by Alexa Martin
I roll up my sleeves, and I swear I’m only seconds away from taking my earrings out. #SheMustNotKnowAboutMe
“Why don’t you just spell it out for everyone around us, Madison? What do you really mean when you say a girl like me?” I know damn well what she means, the same thing Derek Fuller thought in third grade.
“A girl like you.” She unfolds her long legs from her chair and stands. “A cleat-chasing, rap-video-starring, ghetto bitch.”
On one hand? I have to kind of give the girl props for owning up to the shit she was thinking.
On the other hand? Oh no she didn’t.
I’m can’t decide whether I should prove her right or wrong when Brynn steps in and takes away the choice.
“Enough!” Brynn yells. “Madison, get out. And, Marlee, you know I love you, but you have to leave. I can’t have this shit going on in my restaurant.”
Fuck.
At her restaurant. The same one I’ve been working so hard to help build its good name and reputation.
In one night and—guessing by the number of phones aimed my way—multiple videos, I could’ve ruined it all.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper through the tears I won’t let her see fall and the guilt that feels like it’s wrapping hands around my neck. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t look at her, or anybody for that matter, as I walk out of the dining room to collect my things. I write her a note and leave it on her desk. I take the back exit out, my pride and shame both preventing me from showing my face again.
Thirty
On my way home from HERS, I take a last-minute detour to Gavin’s place. I don’t want to tell him about the fight, but the more I think on it, the more I think it’ll be better if he hears it from me instead of Madison, or even worse, Chris.
I walk up his snow-covered walkway, my boot prints ruining the perfect blanket of sparkling snow. Once I reach the front door, I pull out the key Gavin gave me and let myself in. Layer by layer, I unwrap myself from my hat, jackets, and scarf and hang them in his entryway closet.
I don’t know if it’s because my ears are burning from the cold or if part of me is still at the restaurant, but either way, I don’t notice the man sitting in the living room watching me make myself at home until he makes himself known.
“Marlee fuckin’ Harper!” Gavin’s agent, Donovan “Donny” Ratiglia, says across the condo.
I scream and jump at least a foot off the ground. But when I land, my knees are so shaky, I fall to the ground, dropping the hanger I just strategically loaded with all my winter protection.
“Shit!” He runs across the room to help me up. “Sorry, got a little excited to meet the fuckin’ girl who’s got our boy playin’ the shit outta this fuckin’ game!”
I’ve overheard a few conversations between him and Gavin over the months, but I thought Donny’s cussing was the exception, not the rule. Looks like I was wrong.
But I’ve liked him from the moment I saw him the first game of the season. He may be a little crude, but a few f-bombs can’t cover the goodness shining out of him.
“It’s nice to know at least one person in the world doesn’t hate me with Gavin,” I say. “Speaking of, where is he?” I ask once I realize he’s not in his usual spot on the couch.
“He went to grab dinner.” He takes a seat on a stool in the kitchen. “And ignore the fans. Some of them can be fuckin’ ruthless and that’s saying a lot coming from me.”
“I wish it was only the fans I had to worry about.” I open the fridge and pull out the bottle of wine I put in there a couple of weeks ago. “But they aren’t my biggest problem anymore.”
“Oh shit. You wanna tell Donny about it?”
I don’t answer right away. I focus on uncorking and pouring my liquid courage. I climb onto the stool next to Donny and sip my wine in silence while I figure out if I should tell him or not. I’ve already created problems with one person in Gavin’s life, I don’t want to make the same mistake twice. But Donny will do what’s best for Gavin, and I could use him in my corner.
I open my mouth and spill. “Madison hates me.”
“Fuck Madison,” he says, like I’m crazy for caring what she thinks. “She’s fuckin’ miserable and hates everybody.”
I knew I liked him.
“But Gavin cares about her, and she made it very clear that his family does too.” I fold my hands in my lap and keep my head down. “We had it out at my job tonight. It got really ugly, and I’m willing to bet there will be video online before I go to bed. It’s why I came over. I don’t want Gavin to be blindsided by it.”
“She did this at your job? I can’t stand her. Always fuckin’ drama with that one.”
Damn. Look at Donny spittin’ truths.
“Yup. I got sent home early.” I finish my wine and take my glass to the sink. “Hopefully I’ll still be employed tomorrow.”
“If it happened the way I’m sure it did—because I’ve seen the way Madison summons the drama her way—your boss will forgive you. But listen.” He stands and walks toward me. “Let’s keep this to ourselves. I went to the facility with him today and had it out with a few of the higher-ups. He was cleared to play this weekend, but he’s having a rough fuckin’ go. Keep it under wraps until the after this game for me?”
I know I shouldn’t agree. I should be honest and tell Gavin right away.
But I don’t.
How could this ever go wrong?
* * *
• • •
“WHY THE FUCK do you like this icebox, Mars?” Donny mutters from beneath his down jacket, two scarves, and a hat he’s pulled so low, it might as well be a face mask.
“Donny. You live in New York. Geography wasn’t my strongest subject, but I’m pretty sure they don’t have the warmest of winters.”
