SNATCHED (A Sports Romance)

by Harper James

  I swallow. I've been shit-talked before. Any public figure has. I've been stalked, and I've been fired. But I've never received death threats before.

  My phone rings, and it's my agent, Jeff.

  "Chase," he greets me. "How you holding up?"

  "I've been better."

  "I bet." His voice is tense. I know this sucks for Jeff as much as anyone given the effort he put into getting this last deal for me. "Listen, my office has been getting shitty e-mails about this whole thing, and just now we got a call from someone threatening to, and I quote, 'Blow you the fuck up.'"

  "They threatened to blow you up?"

  "No, you. I'm sorry. But this is getting a little too crazy, Chase."

  No shit. "I know," I say.

  "You're going to have to answer for killing Bryce, that I can assure you."

  "No, I don’t.” I'm aware that I sound oppositional, but I don’t give a shit. "He is-- was-- my character. I made him up. I can do what I want. Do people not get that, by the way? That he's a made-up person? He's not real. It's not like a killed an actual person."

  "I know that and you know that. But your fans are some of the most loyal in fiction." Jeff pauses. "Or were."

  I hang up with Jeff and call my publicist. I feel like I should send Abigail flowers or something for having to deal with all of this. "Chase," she barks into my ear. "This is a real shitstorm you've created."

  "I get that. I have protestors outside my building. A big-ass group of people holding signs and saying angry shit. And now I'm getting death threats."

  "I think you should do an interview."

  "Now?"

  "ASAP. I think you should do an interview with one journalist. No press conferences, we don't need a million people asking a million questions. Just a good, solid journalist we do well with. Anderson? You like him."

  "No.”

  "Or maybe something for a written publication. I was thinking your charisma would be an advantage on TV, like always. But maybe you'd do better with the Times or something. I can get them on the phone."

  "No.” The last thing I want is more publicity. The last thing I want is more questions about Addison, more attention on her.

  "We could get you a decent chunk of change for an interview."

  "I'm not after a chunk of change. I'm after getting these dicks away from my building and off my web pages."

  "Who manages your fan pages? Damian, isn't it?"

  “Yeah. Can you call him?"

  "Sure."

  Rex shoves a screen in front of me while I wrap up my talk with Abigail. Those chicks who sit around a table and gossip are debating Bryce's death. "Killing such an iconic character is absurd," one of them, that new one, says.

  "Why?" I demand. "Iconic people die all the time."

  Rex laughs. "I'm shocked, dude. I had no idea people would get this aggro about it."

  "You and me both." I knew there would be fallout. But not like this.

  We stay holed up for a couple of days, my buddy Rex and me, baffled by the protestors we continue to see out my window, and the threats that keep coming in. Sometimes they don't threaten to kill me. Some of them just threaten to kick my ass. Rex comes and goes, working and dealing with his apartment remodel. He brings food, which I appreciate immensely because I don't feel like talking to the doormen who would bring my order upstairs.

  The whole time, she’s on my mind.

  Addison.

  Her hair, her body, her laugh. The way she felt in my arms, so perfect, so right. The way she’d bite her lip when she was concentrating, the way she loved sushi, the smoothness of her skin.

  I miss her so much it’s intolerable.

  I can’t sleep at night, because she’s all I can think about.

  I put on a brave face, a front. But she’s always there. Always.

  I hope she's doing all right. Or at least better.

  I hope she forgives me.

  But I doubt it. I'm not sure I can forgive myself.

  ADDISON

  I arrive back to my dorm room after my Interpersonal Skills and Relationships in Business class and toss my books onto my desk. Interpersonal Relationships seems like a cruel joke of a class title now. And of course some kid who sits behind me made a crack about that very thing, and he wasn't exactly trying to be quiet.

  But that's better than some of the crap I've gotten since I decided to go back to class. Some jackass followed me to Drummond Hall from the library, as if I was going to turn around and... what? Suddenly want to have sex with him? Or was he just hoping to talk to me about Chase? I don't know, because I flipped him off and hurriedly swiped my keycard to get inside.

