Mr. Sportsball

by K. P. Haigh

  But, I was being brave, and the feeling was intoxicating.

  I heard the trail of voices headed toward me before I saw the bodies that belonged to them. I immediately regretted my plan. I should have gone with creepy stalker hanging out by Cody's red car versus weird loner hanging out by herself outside the locker room, but as the first player rounded the corner, I knew it was too late.

  A crowd of boys stopped in front of me, and there was Cody, right in the center.

  "Uh, hi?" He looked straight at me, and I knew instantly that I had made a terrible mistake.

  He had absolutely no fucking clue who I was.

  My brain scrambled to figure out an exit strategy. Do I know another player on the team? Could I say I was lost?

  I didn't register the extra set of voices until they were right behind me.

  "Montgomery Bell."

  I hated hearing my full name almost as much as I hated the voice that said it. I turned around and saw Sabrina Lang, flanked by her crew of cheerleaders, including Little Miss Hallway Helpful, Gwen.

  "Um, hi." I blinked frantically, as if pulling the picture into focus would have helped my understanding of the situation. This wasn't a 3D optical illusion. I wasn't going to find a hidden picture of myself in Cody's arms.

  I should have known when I heard Sabrina's cackle. I should have known when I saw Gwen's smile flinch when she saw that I still hadn't quite turned the puzzle piece to the right alignment.

  Sabrina twirled a strand of her thick blonde hair between her fingers. "You're a piece of work, Montgomery. I can't believe you even had the balls to show up."

  The words almost twisted themselves into a compliment around me, but there were too many barbs to tie it into a perfect knot.

  Cody walked over to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Those barbed compliments finished twisting around me and someone yanked at both ends, digging their meaning into my flesh. I was a piece of work to think for a second that someone like him could like someone like me.

  Sabrina pulled Cody in for an exaggerated kiss, all the while keeping one eye open to make sure I was taking in all of her theatrics.

  How could I not? I couldn't have moved a muscle even if my flight mode had finally kicked in.

  Cody pulled away, looking drugged with lust. I wondered if she liked him as much as she liked the power of being with him. Was she ever drunk on him, or was it just the idea of him?

  He looked at me and, for a second, he seemed to remember I existed. "Were you waiting for somebody?"

  God, he was even stupider than me.

  Sabrina laughed and clutched her arms around him in a possessive cuddle.

  "She came to see you. She has a stalker crush on you and thought we had broken up."

  He looked straight at me, taking in that idea, and then he nodded his head as if teenage girls followed him around, declaring their love for him on a regular basis. Oh, another one? Sure, why not?

  I wanted to vomit—preferably all over Sabrina's perfect white tennis shoes.

  She smiled back at me like she knew what I wanted to do, and that I wouldn't dare try it.

  "Let's get out of here. We've taught this loser her lesson. Kingsley!" she shouted back at one of the players behind me. "Aren't your parents gone tonight? We need to get wasted—like ASAP."

  Plans were decided and as quickly as I had been surrounded by the swarm, they left with their queen bee. Make that a capital B.

  I had learned my lesson all right. Football players and their cheerleader girlfriends sucked, and I was going to take out a restraining order on their kind until the end of forever. Sorry, you play sports? Please stay at least a hundred yards away from me at all times. Kthanksbye.

  Football and I were done, and there was no way I was going to make the mistake of trying to pretend I liked it ever again.

  Present Day

  Click. Click. Click. There's a hum of background noises: laughter-peppered conversation, the gentle dings of crystal glasses, and the sweet strums of the classical guitar.

  The only thing I actively hear is my breath. Out. In. Hold. Click. Out. One of my favorite photography instructors told me he held his breath every single time he pressed the shutter.

  It's my own form of yoga, meditation behind the lens.

  I move through the clusters of conversations, trying to catch wit and delight like they're two friends out at a bar for a drink. When I get it right, it's almost like you capture the words themselves in vivid color.

