by Sarina Bowen
Beside me, Bayer is poking at his phone. But he’s also stealing glances at me.
“What?” I finally ask. “Something the matter?”
He opens his mouth and then shuts it again. “Suppose not.”
“Thank you again for your kindness,” I say as the bus comes to a stop outside a hotel. “I feel worlds better.”
“You’re welcome. Anytime.”
Before we can exit the bus, the doors open to admit Rebecca Rowley, who will soon become Rebecca Kattenberger, as well as the new team owner. She and Nate Kattenberger announced their engagement right at the end of last season.
And—if I’m lucky—Rebecca will become my permanent boss. She’s going to hire someone to replace herself as the office manager. I plan to be first in line for that job.
“Morning, champs!” she says. “We have a full day ahead of us. You have forty-five minutes to check in to your rooms and prepare for practice. This bus will leave at ten for the rink. You’ll practice, eat lunch, have a meeting with the coaches. And then you’ll scrimmage for the public at three thirty. Veterans against the younger guys and rookies. Then it’s back to the hotel for two hours. The bus will pick you up at five and bring you to the black-tie cocktail party. Everyone attends. Any questions?”
Bayer’s hand shoots up beside me. “What do the veterans get if we beat the rookies again this year?”
“My undying respect,” Rebecca says with a smile. “And free drinks at a stuffy cocktail party. Now off you go.”
I practically launch myself off the bus, I’m so happy to breathe the fresh air. I know I’m not the first stupid girl to ever have a hangover, but I sure do feel like I survived three hours of torture.
“Heidi Jo? A word?” Rebecca waves me over, using the name my father calls me.
But I don’t correct her. If I can interview for the office manager job, I don’t care what she calls me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, stepping out of the way of the players who are streaming toward the hotel.
“You ma’amed me?” Becca says with an exaggerated gasp. “Did I age significantly over the summer?”
“Oh, stop. I’m just feeling humble this morning. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Rebecca’s smile fades quickly. “Are you okay?”
“Absolutely,” I say quickly. Not only do I feel loads better now that we’re off the bus, I never want to show weakness to the boss. “What can I do for you first?”
“Well…” She makes a grim face. “I have two items of news for you, and neither of them is good.”
Oh, dear Lord. My stomach dives for the hundredth time today, and it’s not even nine o’clock. “Did you fill the position already?”
“No,” she says quickly. “It will be a couple weeks before I get around to working on that.”
I relax a little, but then I notice that she does not.
“Look, I need you to step inside and speak to our publicists for a moment. Would you follow me?”
“Of course,” I say, feeling sick all over again. I can’t imagine what they want with me, unless they want me to do a publicity rotation as part of my internship.
She ushers me inside the East Hampton Lawn and Golf Club, and as we head for a small conference room open off the lobby, I get a quick glimpse of dark wood paneling and chandeliers. It’s a fusty, old-money look. Our blood is bluer than yours, it whispers. We’re too gentile for bling.
The co-heads of publicity are already seated at a table when we enter. There’s Tommy, who I don’t know very well. And Georgia is a real sweetie, but today she looks grim. “Hi, Heidi Jo,” she says. “How are you today?”
“Um, fine?”
“We have to show you a photograph,” Becca says, taking a seat. “It popped up on a sports blog in the wee hours. And I need to ask you to tell me what’s happened here.”
When she holds up her phone, I’m confronted with an image that brings all my nausea back in force. “Oh my God.” I actually sway on my feet.
Rebecca reaches up to grab my arm. “Hey, take a breath. And a seat.”
“That picture!” I sputter. “My daddy will shoot me.” I turn my face away from the photo, as if that would make it go away. I look exactly like my parents’ worst nightmare. Like a brainless tramp. Daddy will yell, and Mama will cry.
I sit down heavily in a chair. If the floor opened up and swallowed me right now, that would be okay, too.
“I’m sorry,” Becca says softly. “But I have to ask—how did things work out for you after this was taken?”
