Dethroning Crown

by Lila Felix

  Options? There were no options. There was only one path to be taken here. I would go to the Woodlands Sports Clinic, a place I knew some of the other players had gone to, and I would recover in six weeks and be back on the field—period.

  In the meantime, I’d have to watch the failure that was a team without me unfold on the television.

  “Cut to the chase before I fire you.”

  She flinched at that notion.

  “Well, considering the circumstances, your fame, the press and your need for some—downtime—we think the best option would be for a low-key residential situation with a medical staff to attend to you there.”

  I scooted up and pushed the button to lift the head of the bed to a seated position.

  “Downtime? The last thing I need is downtime. And the Woodlands is very strict about the paps. It won’t be an issue. Get them on the phone. I will tell them who I am—simple as that.”

  I snapped, like snapped them to attention with my fingers.

  But no one moved.

  Someone should move when Crown Sterling snaps his fingers, for Christ’s sakes.

  “You see, Crown, there’s more to it than that.” My manager, I called him Geraldo, but his name was Gerald, I thought, mimicked my snap, and the rest of the team jumped to attention and retreated from the room. His nose and moustache moved as his mouth talked. It was the only thing I could see when he was speaking to me. “Given your financial status—and we’ve explored all the choices—the only thing you’re left with is Rougon.”

  Rougon—what the hell was a Rougon? Sounds like one of those burlesque clubs. Yeah, I could be down with that.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  He looked out the window as he continued to speak. “Rougon is where your uncle Eric lives in Louisiana. You do remember your family, right? He’s agreed to let you live in one of his rentals while you recover for free.”

  Hold—the—eff—up.

  Do I remember that I have a family?

  I don’t remember paying this bastard for his extraneous lip. I remember paying him to do a job.

  “I make over two hundred grand per week, Geraldo. Given that financial status, I can stay wherever in the hell I want to. Anyway, I haven’t spoken to Uncle Eric since I was a kid. How in the hell did you even find him?”

  Tugging at his tie, he laughed, but nothing was funny. “He found us, actually. Given the way you blow your money, Slick, living somewhere for free means you get to eat.”

  Slick—he called me Slick.

  The beeping noises on the machines next to me began to flit out of control and before I could argue anymore, there was a needle in my arm and a black cloud in my head, taking me away.

  Maybe Perky Nurse decided I wasn’t as ready for big boy pills as she thought.

  Three days later, against my will, I boarded a plane, and ungracefully took my seat. Looking around at the posh interior, taking in the smell of the leather seats and the champagne just popped open by the flight attendant, I figured this was my last hurrah.

  Pouring bubbly into Geraldo’s tall glass, the flight attendant winked at me but then as her gaze moved down to my lifeless leg propped up on the seat across from me. She pouted her lip out in a ‘that’s too bad’ expression.

  Yeah, it was too bad—too bad she’d never get to experience being crowned.

  That’s what the girls called it when they got to spend the night with me.

  Looking out the window, I bid farewell to all the things I loved—my apartment, my team, my status.

  Beginning that day, I had only one goal in life—get my life back.

  Well, as much as I could get back.

  It turned out that I had been a little frivolous with my money. Apparently, all my Kobe beef had been bought on a credit card to the tune of a hundred grand per month—the insurance on my Lamborghini was almost as much as the car—and the kicker? The real, kick you in the balls and leave them throbbing while holding the bag of ice a few inches away kicker?

  My agent had negotiated a contract for me that included not getting paid in the chance of an injury.

  He was at the top of my shit list as soon as I could walk well enough to beat his beady-eyed ass.

  Everything in my life had gone to hell because of one blown out knee.

  Louisiana—the birthplace of people who ate red things that crawled on the bottom of the river, making other creatures’ excrement their diet, the place where, according to the pictures on the internet, they threw plastic beads and listened to accordion music. These people wore dirty, tattered clothes and took boats from place to place.

  That’s just the place I wanted to go.

  After I was in a coffin.