  Set against the backdrop of the tall, arched ceiling and long-paned windows of the old university ballroom, this donor event makes me wish I had thousands of dollars to drop to show up at a party like this.

  My black pants and white button down are more in line with the catering crew than the long fancy dresses and pristine tuxes of the guests, but I'm here for my job as a photographer for the Ann Arbor Daily. This is work, not play. I press my camera back up to my face and start to breathe.

  "How long have you been back?" one of the men in front of me asks the woman to his right.

  "Only a week. I would fly back in a heartbeat. It was so moving to see all our hard work actually making a difference in the field." I recognize the woman: it's Irene Collins, renowned philanthropist and one of the largest donors to our alma mater, Michigan University.

  I've never actually seen her at one of these events before. She's nearly always abroad, but as a fellow alumni, I've spent years seeing her portrait. She's a legend, one of the first female computer science majors here, and then founder of one of the most influential tech companies in the world. She stepped down as CEO and started a nonprofit that has arms stretched out to help positively impact dozens of global issues.

  I have to get her picture for the paper, but the stupid light is filtering in awkwardly, turning her face into a Phantom of the Opera mask of light and shadows. I still have a handful of shots to get left on my list, and there are only thirty scheduled minutes left of this fundraiser.

  Ugh, I hate this part. "Excuse me, Ms. Collins, would you mind stepping to the left? I'd love to get a photo of you two in better light."

  "Of course." She smiles gracefully and takes a step over, continuing as if the conversation was never interrupted.

  Click. Click. Perfect. I'm always nervous to remind guests at these sorts of functions that I exist. They always want to turn and wrap their arms around each other as if I'm taking a family portrait at a wedding. I hate using posed photos, though my boss couldn’t care less—she just needs something to print in the society section of the newspaper and its online counterpart.

  I snap a few more pictures of Ms. Collins, and I turn to search out the last few shots on my list. Just as I'm about to walk away, I hear her voice. "Pardon me?"

  I turn back to see Ms. Collins looking straight at me.

  I look around. Is she talking to me? There's no one in our vicinity; the man who had been talking to her must have excused himself.

  "Yes?" I finally answer, still unsure if I'm the intended recipient.

  She gives me a kind smile, reminding me of Helen Mirren. I bet she gave the boys a run for their money when she was a student here. She's very proper, but there's something hiding in her eyes that makes me think she's a reformed firecracker.

  "Are you a student here?"

  I let go of my camera, letting it hang from the brown leather strap around my neck. "I was. I graduated two years ago. I do freelance work now, mostly for the Ann Arbor Daily."

  "Do you enjoy your job?" she asks with a curiosity that should be reserved for talking to doctors who research cures for life-threatening illnesses, or engineers who are trying to figure out how to send humans to the next solar system.

  "Umm, it's been an amazing learning experience." Ugh, I think that answer came with a side of vomit. Try again. "I admire what you do—impacting the global community."

  "It's very fulfilling work. We're certainly in need of good photographers. There's nothing quite like perfectly capture
d images to highlight the causes we champion."

  My mouth goes completely dry. Working for her nonprofit is pretty much the poster I have in my head for ‘dream job.’

  Ms. Collins laughs softly, and I realize my mouth is wide open. I can't seem to find any words that aren't Ohmygod, are you serious? So, I clamp it shut.

  She reaches into her purse and pulls out a card. "Send me an email next week with your portfolio. I'll forward it on to my HR director."

  I nod my head—that's about all I'm capable of right now—and take the card.

  "Good. I selfishly try to recruit Michigan grads any chance I get," she says with a twinkle in her eye.

  I don't know how or why I became a worthwhile recruit of one of the wealthiest female philanthropists in the world—I’m just a twenty-three-year-old who takes pictures for a local paper, as easy to forget as what you ate for breakfast yesterday—but I'm not going to ask questions. I'm going to go home and spend the next forty-eight hours crafting the perfect email.