“Oh, terribly,” I babble as Becca’s eyes widen. “Last night I tried to be a fun party girl. But the night ended with Castro listening to me puke in his toilet. Then he gave me his clothes and tucked me into bed like a second-grader. I woke up at five with a pounding head and snuck out of his apartment.”
Everyone around the table visibly relaxes. “Okay, well…” Rebecca clears her throat. “There are worse nights. We all do it.”
“Not you,” I whisper. “The other girls say that nobody holds their liquor like you do.” Honestly, I want to be Rebecca Rowley-soon-to-be-Kattenberger when I grow up. She’s fierce and smart and super fun. Yet she still manages to have everyone’s respect.
“It’s a gift, handed down from my Yorkshire ancestors, along with sturdy hips.” She winks. “I’m glad to hear that you’re all right. But this picture is circulating. We’re getting questions.”
A fresh wave of horror rolls through me. “Is there anything I can do to shut it down?”
“That’s what we’re trying to decide,” Georgia says quickly. “This photo looks more like a predator and a helpless college girl than two friends out on the town together.”
“Oh…” I say slowly. “Is Jason going to get in trouble over this? That’s not fair. All he did was pick me up off the sidewalk.” I remember the doorman’s laughter. And the too-bright lights in the elevator.
Jason had looked grumpy as heck, but who could blame him?
“It will be okay,” Becca says quickly.
“In a case where there’s no real story, people tend to lose interest pretty quickly,” Tommy agrees.
“I hate that you called it a case, though,” I point out. “There’s no case. There’s only me making a fool of myself and a player who was in the wrong place at the right time.”
“All right,” Georgia says kindly. She rises to her feet. “We won’t call it a case. We’ll call it an unphotogenic moment. It’s possible we’ll ask you to take a photo with him that looks better. The two of you passing out visors at the golf tournament tomorrow, or something.”
“Can I wear a T-shirt that says—Look, I can stay upright without assistance?” Everyone laughs, but I’m only half kidding.
“We probably won’t need a photo at all,” Tommy says, following Georgia out of the room. “Not if the story dies quietly. Hang in there, Heidi Jo.”
I wait for the publicists to leave the room. And then I ask Rebecca, “What’s the other bad news?” I haven’t forgotten that she’d said she had two things to tell me. Is there any point in hoping that the photo was the worst of it?
“The other thing might not be so bad,” Becca says, leaning back in her chair. “Your father called me this morning.”
“Uh-oh. Did he see the photo?”
“I’m not sure,” Becca admits. “All I have is a voicemail. He wants to talk to me about renegotiating the terms of your internship.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. That could be bad. “We had a huge fight yesterday. He’s mad that I didn’t go back to school. But I don’t see how that affects my job with the team.”
“Maybe it’s no big deal, then,” Becca offers.
But I’m not convinced. My father has a very forceful personality, and he loves to go on about meaningful consequences. Yesterday, Daddy ranted about all the horrible jobs I would have in my life if I didn’t finish school. He regrets arranging my internship. “That was my mistake. The job is too cushy for a slacker like you.�
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That one hurt because I am a hard worker. I always have been. Just not at Bryn Mawr.
“You won’t fire me, right?” I ask Becca. “I mean—I work for free right now.” My father has been paying me a stipend out of his own pocket.
“Best deal ever.” She beams at me. “I’m not sure what your father wants, and I thought you might know. But if not, we’ll reconvene after I speak to him tonight.”
“Well…” I clear my throat. “If he stops funding my time in Brooklyn, I’ll have to find a paying job. I’m still hoping to work for you after you transition into the owner’s office.”
“Let’s just see how it goes,” Becca says, pushing her chair back from the table.
“All right,” I agree. “I’d better check in so I can make it to the bus on time. What do you need from me this afternoon?”