  Why did I even stay at Noland, why did I even go back to class? That's what more than one person asked, and not necessarily in the nicest way. The thing is, I'm not sure if I want to pursue some other major yet, or just bail. But if I do decide to study something else, regardless of the college, it would help me if I had these credits completed. Maybe I'm not going to stick it out as a business major, but I might like something else. Like, say, English.

  But do I want to stay here, at Noland? After all of this? Can I even last until Christmas break? I don't know. For now I'm undecided, which is precisely where I was when I started college in the first place two years ago.

  The good thing is that the press about me has seemed to calm down, especially after Chase’s book leaked. That became the bigger story, and even though there’s still whispers, the attention on me is a million times better than it was.

  Kensie’s on her bed with a spread of pretzels, chips and all kinds of terrible-for-you foods watching TV. She turns the volume down when I come in, and says "I just ordered one of those hair removal things from the shopping channel."

  I laugh. I actually laugh. It feels good.

  Nights are still tough for me, though, and more than once, Kensie's gotten out of her bed to come sit with me. Last night wasn't too bad, because I only cried for a little bit and passed out shortly after Kensie sat on my bed. I might have gotten a full five hours of sleep. That's pretty good for me these days.

  I take a pretzel from Kensie's mini banquet. I still don't have much of an appetite, but I'm eating a little more now. "Ugh," I say when my phone starts vibrating. A couple of media outlets got my cell number, and tried calling me, but that's died down since Bryce Bowker's death leaked. It sounds weird, but I'm almost grateful to Bryce for dying, because it's taken a lot of the heat off of me. I don't recognize the number calling, so I almost ignore it. But with Kensie here, I feel a little bolder, so I go ahead and take the call. "Hello?"

  "Hello! May I speak with Addison Simmons?"

  "Who dis?"

  Kensie snorts and gives me a thumbs-up. Once, when some news outlet called and I stupidly picked up, she took the phone from me and started talking to them in a Cossack accent.

  "This is Gregory Wegman from Jefferson and Wegman Literary."

  Literary? Literary what?

  "Is this a magazine?" I ask.

  "No, I'm a literary agent."

  Oh my God.

  "This is Addison!"

  "Wonderful. Hello, Addison, and thank you for speaking with me. I'd love to chat with you about your project, if you have a few moments."

  My project. My project. "My... my story?"

  "Yes. I happened upon the excerpt of your work and I'm impressed so far. I'd be very interested in seeing the rest of your work."

  My jaw drops open.

  "Who is it?" Kensie mouths.

  "I... you would?" I ask, sounding brilliant.

  "Absolutely. Is it a complete manuscript?"

  "Yes," I say. And it is, funnily enough. I don't know how good it is, but I finished it during those days when I refused to leave my room.

  Gregory Wegman gives me his e-mail address and I jot it down with one of Kensie's glitter pens. "Thanks again for talking with me," he says before we hang up. "It was a pleasure."

  When was the last time a stranger has been th
at nice to me? Without some snide remark or shitty accusation? I sure as hell can't remember.

  "You'll never guess who that was," I announce.

  "Well, you're not cursing or crying, so... someone good?"

  "A literary agent. He wants to see my story."

  "Literary agent." Kensie frowns a little in thought. "Those are the book senders, right?"

  "Yeah, the liason between writer and publisher. And this guy wants to check out my stuff."

  "What happens if he likes it?"

  "He signs me up and then starts showing it around to see if someone wants it. Or at least starts sending a description of it around to see if anyone wants to read it." Chase explained the process to me, but I'm not sure I have it completely right.

  I wonder if I'll ever be able to do something as simple as read a book or go to the store without relating it back to something Chase said or did.

  "So you're going to send it to him?"

  "I dunno."

  Kensie flips the TV off. "What? What do you mean? You do know."

  I grab another pretzel. "I'm not one hundred percent sure. What if he hates it?"