  Ignoring the gaze of my manager, I focused on the clouds around me as we traveled. I tried every hard not to hear the cover up stories Geraldo was feeding to the press. Finally, unable to cope with his constant stares, I popped two frivolous pain killers and spent the rest of the flight in blissful ignorance.

  It took an hour to get me off the plane. I hobbled like a peg-legged pirate down the narrow stairs that led from the jet to the ground.

  They must’ve kept this very secret.

  “There’s no one here.” I hinted at Geraldo, who was on the phone, again.

  He pressed a few fingers to the speaker on his cell and said, “No one knows you’re here. That’s the point.”

  He could’ve at least leaked the info to the press. A few pictures of me in this lame wheelchair should’ve drummed up some pity if nothing else.

  The wheelchair had ‘Property of MSY’ scribbled on the seat and back in a thick, black permanent marker. Sloppily, I backed into a sitting position and let out a great ‘Oomph’ as I plopped my leg onto the stirrup. When I did, a pungent, ammonia smell wafted up from the chair.

  “What the hell?”

  “It’s property of the airport. Nothing we could do.”

  Nothing he could’ve done. I was a professionally paid soccer player and suddenly I couldn’t afford to have a decent, non-piss-smelling wheelchair brought in?

  Either I was in deeper than I thought or Geraldo was hiding something.

  Rat bastard.

  We sat there, outside the airplane a little too long while he talked on the phone pacing around. The sun was baking me and the air in this place felt like I was in a steam shower.

  I missed my steam shower—and my sauna.

  These Louisiana people probably hosed off in the yard.

  Finally, Geraldo clicked off his phone and gave a one-handed gesture to the guy in coveralls who’d been recruited to push my lame ass to the car. I looked at the chain-link fence around the airport feeling the tug of remembrance. When the team touched down at airports, the fences were lined with girls pressing their bodies into the diamond shapes, lips, hands, and boobs would be squeezed in, waiting for us to just touch them.

  I had always taken advantage of that situation.

  While burning in the sun on the way to the car, I turned my phone back on, out of airplane mode and waited for the mass influx of texts, calls and e-mails. My phone temporarily cheered me up, beeping for me.

  It was like my own digital applause from afar.

  “Here.” Geraldo pointed to a black Lincoln that befit the situation. It looked like a hearse and I resembled death.

  On the way, we passed through the city which looked like it had seen better days. A cemetery on my left had coffins covered in cement above the ground. Still woozy from my pain killers, I dozed off again, hoping they would let me sleep through the whole six weeks of recovery.

  Chapter Two

  Lyra

  Silence is heaven.

  I flipped through the choices in my cedar lined closet. My anal retentiveness about my closet border-lined on Mother Dearest. I even did the satin covered hangers.

  For a person who hoarded clothes, I couldn’t find a thing to wear. I had things to wear, but it was my birthday for crying out loud. I needed something that ma
de me feel like it was my birthday.

  Something to remind me that another year had passed and I was still here.

  “What about this?”

  Tippi held up a black halter style dress that I’d worn for a job and had been gifted after the shoot was over. Its name was Moneymaker, because I would probably only wear it if I was looking for a proposition. There was no way I’d be wearing that.

  “What about no?”

  “Fine, pick one of your frou frou dresses.”

  I ignored her dig in favor of sifting through more clothes. I filtered through piece after piece until I landed on the one I wanted. Fisting the silky fabric, I closed my eyes and imagined how it would look on me and agreed with my imagination.

  It would look pretty damned hot.

  “This,” I twirled with it pressed to my body.

  “That’s super cute. What’s its name?”

  “Lovely Landscape,” I cooed back at her, thankful my best friend didn’t make fun of my habit of naming my dresses. The dress I’d chosen was a strapless, sweetheart neckline with a magenta crepe myrtles all over it. They were blurred a smidge to resemble a real painting. I immediately crouched to the floor of my closet and pianoed my fingers down the selection of shoes until I found the exact shade of fuchsia I craved. I jerked the peep toe heels up, accompanied by its matching purse, and laid it all on the bed. Such was my ritual; I had to see it all laid out or it never would be worn.

