“They didn’t bring me,” I say to the TV. Why can’t they get their story straight? I mute the volume and sit back on my couch and try to relax. The effort is futile, though, because my mind is racing a million miles a minute as I try to remember every little detail from last night. Aside from being crude, I don’t think I did anything unwarranted. She never asked me to stop or shied away from me. And she became angry when I was speaking to Saylor. That is all this is, revenge, and in the worst possible way. She’s going to ruin my life all because I decided not to go home with her.
My cell phone juts out of the pocket of my track pants. I turned it off earlier so I wouldn’t be distracted. I turn it back on, watching the Apple symbol come to life. The messages start appearing, each one chiming as loud as the next. Everyone wants to know what’s going on, and I don’t have any answers. The last message to come in is from Ethan. Instead of texting him back, I call.
“Kidd, what the fuck is going on?” Ethan doesn’t say hello or ask me how I’m doing. He cuts right to the core.
“I don’t know.”
“What does that mean?”
I lean back and set my feet on the coffee table. My picture is being shown again, and I have a feeling it’s on every channel on cable and the local networks.
“I didn’t do it,” I tell Ethan. I think that if I keep saying it, everyone will start believing me and not what is being said in the media.
“I didn’t say you did, but c’mon, man. This is some serious shit.”
“I know. I can’t really say anything else.”
“Do you need me to come home?” This is one of the reasons Ethan is my best friend. He’s willing to drop whatever he’s doing to come to my aid. As much as I want to say yes, it would be selfish of me. Christmas is drawing near, and the last thing I want to do is interrupt his family time.
“Nah, I’ll be okay.”
“All right. Have you spoken to Stone or Wilson?”
“No, my manager’s office was going to take care of that.” I sigh, wishing that I could go back to yesterday when I made the decision to head to the bar. I don’t even know why I chose that particular place. It’s not like it’s my favorite bar, and I don’t go there a lot. There’s so much about yesterday that I’d like to change. Hindsight is a bitch.
After a long pause, I finally say, “Do you think I’m going to get suspended?”
There is a ruffling on the other end of the phone, as if he’s moving around or leafing through a stack of papers. Faintly I hear someone in the background talking but can’t make out who it is.
“Is there even a remote possibility that your hookup said no?”
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head even though he can’t see me. “We never even talked about leaving the bar.”
“Well, let’s hope that comes out sooner rather than later. You don’t want this hanging over your head when we get to spring training.”
He’s right. But in all reality, the tests should come back clearing me of any wrongdoing. I hope to hell that it doesn’t take months for that to happen. I’m not sure I can live my life under the scrutiny of others until then.
“I’m going to let you go, E. I need to grab some food, and you’re on vacation. You shouldn’t be coddling me because I met the wrong chick last night.”
“Call me if you need anything, and, Travis…?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t feed into the bullshit. Seriously, keep your mouth shut, head down, and pretend they don’t exist.”
“Right. Tell Daisy I say hi. Bye.” I hang up before he has a chance to respond. He means well—I know this. It’s hard to hear, though. Never in a million years did I think I’d be in a situation like this. I thought, if anything, it’d be a pregnancy to throw my life into a tailspin, not an accusation of rape.
I go into my kitchen and open the refrigerator; it mocks me while I stare into its empty confines. It should be stocked, but my housekeeper took a week off with the assumption that I could care for myself. I don’t know how I survived college, let alone adulthood. Slamming the door shut, I lean against the counter with my fingers clenching the edge of the marble countertop.
I want to scream out loud at how fucked up everything is, but I have no one to blame but myself. The urge to punch and destroy everything in sight boils deep within my veins as my fingers grip the marble even tighter in an effort to control my anger. What gives her the right to accuse me of something so heinous because I chose not to go home with her? And why am I being punished for her lies?
Rushing back into the living room, I grab my phone and do the unthinkable. I type her name into the search bar of my web browser, and social media links pop up. Her face, the one I remember so vividly from last night, stares back at me. I hover over the link that will take me to her Facebook page. I shouldn’t click. I don’t want to see her happy while I’m sitting here in misery, afraid to leave my home because of the reporters that are camped outside.
But I click anyway because I have to know who she is. Her recent status is public, and she’s feeling heartbroken. I thought I could love him. I want to comment and tell her that lying to get someone’s attention isn’t how the dating world works. She needs to know that just because a man rejects you, doesn’t mean you can falsely accuse him. Part of me wants to tag her in a post, letting the world know that she’s a liar. But what would that do? How would that be fair to her? I’m not the type of man who seeks revenge, at least not in this form. I’m going to have enough trouble saving face with my peers over the accusations I’m confronting. If I were to say her name publicly, I have no doubt in my mind that I would end up looking even worse than I do now.
As I scroll through her pictures, I see that she’s alone in most of them. There are a few with some other women, and I study those, looking to see if I know any of them. Maybe this was a setup—a scorned lover has Rachel doing her bidding. It’s far-fetched but not unheard of. I’m not the only athlete to be accused of rape, and I admit I use my star status to pick up women, but never have I had to force myself on them. And I tend to never say no to them until last night.