  "He won't."

  "What if it's just too much?"

  "I seriously doubt it." Kensie's looking at me almost in awe. "Add, come on. This is big."

  "What if I can't handle having something so personal out there?"

  "I think," Kensie says slowly, "you've handled it pretty damn well already. But that's just my opinion. Now send him the motherfucking book."

  I sit with Kensie for awhile, helping her snack and playing on my laptop. While I click around, I open the document I wrote my story on and fix some grammatical stuff. I clean it up a little, hopefully enough.

  Kensie's balls-deep riveted in a Game of Thrones marathon when I attach the file to an e-mail and hit send.

  ADDISON

  Hi Ms. Simmons,

  I hope this e-mail finds you well! I'd love to schedule a phone call with you at your earliest convenience. I absolutely love your project.

  All Best,

  Gregory Wegman

  This is not happening. I mean, this kind of thing doesn't happen to me. This is way, way too good to ever be anything that would relate to me in any capacity.

  "I think we have something special here," Gregory Wegman says several days later in my ear. I'm sitting at the corner booth at Drake's Burgers, where Luna first spotted me and Chase. I picked an off time for the call-- four o'clock, and I'm the only customer in here. "I haven't been this excited about a new project in a long time, to be honest."

  Mr. Wegman-- he insists I call him Greg-- enthusiastically tells me a bunch of things he likes about my work. I ask him questions I'm supposed to ask an agent that I found online. I ask him about how he works, and how often he touches base with his clients, things like that. I hope I'm asking the right things. Greg answers everything, and I get a good vibe from his willingness to explain things in detail and his affable personality. We hang up the phone when he tells me he'll send me the contract.

  I look around Drake's and declare this a victory. I always imagined that Chase would be around to walk me through this, if it ever happened to me. But now I'm doing it all by myself.

  And it feels pretty empowering.

  Greg calls me a week later, when I’m returning to my room from class. "Are you sitting down?"

  "Yes," I say, plopping down onto my bed.

  "Amaya Green at Mermaid loves it and wants to make an offer."

  I almost drop my phone. "Mermaid? I... offer?"

  "Mermaid Press. You've heard of them, I'm sure."

  I sure have. My mom has a few books from that imprint. They put out some pretty big titles.

  Gregory goes on. "She wants to move quickly. Are you ready to sell this novel?"

  "Yes!" I shriek into the phone. "I mean, yes. Yes!"

  When Kensie comes back a little while later, I pounce on her so frantically, for a minute she thinks I'm upset and something bad happened.

  "You're going to be an author," she gushes, putting her hand over her mouth. "A real author."

  "It hasn't hit me yet," I say. "But I can't believe it."

  "You deserve it."

  I give her another hug, and feel the tears pricking my eyes.

  ***

  I sign my book deal, and my editor, Amaya, is really cool. She's full of great feedback about my book, and she tells me more than once how talented she thinks I am. Nobody's ever given me this much praise.

  "You need to come here," she announces one day during a phone call about my book. I love how casual she is with me now that the deal's been made and we've gotten to know each other a little. "Everyone at Mermaid would love to meet you. Have you ever been to New York?"

  "No," I say. I've traveled a lot with my family, but New York is one place I keep missing. "I would love to go. When were you thinking?"

  We pick a date, and I get started looking for flights.

  This is going to be insane. This is going to be amazing.

  I just have to make myself forget who else lives in New York.

  CHASE

  New York.

  Almost what, nine million people? I'm surrounded by them.

  I've never been more lonely in my entire fucking life.

  ADDISON

  There's nothing like flying into New York. The skyline just leaves you gawking out the window like a fool.

  A Towncar is waiting for me outside of La Guardia, and my driver meets me at the baggage claim, taking my roller suitcase for me and welcoming me to New York.

  "Thank you!" I squeak.