  "I need to catch Steven before he sneaks out. It was nice to meet you…"

  "Montgomery," I offer back when she pauses.

  "Montgomery, it was a pleasure. I look forward to seeing your portfolio." She turns and waves at the university president.

  My head spins as if I stood up too fast. I can't believe that just happened. I take a deep breath and let the awe sink into my bones before reaching back for my camera and scanning the room, trying to catch the last few shots I need.

  I finally make it back to my apartment, and the sun has softened into a rosy gold hue near the horizon. I have about seven hundred images to go through tonight, but I think I need to grab a beer, go sit out on my roof, and decompress first.

  I have an excitement hangover, and there's no way I'm going to be able to focus for long enough to pick out the best images or do any of the necessary lighting touch-ups.

  No. I need to pour some liquid straight onto this electrical wire of mine and let it crackle and smoke its way down to silence.

  I set my bag down on my bed and take three steps over to my kitchen. My apartment isn't very big, barely 400 square feet, but it's cozy and relaxing, two things I desperately need after being around people for work. I'm a classic introvert; I would go crazy if I had to come home to more required conversation and haggling for music playlist airtime.

  No, thank you. I'll take my petite studio decked out in bright prints from World Market, faded leather seats from Goodwill, and faux sheepskin rugs. It's a luxury on a freelancer's budget, but I saved every penny I earned working summers growing up. Then, I doubled it when I put up a flyer at the drama school a few years ago to take half-price headshots. It’s enough of a buffer to be adventurous, which makes it even more embarrassing that my current definition of adventure is a studio twenty minutes from my childhood home.

  I open up my fridge and grab a can of cheap beer. My phone chimes from my bag, and I quickly grab it on my way over to the large window that opens to a relatively modest slope of the house roof. My studio takes up half of the top floor of a house that's been converted into apartments. My half faces west, which is perfect for long spring nights like tonight.

  I sit down on the shingles, pull out my phone to check my messages, and see Andie's text.

  Are we still on for tomorrow?

  I thumb a quick yes, and her response is almost immediate.

  Good. I'm craving beer and wings. Can we go to Halftime? Plz?

  Ugh. I hate that place. There are a million televisions going at the same time, and the servers all have to wear these cheesy referee costumes—surprise, surprise, they're pretty much all female. It's like a costume you'd wear to a bad college Halloween party. I want to take a hoodie every time I go—not for me, for them.

  But Halftime's wings are like crack, and Andie is rarely ever free these days. She's in the last couple weeks of her second year of medical school. I don’t understand why they bother to distinguish years—she barely gets a sneeze of a break and then she has to start her third year this summer. I'm pretty sure admission into the program required signing over a kidney, enough money to bankroll a small country, and all of her free time. I'm not going to turn her down.

  I quickly reply and then turn my phone on silent so I can get back to my beer and sunset relaxation.

  It lasts for about five seconds before I realize I'm going to need to get a passport.

  I try taking a few more sips of beer. Be in the moment. Enjoy the sunset.

  My brain races through a list of questions. How much does a passport cost? How long does it take to get one? I crawl back inside and open up my laptop.

  I know I'm being silly. I don't even have the job yet. Geez, I don't even know if there is a job. Ms. Collins implied there was an opening, but I doubt the head of a large nonprofit keeps detailed tabs on current openings. She simply said she would pass my portfolio along. I could be excited over nothing.

  If I got the job though, I would finally get to travel. I would finally step foot outside the States.

  I guess technically I already have. I went to Canada when it was still cool to use a license to cross the border between the two countries, but that's like saying a kiss on the cheek counts as the real deal. It's close, but you're not quite there yet.

  Maybe I'll finally change that. I think about the business card sitting at the bottom of my bag. Maybe the universe is giving me a kick in the butt down the right path.

  It’s too good an opportunity to pass up. I've been comfortable in my own little bubble for long enough.