Leaving her page, I type in Saylor’s name. She’s been on my mind since I saw her at the bar, more so, knowing that she can give me some sort of alibi for last night. It’s not concrete, but she had to have heard what that woman was saying and how she was acting. Saylor is the one I wanted to leave with. She’s the one that I haven’t been able to get off my mind after we hooked up a couple years back.
I hated when she distanced herself from me, asking to be reassigned. I rejoiced when Jeffrey balked, making sure she stayed on my team, and since then I’ve done the stupidest things I could think of to get her attention. All so I could see her. Every move I’ve made on her, rebuffed. And it’s frustrating. Saylor is the type of woman that I can see myself settling down with, joining my teammates in the ranks of matrimony and maybe even kids. Hell, she already has a daughter, who in my opinion needs a father, and that is a role I can see myself playing.
Her profile picture is of her and her daughter, Lucy. My thumb hovers over them both, wondering what they’re doing tonight. I asked to go over there so we could talk, but she shot me down, leaving me no choice but to go see her at work tomorrow. I have to find a way to convince her to help me. She mentioned she could lose everything, but what?
Like a stalker, I screen cap a few of her pictures, and some with Lucy, to save on my phone. I know Saylor was in that bar last night for a reason—it’s fate or kismet, or whatever the fuck that shit is called. When I saw her last night, I was reminded that she’s who I want to be with. Now I have to convince her. Of course, a rape charge looming over my head is probably scaring her away.
“Fuck!” I yell as loud as possible, hoping the bastards outside can hear me. They need to know that I’m angry and hurt. I don’t deserve this shit. I’m an upstanding citizen who volunteers and raises money for organizations in need. So what if I like women? Show me one warm-blooded hetero male tha
t doesn’t. It’s in our nature. It’s how we were created.
“Screw it,” I say as I head to my front door. As soon as it opens, the voice levels rise and the people standing outside rush toward me. I stand on my stoop with my hands in my pockets and my hoodie covering my hair.
“I’d like to make a statement.”
Those words alone have everyone moving fast toward me. Cameras click with each picture being taken, and bright lights from video cameras shine on me.
“My name is Travis Kidd, and I…” I pause for dramatic effect. “I’m hungry.” I sigh and shake my head. “If someone could go get me some Chinese takeout from the place on the corner, I would greatly appreciate it. I have a tab there, and they’ll know my order. Thanks.” I wave and walk back into my house, hoping that someone will be kind enough to go get me some food. Unless of course, they want to follow me everywhere I go. Maybe next time I go outside, I’ll tell them that I’m about to take a shit, and they can ask me questions about how I feel after the fact.
Six
Saylor
From the moment I turned my phone on this morning, it’s been going off nonstop. Every sports media outlet wants an interview. Most outlets want an exclusive, but that has already been promised to my local ESPN contact, and I refuse to go back on my word. They want to hear Travis’s side of the story, and I know he wants to tell it, but we have to wait.
I believe Travis when he says he didn’t do it, and it seems logical that we should put his story out there, but since the DA has already named him as prime suspect, anything we do now falls on deaf ears. Sure, some of his fans will believe him, but most will rally against him because of his ways, and that is the last thing we want.
As soon as I walk into the office, my assistant looks at me grimly. Taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders, I walk into Jeffrey’s office, prepared to handle whatever it is that he’s going to throw at me.
“I love my job. I love my job. I love my job,” he says repeatedly as he paces the floor. I know for a fact that he does, until a crisis hits, and then we all end up questioning why we chose this field.
“Do I want to know?” I ask, sitting down. He shakes his head as he pulls out his desk chair and plops into it. His exasperated sigh is loud and slightly obnoxious.
“Kidd should’ve never gone in for questioning yesterday.”
“I agree. But we both know Kidd. He’s a stand-up guy despite his reputation.” I have no problem going to bat for Travis.
“Irvin and I spent a good chunk of the morning on the phone, going over what Kidd told them yesterday. You were there, right?”
“I was,” I say, looking at my phone to verify the time. “What time did you get into the office?”
“Five. Kidd decided to speak to the press last night.”
If I were looking in the mirror, I would have seen my face drain of all its color. How my skin turned clammy, and my heart began racing even though I was cold to the touch. I swallow hard, only to feel like something has lodged in my throat. Covering my mouth, I cough into my hands until my airway is clear.
“What did he say?” My words are hoarse, and my throat is in need of some water.
Jeffrey leans back in his chair and lets out another long sigh. I swear this man needs yoga or a meditation technique because of his stress levels. “He went outside and told them he was going to make a statement.”
“Oh God.”
He nods. “Yeah, and that statement was asking for someone to go get him some takeout from the corner restaurant, saying to put it on his tab.”
I can’t help but laugh, because that is something Travis would do, regardless of the situation. Jeffrey gives me a dirty look, but I don’t care. After the day Travis had yesterday, he needs a little bit of comic relief in his life.
“It’s really not that funny.”