  I hum that Welcome to New York song in the backseat of the Towncar on the way to my hotel. I'm staying at the Peninsula, which is right on Fifth. My dad recommended it. And Dad might not be the best at a lot of things, like, oh, empathy, and not pressuring people. But he's no slouch when it comes to choosing incredible hotels.

  My parents and I have come to tentative truce. They were relieved I was going back to school, and at least for now, we have a don’t ask don’t tell policy about my major.

  "Why you scream Fifth Avenue?" My driver looks at me with a confused smile in the rearview mirror. "Fifth Avenue just a street."

  "It's the street," I tell him. I've been fantasizing about Fifth Avenue ever since I learned New York was an actual place and not just where the muppets on Sesame Street live. And turning onto Fifth was even more exciting than seeing the city from the plane.

  The Peninsula, of course, is stunning. I get up to my room and gaze down at Fifth Avenue churning along below me. One day I'll come back and stay during Thanksgiving so I can watch the Macy's Parade from here. I've always wanted to do that.

  I take it pretty easy my first night, just wandering around and grabbing some pizza. The next day I sleep in and get ready for my editor/agent/author lunch. When I finish putting on my makeup-- pretty light, just mascara and lip gloss-- I stand looking in the mirror above the marble vanity.

  Chase would be proud of me.

  No. No, no, no, I scold myself. Not thinking about him today. Today is my day.

  I ride the elevator down to the grand lobby, stride out the door that's help open for me, and hail a cab.

  "Amy Ruth's, please," I tell the cabbie, and give him the address. I lean back, watching the streets and people zip by as we head up to Harlem.

  Gregory Wegman is already there, waiting.We chat about New York, and how exciting this is for me, and then Amaya from Mermaid Press joins us as the hostess leads us to our table.

  "Amy Ruth's is an institution," Greg tells me. "You might have to roll me out of here."

  We sip sweet tea-- the most delicious tea I think I've ever tasted-- and salivate over the plates of food we see being delivered to nearby tables. "Chicken and waffles," I say, staring way too hard at someone's lunch. "I might have to order that right now."

  I still can't believe I'm at a real publishing lunch. Who gets to do this kind of thing?

  I guess I do. />
  And Chase does.

  Stop. Thinking. About. Him.

  But it’s impossible.

  Everything reminds me of him, even more so now that I’m here, in New York.

  Ever since I got here, I keep thinking I see him everywhere – in the lobby of my hotel, standing in line for pizza at the deli on the corner, rushing toward the subway…

  Even right now, I’m almost sure I see his doppleganger stride in, looking left and right.

  My heart lurches, but I keep nodding and smiling as Greg talks to me. But I’m so distracted. The guy who just came in is looking around, trying to find the people he came to eat with. He just looks so much like Chase.

  Like... exactly like Chase.

  Wait a minute.

  I cough and press my napkin to my mouth.

  "You okay?" Amaya asks.

  "I..."

  My mouth opens but I can barely speak. Everything turns to slow motion as he turns from profile, and now I can see his face clearly. And now I know that it’s really him.

  Chase Brooks is standing right here.

  Relief flashes across his face as we make eye contact. His cornflower blue eyes bore holes into me.

  "What's he doing here?" I say under my breath. "What is Chase Brooks doing here?"

  I say it low, but Greg and Amaya hear me. Their heads swivel like they're choreographed together to look.

  My stomach tightens. I have no idea what this is about, but I feel slightly sick. It’s too much—seeing him is too much, and all of my emotions are flooding back to me now.

  Chase approaches our table, and the closer he gets, the more my heart slams into my sternum. When he stops right in front of me, I can't do anything but look up at him and try to keep my mouth from hanging open.

  Amaya and Greg are silent, just completely stone silent. They're watching him, too.

  In fact, so are more than a few people in this restaurant.

  "Hello, Addison," he says, his voice soft.

  This is what he says to me. After everything.

  I find my voice. "Hi," I croak. My voice is thick with shock and I sound horrible. I clear my throat once, twice. Three times.

  Chase smiles.

  What the fuck is he up to?