  “Well, Lovely Landscape is gonna make you late. Move it or lose it, girlfriend.”

  “Ok, give me ten minutes.”

  I rushed into the bathroom and put on a strapless pink bra and panties to match, before wiggling into Lovely Landscape. I exhaled a great breath before pulling the towel off of the bathroom mirror. I checked behind it, pulling it away from the wall, just for my own emotional preservation. Nothing was there, of course. I knew better. I checked my hair and recovered the mirror before leaving.

  Just looking at the mirror gave me chills. For a brief moment, I was back in the courtroom hearing the prosecution telling everyone all the ways Abraham had infiltrated my life with cameras and mirrors that weren’t mirrors at all.

  “Good Lord, even if I spent two hours in the bathroom, I couldn’t look like you do in five minutes. Come on, can’t you just wear rain boots or something—give your bestie a little edge here? Do a girl a solid and look like shit, just once in your life.”

  She was ridiculous. Tippi was uniquely beautiful. She had pixie short black hair and freckles for days. And she had the most contagious laugh in the world. She had her own cross to bear in terms of relationships, but that’s why we worked so well together. She was scared of them—and I was paranoid of the male species in general—well, mostly older men—creepy men.

  I pretended I had elderly male-induced leprosy.

  But really, they all scared the shit out of me too.

  “You are gorgeous and you know it. Don’t even start. Okay, let me switch my stuff to this purse and I’m ready. Where are we going again?”

  I saw her pull the towel to the side which covered the mirror behind my bedroom door. She wiped at some invisible lipstick snafu and then replaced the towel to hide the mirror again. She knew me so well and had never judged me even once.

  One stolen spray of my favorite perfume and she tipped her chin once, now ready to go.

  “It’s called Strouds. It’s pretty fancy, which is why it’s perfect for your birthday. It’s been open for a few weeks. The girls at work go on and on about it. You only turn twenty two once.”

  I stuffed my clutch with lip gloss, keys, my compact wallet and a mirror, just in case.

  “Ready Freddy?”

  “Yes, finally.”

  A few minutes later we arrived at Strouds which boasted completely glass walls in the dining area of the restaurant. A shiver passed through me at watching as people ate, drank their wine and talked to each other. What if you wanted to have an intimate conversation and someone outside could read lips?

  I didn’t like being watched in any form or fashion.

  “Deep breath, Lyra. I swear I didn’t know. It’s like a fuc—it’s like an aquarium.”

  Tippi and I had sworn off cussing for the New Year and even now in September, she was still slipping. I, on the other hand, had never really cussed much. Those words always sounded artificial to me—like unnecessary fillers.

  Plus, I made sure anxiety was kept at a minimum. There was nothing to cuss at.

  “But are we the sharks or the guppies?”

  She sighed, “We can go somewhere else. No sweat.”

  This was the plague of being friends with me. Tippi had her man issues, but generally they could be dealt with in any situation or locale. My issues were so ingrained that it wove its way into every facet of my life—including where I ate and definitely where I slept.

  “No way. This is my birthday and I won’t let him ruin this. I won’t. Let’s go.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and slapped my hands on my thighs,

  We allowed the car to be parked by a valet and went inside the aquarium. The hostess seated us at a table towards the back which made me sigh in relief. She ordered wine and I ordered my regular water—always water, unless I was at home. I took the place in. No one else seemed to be concerned about eating in a bubble except me. Looking from couple to couple, I wondered about the women as they laughed and flirted with moves I’d never gotten to use—the fingers, threading their hair behind their ears, the occasional swipe of their fingers across their breasts, the bite of their lip—all in the name of keeping the attention of the man across from them.

  I bet they didn’t check the air-conditioning vents every night before they went to bed.

  The waitress came back shortly with our drink orders. Another waiter passed by, tray heavy and laden with plates that held food bold with garlic and basil aromas.