  When Irene Collins hands you a business card, you take it, and you better use the damn thing, whether it scares you or not.

  I tap the spacebar on my laptop so I can get to work. I have a job to do and a job to chase. I feel like I just pounded a double shot of excitement espresso, and I'm sure as hell going to put it to good use.

  I almost groan out loud when the hostess at Halftime leads me over to one of the bar tables in the center of the room.

  She smiles blankly. "Your server will be over in a second."

  Before I can ask to switch to a booth in the corner, she walks away. Okay fine, I wouldn't have actually asked anyway; I suck at that kind of stuff.

  I feel as if I'm standing front and center at a rock concert where ten different bands are playing all at once. Realistically, I know there are only a couple TVs that have their sound on, but the volume combined with twenty LED TVs flashing different sports makes it seem worse than it is.

  I kick myself for forgetting earplugs. At least I have my Kindle, which is a core member of my squad. I never go anywhere without my digital bestie.

  Just as I sit down, Andie texts that her study session is running over. Of course it is, and I immediately regret my decision to grab a table early instead of popping down the block to wait at the coffee shop until she's ready.

  At least they have beer here. I order a summer lager, the one with an orange slice hooked onto the rim of the glass, and try to forget where I am.

  I'm a beer and a half into my book when I see someone walk up to the seat across from me. Ah, finally. I look up with a grin stretching wide across my face, expecting to see Andie.

  Instead, I'm looking at the broad chest of a giant, and I don't say that lightly. I am only an inch short of six feet, and I'm well aware of being on the tail end of the average height bell curve. It's not often that I feel small.

  I look up to see the face of a man who looks perfectly content to be hanging out in a sports bar. He's wearing a baseball cap that says Aloha. If I had seen him from the back first, I would have guessed his hat would be for some sports team. Granted, I'm not exactly up to date on my sports references; maybe the Alohas are a new team.

  "Sorry to interrupt, but I had to stop by and say hello before I left." His voice is deep and smooth, like slowly rocking back and forth on a porch swing at dusk.

  I scan his face again. Even hiding under a hat, I can tell it's not a face you forget. It’s all li
nes and angles, like a statue you would spend hours studying in an art history class. I would remember a face like that. Hell, I'd photograph it from every angle if I could.

  "Um, have we met before?"

  He tilts his head to the side as if I said something funny. His blue eyes are piercing, but the soft lines that frame them when he smiles make them kind. "I don't think so. I'm Baron, and you are…?"

  This is the part where I usually give a fake name, something popular like Michelle or Monica, but his eyes…I can't stop staring at them long enough to form coherent thoughts. Well there’s that, and the fact that I'm drinking on an empty stomach.

  "Montgomery, but everyone calls me Monty."

  Baron motions to the barstool across from me. "Would you mind?"

  I should say I have a friend who could be here any minute, but for all I know, she could be another hour.

  I find myself saying "Sure." This is twice in twenty-four hours I've been approached by someone who intrigues me; I'm curious what fate is dishing out this time.

  "What are you reading?" It's a casual question, and his tone sounds as if we're old friends catching up rather than complete strangers.

  "It's a romantic suspense novel." I'm usually grumpy when someone stops me in the middle of reading to ask me about the book. I mean, dude, I'm reading. Instead, my body is leaning toward him, as if I can't get close enough to this conversation.

  "Hmm, I had you pegged for a nonfiction type." He taps his fingers along the soft dip beneath his lower lip, and I am acutely aware of our knees touching under the table.

  "How's that?" I ask.

  "Well, you're sitting in the middle of a sports bar, reading. Intently," he adds. "I just imagined it was something serious."

  I don't mention that I just finished a book of essays by women who grew up in the Middle East. I focus on the heart of the matter. "Eh, I just don't really like sports that much."

  Baron laughs. It's a deep, warm sound, and my heart does a little somersault in place. "Yeah, I figured."