When I stand, Becca hooks her arm in mine, then leads me toward the check-in desk. “I need you to help Georgia and Tommy with the swag,” she says. “They have goody bags for the guests tonight, and something like keychains and game schedules for the people who watch the scrimmage this afternoon.”
“Okay. What else?”
“When we all get to the practice space, there will be something to fix or untangle. There always is.”
“Sounds like my life.” I sigh. “I’ll see you in a jif.”
“And Heidi Jo?”
I turn back. “Yes?”
“Don’t get your picture taken with Castro tonight.”
I feel a new flutter of panic run through my body. “Don’t worry about that.” I don’t even want to see Jason Castro again. I’m so embarrassed. The things I asked him for…
Becca walks away, and I pull out my phone and finally answer his text. I’m fine! And I’m SO sorry I made your evening harder than necessary. And sorry about that awful photo, too.
His response comes almost immediately. Glad to hear it, kiddo.
Kiddo?
Once more, my cheeks flush with shame. Only children get stumbling drunk. And there goes my shot at seducing him. I’ve just been demoted from hot-girl-in-a-bar to drunken idiot.
It’s almost more depressing than having my blotto face on a sports blog.
Almost.
6
Heidi
It’s a long day of running around at the Hamptons practice rink and trying to look like I don’t feel nauseated.
When lunchtime comes, I help the caterer set up a buffet in the hallway at the practice facility. Instead of eating with the players, though, I grab a sandwich and two Diet Cokes and disappear to a bench outside.
The food and the fresh air do me some good, too. But I’m not out here to admire the hydrangeas. I’m hiding in shame. And that’s not something that the Pepper family ever does.
It’s time for a consult.
I pull out my phone. Ignoring a dozen waiting text messages from people who saw that photo, I dial my sister. “I need help,” I tell her. She loves it when I ask for help. She’s two years older than me and super bossy.
“I’ll say you do,” she says immediately. “You need to examine your life choices if you’re too drunk to focus on that hottie in the picture.”
“You saw it, too?” I squeak. That’s bad news, because my sister does not follow hockey. If the photo made it all the way to Jana, things are worse than I thought.
“I hope Mama doesn’t see it. She’ll have a conniption. Did she call you?”
“Not sure. I’ve been avoiding my phone. But I made an exception for you, because I need some advice.”
“About men?” she asks hopefully. “Did you catch yourself a new hockey player?”
“Negative.” But not for lack of trying. “My question is about something simpler than men. Eye makeup.”
“Oh, precious one.” My sister lets out a dramatic sigh. “There is nothing simpler than men.”
That may be true for Jana, who always seems to have men falling at her feet. But Jana and I are not the same kind of girl. She likes nice boys that she can control. And I’m just the opposite.
Just once, I want a bad boy to be interested in me. How will I ever take a walk on the wild side if the wild side is put off by Daddy?
Or put off by me.
“So what is this makeup emergency?” she asks.
“My eyes are red. As red as Uncle Wyatt’s face after Aunt Dorothy runs up his credit card.”
“Ouch.”
“I know. And my dress is pink.”
“Hmm,” my sister muses. “What shade of pink?”
“Shell.”
“Oh! That’s not so bad. I was afraid you were going to say coral. And there’d be nothing I could do. Almost nothing.”
“So? Tell me what to do. I have the Dior palette in cool shades.”
“Okay—write this down. Dark navy eyeliner on the upper lids, but not the bottoms,” my sister says, her voice ringing with authority. “That will help with brightness. Do you have a white or shimmery liner?”
“Maybe?” I didn’t look carefully at my cosmetic bag this morning. I was too busy trying not to puke.
“Use it for the lower lids if you have it. And then try the grayest color on the shadow palette. That purple in the corner. A silver highlight wouldn’t go amiss.”
“All right. Thank you.” I sigh. “Could be a long night. I’m pretty sure he’ll be there.”
“Castro? The hottie in the photo? He’s a player, Heidi. I looked him up today.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s in a photo with my baby sister! Why, she asks.” Jana sniffs. “How did you get so drunk?”