“It’s different. The cold isn’t so cold.”
“You’re right. It’s worse because Manhattan is on the water, so it’s straight-to-your-bones cold. Colorado is a dry cold.”
“Oh my god.” Naomi cuts in between us. “Will you two stop it already? Cold is cold is cold.”
“Who pissed in your Cheerios?” Donny is nothing if not a man of beautiful, poignant words.
Since our secret powwow in Gavin’s kitchen, Donny has been at Gavin’s house every single day, despite the fact that he has a suite at the Four Seasons. We’ve spent a lot of time together.
He’s killing me.
Only about five feet six inches tall, what he lacks in height, he makes up for in volume. He’s loud and crass and obnoxious and a whole host of other issues.
But, and I will deny this if he ever finds out, I’m kind of obsessed with him.
I was right when I thought I saw a man who deeply cares for Gavin. In a business all about show me the money, it’s not an easy trait to find, but Donny has it in spades. Even if he does tell everyone I got Gavin with my “black girl magic or whatever they’re calling it these days.”
See? #YoureKillinMeSmalls
“Can’t you call one of your friends with a fucking box and have them come get us?”
“I don’t know if the cold has placed a temporary freeze on your brain or if you just never listen to me. I didn’t have many friends before Gavin and since him, I have exactly one. And you’re sitting next to her.”
“Oh for fucking fuck’s sake. Why the fuck didn’t Gavin get a goddamn box?”
Donny also curses so much he’s caused my cheeks to heat a few times. And I love a good f-bomb, so that’s saying something.
“Because he got here as the season was starting, and he only has a one-year contract. You’re his freaking agent, you’re supposed to know this stuff better than me.” The second quarter is about to start and there’s no way I can listen to his bitching for the rest of the game. “If you’re cold, go downstairs and watch the game on TV.
”
“Why the hell would I fly all the fuckin’ way out here to watch this shit on TV?”
“It’s your only option to warm up. Either shut up and sit down or go to the family room.”
“Thank you,” Naomi says at the same time Donny says, “Harsh.”
Eh. Can’t win ’em all.
* * *
• • •
BUT GAVIN CAN win.
His game is flawless.
It’s hard to believe he was out last week with a twisted ankle. You’d never guess there was anything wrong with him the way he’s playing. There’s no hesitation on his part, nothing is slowed down. If anything, he looks sharper and quicker out there.
In the third quarter, a lineman breaks free and my entire body tightens, preparing to watch Gavin take a hard hit. But he never does. He spins out of the Hulk’s grip and throws the ball almost fifty yards to Marcus, the rookie Chris took under his wing who has now surpassed him on the depth chart. Marcus jumps into the air like Superman, his body parallel to the grass beneath him, and comes down with the ball in the end zone.
And Donny finally forgets about the weather for a second.
“That’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ about, Pope!” He pulls off one his scarves and swings it over his head, hitting the guys behind and in front of us.
“Watch what you’re doing, little man,” the guy behind us says to Donny.
“Little man.” He looks at me and laughs. “What this goofy fucker doesn’t understand is if I stood on my wallet, I’d be six feet taller than his broke fuckin’ ass.”
“Asshole,” the guy behind us mutters.
Donny might be aggressive, but at least he keeps all eyes off me.
Well . . . until we go to the family room after the game is over, that is.
We walk into the room a little later than most. After Wednesday, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at all nervous about facing some of the women again. And while I don’t necessarily regret the things I said, I should’ve walked away.
As soon as we enter the room, all eyes come to us. Some with looks of sympathy, some with indifference, but the majority with disdain. But I was prepared for this. Because of Dre’s concussion, he’s out of the locker room so fast, Naomi doesn’t even go downstairs after the game. But I have Donny and a new book downloaded on my Kindle app in case he gets pulled away. I’m covered.
But what I’m not prepared for, and I should’ve been, is the way Donny can’t sit quietly through it all.
“What the fuck?” His voice, which is always loud, seems much louder in the small, quiet space. “Why’s it so quiet in here? We won—or was everyone else watching the Colts play today?”
I’m pretty sure it’s a rhetorical question and everyone else seems to think so as well. Until, of course, Madison makes her way from the rear of the room.
“Because, Donovan.” She walks up to him in her five-inch pumps . . . that she wore to a football game . . . and stops an inch too close to his face. “Your friend Marlee there? She’s the reason we aren’t going to the playoffs.”
Boring.
Are we really doing this again?
“Cut the shit, Madison.” Donny brushes her off. “The Mustangs are out of the playoffs because your fuckin’ boyfriend dropped eighty percent of the passes Gavin threw to him and couldn’t find his way to the end zone if someone gave him a map. It’s because the backup quarterback played worse than my fuckin’ four-year-old niece and blew the last fuckin’ game.”
While Donny is talking to her, the room falls to complete silence. No tapping on phones, no chewing of food, definitely no chatter. Donny has gained everyone’s full attention, and Madison doesn’t look like a Snow Bitch. She’s bright red and the snarl on her lips is so pronounced, she resembles a rabid dog.