“It is, Jeffrey,” I counter. “Travis is laid-back, and a practical joker. I imagine his house was covered with press last night, and he probably felt like he couldn’t leave. It’s brilliant, really, and a great marketing scheme. Unfortunately, he also has an issue keeping it in his pants, and that has come back to bite him in his proverbial ass.”
“You need to meet with him today, go over his appearances, and remind him what is acceptable and what isn’t. If he needs something at home, tell him to call you or call for delivery. No more press conferences unless you and I are with him.”
I nod and keep my comments to myself. Jeffrey should be the one at Travis’s side, not me. Instead, he’s in his office, stressing out, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. We deal with this type of negative press all the time. It’s part of our job to fix what the athletes did and make them look good again.
Back at my desk, I turn on my computer and watch the e-mails come in one at a time. Hundreds sit unread, and the majority of them are regarding Travis. Picking up my phone, I press the button for my assistant’s line. “Wanda, can you come in here when you get a chance?”
“Sure thing,” she says, and within seconds, she’s standing in front of my desk.
“I have a feeling I’ll be working outside of the office until things with Travis Kidd get resolved. Jeffrey wants me to ‘babysit’ him. Can you start going through my e-mail and flagging the important ones? Anyone asking for an interview, tell them that we’ll be in touch. With those e-mails, make a list of who they are and what outlet. Right now, Paul Boyd has the first exclusive.”
“No problem, Saylor. Oh, People called. They want an exclusive as well.”
“Right,” I say. “I’ll call them back today.”
Once she leaves, I call Travis. His phone rings until it goes to voice mail. I contemplate leaving him a message but decide to call again instead.
“Personal or business?” Travis asks as he answers the phone.
“Always business. Where are you? We need to meet.”
“At the clubhouse, in the gym.”
“I’ll be there soon,” I tell him, and hang up.
Jeffrey wishes me good luck when I tell him I’m off to meet with Travis, and Wanda assures me that every e-mail will be taken care of. The train ride over to the stadium has me on edge. What I failed to do this morning was check the local paper, and now the image of Travis leaving the police station is plastered on the front page with a headline that reads, “Caught with His Pants Down.” My stomach twists in knots. I can’t imagine how he’s feeling, seeing his face like this, in the city that he loves so much.
I eavesdrop on a conversation a few seats behind me, taking mental notes from two women who act like they know what happened. When one says she’s been with Travis, that is something I have no doubt about. But what bothers me is that the woman is acting as if she’s a victim herself and is telling her friend that she’s going to call and file a similar claim, and that is something I have a problem with. I let them know that I’m onto their game when I turn and glare at her. The woman doesn’t seem to care that I’m staring and continues to go on and on.
As soon as the train rolls into the station, I’m up and out of my seat, tapping my toe until the doors slide open. I walk while texting Irvin, letting him know what I heard and praying that hopefully he can do something before this gets out of hand.
She’s not the only one.
When I see Irvin’s reply, my steps falter, and I crash into an unsuspecting man. Unable to take my eyes off my phone, I mumble an apology and keep walking. By the time I reach the bridge, I’m trying to run without killing myself. I’m praying that Travis hasn’t heard this news yet. Not that I want to be the one to tell him, but someone has to.
I show my identification at the clubhouse door and head to the gym. The music is so loud that I can barely hear the clanking of weights. Walking through, I peer around the corner to find Travis standing in the mirror and holding a bar. He stands there with a wide stance, clad only in shorts. The tattoo on his left arm is the only ink he has unless he’s gotten something new since we’ve been together. Seeing him
like this brings back a memory that I rarely dredge up. Everything was perfect. The way he spoke to me, caressed me, and showed me more passion in one night than any of my previous lovers. I was drunk on him, and booze. A bad and almost deadly combination.
But I wanted him. And he made sure I knew that he wanted me. I tried to play it off as a crush, but the longer we worked together, the harder it became to deny him. We went to a fund-raiser, not together, but neither of us had dates. We danced, drank, and danced some more. That night, I felt like a princess. Travis introduced me to everyone as Saylor, and not as his PR rep. He made me feel like I was someone outside of my job title. I felt wanted, and I let lust control my decisions.
I went home with him that night, only to have Jeffrey text me. I made a mistake looking at my phone and left Travis there confused and begging me not to leave. I was drunk and upset, and wrapped my car around a telephone pole.
My life changed that night, but not in the way I thought. I lost my license, was put on probation, and reprimanded at work. One condition of my probation is that I’m not allowed in bars, which is why I can’t tell the police that I saw Travis that night. I can’t afford to lose my job or be sent to jail. No one is worth that.
“Are you going to stare at me all day?” he asks as he watches me in the mirror.
“No, I was uh—”
“Thinking about the last time you saw me without a shirt on?”
I nod but end up saying, “No.” He laughs, finding humor in the fact that he’s embarrassed me.
I’m rooted in my spot as he walks over to me. We’re the only ones in the gym and that frightens me a bit. I’m not afraid of him, but of myself. He’s sexy and enticing. He walks with a purpose and holds my attention by the way he’s looking at me, like he wants to devour me, and I find that I want that, too.
Grand Slam Page 4