  “So when’s your next shoot,” Tippi asked, ringing her finger along the rim of her white wine. Tippi was always interested in my career—sometimes to the point where I thought she may wobble on the jealous side.

  “Very soon, Italy.”

  “What’s it for?”

  I took a sip of my ice water, “It’s for a Jewelry Designer. They wanted me to wear only diamonds, like only their jewelry, so I declined. But then they called me back and said they would have me wear a nude colored dress to give the illusion of nudity without compromising my rules. I would’ve passed altogether, but they are paying me a ton. I’m surprised they made the exception”

  She sighed and swirled her libation around in its glass. “I’d kill to go to Italy again.”

  I smiled at her. Her eyes were closed now and God only knew what she was fantasizing about—probably something involving an Italian tryst. Contradictory to our general aversion to the male species, she was a true romantic at heart.

  Me? I just wanted peace.

  I let her stay stagnant in her Italian wishes for a few seconds before propositioning what I’d been planning all along.

  “So come with me.”

  “I’ve got work and I can’t afford it,” she pouted, knowing I couldn’t resist it.

  “I will pay and it’s a weekend trip. No missed school.”

  Throwing her hands in the air she exclaimed, “It’s your birthday and you’re giving me a trip! I suck.”

  I shrugged, “I was going to offer anyway. I hate going there all by myself. It’s all romantic and there’s couples everywhere. It makes me squirm.”

  A greater smile took over her face and her cheeks grew rosy.

  “Ok, if it’s that important to you, I guess I can force myself to go.”

  “Poor Tippi, forced to go to Italy and endure pasta and Italian eye candy. Such a tragedy.”

  She giggled. “Yes, poor me.”

  We planned our trip as we proceeded through a dinner heavy with pasta. We’d decided to forgo the touristy hotels and stay at a small one near the water. After a few minutes of laughing with my best friend, I forg
ot all about the glass surrounding me and temporarily released my paranoid tendencies. It wasn’t often I was released from their grasp. She dropped me off at home later. We weren’t the partying type. A glass of wine at dinner and giggling until we cried was the wildest we got. But that’s how we liked it. Tippi and I both had enough drama and excitement in our teens to last us until gravity took hold of our woman parts and the photographers no longer wanted me.

  After Tippi dropped me off at my house, I hung my dress back up with care and put my shoes and clutch back in their spots. I draped a thin white nightgown over my head, still in the closet, and covered it with a wine-colored robe, tied as tightly as possible. That’s when my nightly ritual began.

  The list was extensive, but it had to be completed. Two locks, two deadbolts and two security locks. Seven windows. A sweep of the metal detector over my ceiling. Five mirrors. I went over all these things three times. Only after that could I breathe again.

  After checking everything until my sanity was quenched, I tucked myself into bed but found sleep was unattainable.

  But I refused to relent to the call of those pills—those glorious, paranoia calming pills.

  My agent had called the morning before and told me there were several emails that needed my attention. Several usually meant thousands. I wished I could just pay someone to look at them for me. She knew I hated electronics, but I guessed some things still needed my attention. Even the three layers of duct tape over the camera of my tablet did little to ease my trembling when I powered it on. After several minutes of debating, I groaned out loud and tossed back my covers, determined to meet the demon head on, hoping his horns wouldn’t pierce me.

  I dug the tablet out of the bottom locked drawer of my desk and breathed deeply as I turned it on. I rubbed my thumb over the layer upon layer of duct tape making sure it was stuck on well. When I touched the envelope icon and over one thousand emails popped up on the screen, I nearly ran to the bathroom and chunked the horrid piece of technology into my toilet—a few flushes would’ve done the job.

  I spent the rest of the night and into the morning answering all the emails. Most of them were from prospective jobs—those I simply forwarded to Belinda’s email. She could handle those. I deleted over fifty advertisements and spam mail. The rest were from admirers. I wanted to be one of those people—the ones who just reply with some kind of generalized, cold, automatic response. But I just couldn’t. If they took the time to sit down and write me an email, the least I could do was write them back—even if it took me a long time to respond.