“Tequila is the short answer. The longer answer is that Daddy was an ass and I wanted an adventure.”
“An adventure with Jason Castro?”
“Is that so wrong?”
My sister is quiet a moment. “No, I suppose not. But you’re not the one-night-stand type.”
“Who knows if I am or not?” I ask. “Daddy sent me to a college for women only because he obviously hates me. And every boy I ever dated was afraid of Daddy.”
“So? Every boy you ever dated treated you like gold,” my sister argues. “What’s so bad about that?”
Plenty. My high school boyfriend never took me to bed. His fear of my father ran that deeply. He was a hockey player, and therefore dazzled by my father’s pro and coaching careers. Then, while at Bryn Mawr, I dated a college hockey player from the next town over. He’s in awe of Daddy, too. And maybe it’s a coincidence, but when we finally did the deed it was…
Very polite. One might even say perfunctory.
It’s possible that sex isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. But I suspect there’s more to it. When I watch the Bruisers fight like animals for control of the puck, I can’t reconcile all that testosterone with quiet, missionary-style-only-on-Tuesdays lovemaking.
I want to experience that kind of brute power off the ice. My sister doesn’t understand the appeal. She never dated a single hockey player, nor watched a single game that Daddy wasn’t either playing or coaching.
“You’re very wise,” I tell my sister just to appease her. But if Jana can’t understand what I’m looking for in a man, I don’t think I can explain it. A lot of the words I’d need to use aren’t part of the Pepper family vocabulary.
“Nobody slipped anything into your drink last night, did they?”
“What? No! Why would you ask that?”
“Because it’s not like you to get drunk and stupid. Mama will be worried for your virtue.”
We both laugh at that. Because even if Jana and I don’t ever discuss sex, that doesn’t mean we don’t partake. Jana lost her virginity to Dwight Hawkins on prom night her junior year of high school. It took me a little longer.
But since we’re unmarried, my mother actually assumes we’re virgins. It’s probably a willful dismissal of the truth rather than sheer stupidity. My mother is smart. She got straight A’s at Bryn Mawr in Russian Literature. But then she married my father
and never spent another hour of her life on Dostoevsky or Tolstoy.
That’s what my parents expect of me, too. A degree in a nice, quiet field. And then suburbs and children.
Is twenty too late to become rebellious?
“I drank tequila, Jana. It was fun so I drank a lot of it. I’m pretty sorry about the whole thing now. But it’s nobody’s fault but my own.”
“Glad to hear that,” she says with a sigh. “Get busy with the eyeliner. Skype me if you run into trouble.”
“Will do.”
Back in my little hotel room after the scrimmage, I spend a lot of time straightening my hair and babying my skin.
“There is no such thing as too much concealer,” I tell my reflection. Then I get to work.
Seventeen cosmetic products later, I look pretty darn good. My hair falls in golden layers around my face. I’m wearing a long, lean cocktail dress in a pale shade that shows off my summer tan. And sparkly shoes, because sparkly shoes make everything better.
Mission accomplished. I look different enough from the girl in that awful photograph that I can hold my head up high.
Tucking a tiny sparkly clutch under my arm, I leave the hotel room with my game face on. And I use my phone to summon a taxi to take me to the beach club where the party will be held.
It’s beautiful here, with manicured lawns and hedgerows as far as the eye can see. The air has a salty scent, and I can hear the distant crash of ocean waves on the beach.
A lovely breeze plays on my shoulders as I climb out of the cab. I hope the party is outside.
And it is—sort of. I follow the signs to a patio strung with fairy lights. I can’t see the beach, because there is a ten-foot hedge surrounding the patio. Hamptonites value their privacy.
“Do you have a ticket, miss?” asks a young man in a waiter’s vest.
“Oh, certainly!” I pop open my clutch and hand over the pass that Rebecca gave me earlier.
“Welcome,” he says. “Can I offer you a complimentary glass of champagne?”