“Fuck you!” Her high-pitched voice echoes off the walls around us. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“I know you’ve had a thing for Gavin for years and him picking Marlee over you has you spitting nails.” While everyone else watching this conversation seems extremely uncomfortable, Donny’s at ease. As if he’s been planning this moment for years and I just gave him the opportunity to let loose.
“Shut up!” She’s completely lost it now. She doesn’t seem to realize her reaction has confirmed everything Donny is saying.
“You know,” I say to Donny, “I think I’m just going to head home. Tell Gavin I’ll call him later.”
“And she finally takes the hint.” Courtney’s voice carries across the room.
It’d be easy to hit back, but the fight in me is gone. They’re vampires and they’ve sucked me dry. Even if they didn’t hate me, why would I ever want to be friends with women as terrible as them? I worked my ass off trying to get them to like me and instead of them focusing on all of the charity work I’ve done, the times I showed up early to events to set up, they couldn’t see past my empty ring finger.
I feel bad for Gavin that his season is over, but not having to see these women for a while is not something I’m mad at.
Bitches.
The whole bloody lot of ’em.
Thirty-one
Since I still don’t have a car, Naomi always swings by to take me to the games, and I ride home with Gavin. But thankfully for me, on game days, I have no problem catching the train.
I stand on the platform, surrounded by a sea of orange and blue. The fans, most of whom seem to have indulged in a few beverages during the game, are a mixture of thrilled at the win and pissed about the season being over. I watch, kind of in awe at the way a game these people really have no stakes in can bring out such strong emotions. How it can create such bonds, as if they’re all united in orange and blue and all of those in the opposition’s colors are automatically the enemy.
We climb on the train when it arrives and by some small miracle, I’m able to find a seat. I sit down, open my new book, and try to lose myself in anything other than football.
We are at the second or third stop when two men in Alexander jerseys (warning number one) approach me.
“Hey. Why are you so quiet over here?” asks the one in the ridiculous bright orange hat shaped with a Mustang head.
“Just reading a book.” I keep my answer as short as I can, trying to be polite, yet dismiss them at the same time.
“Reading? On a Sunday after the best fucking game of the season?” asks the other shorter and chubbier guy.
“Yup. Reading on a Sunday.” I don’t look up at them and hope it’s enough for them to catch a hint.
Shocker.
It’s not.
“I’m pissed that was the last game of the season,” chubby guys says. “I thought we’d go all the way with Pope here.”
“If only that stupid bitch didn’t get him hurt we would’ve.”
Ooookay.
This isn’t sounding promising for me.
“I don’t get it. These guys could have anybody they want and they’re just passing around the same piece? What could be so great about her?”
“I don’t know, but if I ever found her, I’d be sure to try a taste.”
Now I feel sick.
Obviously they don’t recognize me, but that doesn’t mean somebody else won’t. I close my Kindle app on my phone, pull up my text messages, and start typing one out to Gavin.
Hey. On the train surrounded by Super Creepers. Can you meet me at my stop?
“You’re finished reading?” The guy I have appointed as Creeper Number One asks from above me.
“Yup.” Short and sweet, Marlee. You do not owe them conversation.
“Who were you texting?” Does alcohol make all people lose sight of social norms and personal boundaries?
“My boyfriend, not that it’s any of your business.”
“No need to be rude, sweetheart,” Horsehe
ad, aka Creeper Number Two, says, and I want to barf at the sexist, condescending name.
The train slows to another stop, and I almost drop to my knees, praying they’ll get off. But instead, the people filling the seats next to me get up. Both of them shoot a sympathetic glance my way as they exit the train.
Gee. Thanks for the show of support.
Before the Super Creepers can sit in both of the seats next to me, I slide down until I’m rubbing thighs with a new stranger and toss my purse in the opposite seat. But, again, neither of my pursuers gets a clue.
And unfortunately for me, when I moved my purse to the other seat, I wasn’t thinking about my bedazzled Pope jersey being put on display.
“Damn. That’s a sparkly-ass jersey. You must really like Pope.”
I cross my arms is a pathetic attempt to shield the jersey they’ve already seen and ignore them.
“Oh. You can’t speak now?” Creeper One accuses. Because, of course, I’m the bitch. It couldn’t be their crude words and aggressive behavior.
I still don’t say anything.
The instructors in the self-defense classes I took warned women not to speak because they feel obligated, that trying to be kind is what gets women hurt.
And after the last week, being a bitch isn’t difficult to pull off. I’ve learned from the best.
We’re at the stop before mine, and the doors slide open. Nobody gets off, but quite a few more people get on. One girl in particular looks really familiar, but I’m having a hard time placing her. She sits across the aisle from me, her eyes down to the dirt-stained carpet. I’m watching her, trying to figure out where I know her from, when she looks up and her gaze collides with mine.
“Hey.” A small smile crosses her face. “Don’t I know you?
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Oh. You do know how to talk,” one of the Super Creepers says, but I don’t look their way to see which one.
The sun catches the crystals at just the right angle to hit the girl across from me in the face. She stares at my bedazzled shirt.
