’m so sorry… I really am. I let the press come between us and now… I’m sorry, Danny.”
He just holds me without saying a word, placing one hand on the back of my neck and holding me against his chest. I try not to cry, but it’s getting harder; just thinking that this might be the last time he holds me against him hurts too much.
“I let myself be seduced by the fame… I know. I should've listened to you,” I say, almost desperate. Now that he’s here, I know the truth; I was a fool, yes, but I love him. And not because he’s rich or famous, but just because of the kind of man he is.
I don’t want to lose him.
“Fiona,” he whispers my name, and I grit my teeth as I imagine what his next words are going to be: it’s all over. I can already hear them echoing inside of my head. “It’ll be alright. I promise you.” He pulls back from me and I just blink my eyes, not sure if I heard right.
“What… do you mean?”
“Make sure you’re up tomorrow morning. And turn on your TV,” he tells me, leaning into me and kissing the corner of my mouth. I just stand there like an idiot, and he smiles and walks to his car. I watch him get in without a word and, as he drives away, his words make my heart flutter with hope.
It’ll be alright. I promise.
36
Danny
I stroll inside the Nailers’ conference room with my head held high, and the whole room falls silent as I walk up to the microphone. All eyes are on me right now, and every single person inside the room is expecting me to drop a bomb. They’re right, I’m about to do that, but it’s not the kind of bomb they’re expecting.
I look around, completely in silence, and it doesn’t take long for the room to erupt with questions.
“Is it all over between you and Fiona?”
“Are you retiring?”
I don’t know what kind of drugs these people are taking, but it must be the good stuff. Retiring—what the actual fuck?
“Everyone, shut the fuck up,” I say into the mic, and they all fall silent at once, as if I’ve suddenly turned into Satan himself. Good, I want them to be afraid, because right now I’m fucking pissed.
“As you all know, I’m in a relationship with a woman by the name of Fiona Barnett,” I start, and they all seem to lean forward in expectation as I drop her name. “I don’t know the reason why—nor do I care—but it seems that all of you decided to gang up on her. She’s the best person I know, and you’ve decided to ruin her life just because you might get a spike in audiences and a raise. Well, that stops this moment. As of now, Fiona is off limits.” I let the words hang heavily in the air, allowing them to sink in before I continue. “If you've got a problem, you can take it up with me. If you insist on going after Fiona, I can promise you this: you’re going to have a problem. A serious one.”
They all stare at me with wide eyes, afraid to even make a question. So much for their bravery and smugness; now that they’re standing right in front of me, they don’t dare defy me.
“One more thing, since you’ve all turned into football experts overnight and decided that my career was going downhill, I have one more promise to make: I’m going to win this year’s Super Bowl. That trophy is mine already; the game is only going to be a formality. Now, excuse me, I have to go and meet the woman I love.”
With that, I just walk past the dumbfounded press and make my way out of the conference room. My shoes click across the floor, and the silence is so deep you could hear a pin drop. Yeah, I think these assholes learned their place, once and for all.
I go straight to the parking lot, a smile on my face. Getting inside my Aston, I rev up the engine and pull out from my spot, the engine roaring as loudly as my heart seems to be thumping. I pull into New York’s traffic one minute later, making my way downtown.
When I get to Fiona’s building, she’s already standing at the entrance, tears in her eyes. She runs up to me the moment she sees me, and as soon as I get out of the car, she falls into my arms.
“You asshole,” she cries, “couldn’t you've told me what you were going to do? I barely slept last night.”
“Oh, a little suspense never hurt anyone,” I grin, and then pull her into me and kiss her. “I love you, Fiona. I waited too long to say it, but I love you. And no way in hell am I allowing anything or anyone to step between us.”
“I love you too,” she whispers, looking in my eyes. Her face is a perfect portrait of happiness, and she looks just as beautiful as when I first saw her. I close my eyes just for a second, seeing it happen in my mind’s eye all over again: that touchdown pass, her voice in the crowd, her beautiful face… She was just a stranger among thousands but, in that moment, I knew I couldn’t just let her walk away.
And I didn’t.
“I’m sorry… about everything,” she tells me, but I just place my index finger over her lips.
“That’s over, babe. It’s in the past,” I say, and then pick her up from the floor. With a grin on my face, I kiss her again.
“Now, where to, m’lady?” I tease her. Wherever she tells me to go, I’ll go. I don’t care if it’s my place, The Ritz, Paris, China, or the North fucking Pole. I’ll go to the ends of the world for her.
“Just take me upstairs,” she whispers, lacing her arms around my neck.
“Upstairs sounds perfect,” I say, walking across the sidewalk and carrying her inside the building just in time; at least a dozen news vans are pulling up in front of the building, cameramen jumping out of them as if they’re part of a SWAT squat.
Without Fiona noticing, I look back over my shoulder, throwing a menacing glance at the guys mounting their cameras. They sure as hell are free to do their jobs, as annoying as t
hey may be, but if they step out of line again… Well, let’s just say that I will stop at nothing. Nobody messes with my woman.
I put her down the moment we’re inside the elevator, and the doors are still closing when she jumps on me, crushing her mouth against mine and taking her hands to my chest.
“I could fuck you right here,” she tells me, tugging at my shirt in such a way that the fabric might just rip.
“I could fuck you anywhere,” I shoot back, pushing her back against the mirror in the elevator. I pin her arms over her head, kissing her in abandonment.
Even though I’m sure that I’m going to make my way toward the Super Bowl (and win the fucking thing), I doubt that it’s going to be better than this moment right now.
I’m the happiest man in the whole fucking planet. And that… Well, that calls for a celebration. The naked kind.
37
Fiona
My apartment seems like a different place.
Before Danny’s surprise press conference, the walls seemed like they were closing in on me, and the colors were dimmed and lifeless. But now that I’ve stepped inside again with Danny by my side, it’s almost as if I’ve entered a completely different apartment. Sunlight streams through the drawn curtains, and everything seems bright and shiny. In a way, everything’s exactly the same, but at the same time, everything’s different now. It seems that happiness—and love—really have the power to change the way you see the world around you.
“That was the sweetest thing anyone ever did for me,” I tell him the moment we’re behind closed doors, my eyes locked on his. He smiles at that, closing the distance between us and placing both of his hands on my hips.