“Have you talked to her? How is she? What’s happening?” she asks when she opens the door. She looks exhausted—it must have been a really tough day. Calder’s a great baby, but he’s still a ton of work.
I cross the living room and look for my phone on the end tables. “Have I talked to whom? Ari? By the way, did you find my phone?”
She puts her hands on her hips and gives me a look that tells me I’m in trouble, but I have no idea why. “No, I haven’t found your phone, but I also haven’t looked. And yes, Ari. You haven’t talked to her yet?”
“No. I’ve tried a bunch of times, but her phone’s off. Why? What’s going on?”
“You mean you haven’t seen it?”
Not seeing my phone anywhere, I search between the sofa cushions. “Seen what? I’ve been in practice all day.”
“I can’t believe someone there didn’t show it to you. I honestly expected to hear from you hours ago.”
I pick up a basket of baby books and sift through them. “Charlie, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, I forgot.” She nods as though she’s had a moment of realization. “Media blackout.”
I look under the sofas and find three pacifiers, a few burp cloths, and a diaper, but no phone. “I feel like we’re playing ‘Who’s on first.’ You’re not making any sense.”
Lack of sleep has made my sister a little batty. Getting straight answers out of her can feel like pulling teeth. It’s late, and clearly she’s had a rough day. I think her brain could be fried.
She stomps and snaps at me, “Just stop looking for your damn phone for a second so I can tell you. This is really fucking serious!”
Spencer comes into the room. “Hey, Chase. Have you connected with Ari? We’ve been losing our minds all afternoon with worry.”
Charlie turns to Spencer. “He hasn’t seen it.”
He gapes at her. “Really? How is that possible?”
Losing my patience, I clench my fists and grit my teeth. “I swear to God, if someone doesn’t tell me what the hell you’re talking about, I’m going to lose it. Seen what?”
Spence crosses the room and flips open the laptop on the coffee table. “Here. See for yourself. Just be prepared, it’s bad.”
I rush to the table, and Spence hits play on the YouTube video. It’s Ari walking down the street, followed by a crowd of guys wearing Denver jerseys. Oh shit, Denver’s playing New York this weekend. There’re probably a million Oliver Marshall fans in the city. This won’t be good for her.
There isn’t sound on the video, but it’s clear they’re heckling her. Ari just keeps walking, staring straight ahead as though they aren’t even there. Clearly, she’s trying her damnedest to tune them out.
Charlie puts her hand on my back. “Just don’t break my computer, okay?”
“Huh?”
One of the guys from the back of the crowd has a paper bag. They all reach in and pull out something small and white. They launch them, and Ari gets pelted with eggs. The picture becomes shaky. It’s hard to tell how many times she’s hit.
She doesn’t react. She doesn’t break her stride. With yolk dripping down the side of her face, she just keeps on moving as though nothing happened.
Seething, I wrap my fingers around the laptop. I want to throw it and shatter it into a million pieces. I’ve never felt this much anger boiling inside me. I honestly feel as though I might combust. Other than my trembling hands, I don’t move. I don’t even breathe out of fear that if I move even the slightest inch, I’ll lose control and break everything in sight.
Charlie sits next to me on the sofa and rests her chin on my shoulder. “Please don’t throw it. I have pictures on there I haven’t backed up yet. I know you’re mad. I am too. I’m furious. Just breathe and let go of the Mac.”
I release my grip on her computer and walk away before I change my mind. The image of her getting hit is burned in my mind, stoking the wrath. I’m engulfed in rage.
Why didn’t I hire the bodyguard we talked about? Why haven’t I tried harder to protect her? Without thinking, I slam my fist through the wall.
I pull my hand out of the drywall, and it sinks in that I just busted up Charlie’s house. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I’ll get it fixed and the whole room repainted.”
Spence waves me off. “I wanted to do the same thing when I saw it. They’re fucking animals. I read a news report that the police are looking into it and if they find them, they can arrest them for assault, but I seriously doubt they’ll figure out who these guys are.”
“I need to get to New York. I need to get to her.” I walk back to the computer. “Can you take me to the airport? I wonder when the first flight out is.”
Charlie closes the lid to the Mac. “You can’t go to New York. You have to fly to DC in the morning.”
I point at the computer. “You saw what she just went through. I need to go to her. I don’t want her dealing with this alone.”
“And what do you think will happen when people spot you together?” Spencer asks. “New York has the most aggressive paparazzi. After what happened yesterday, getting a shot of the two of you together would be fucking gold to them. You’ll be hunted like animals, and after what just happened, she doesn’t need that. Plus, the damn city is infested with Denver fans. Short of Denver itself, that’s the last place you should be. You’ll just make matters worse. Go to DC, focus on the game. That’s what Ari would want you to do.”
“Fuck the game! I don’t give a shit about the game! All I care about is Ari!” I drop down onto the sofa and let my head fall into my hands. “I can’t believe how out of hand this has gotten. It’s me they hate. Why the fuck are they going after her? How did anyone even know where to find her in the first place?”
Charlie sits next to me and puts her arm around my shoulder. “Probably one of those celebrity spotter apps. She’s always showing up on them. I wouldn’t be surprised if some Denver fans saw she was in town and decided to… well...”
I turn to Charlie. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t just fly with the team and hope she’s okay. I have to do something. I can only imagine how humiliated she must feel. I can’t stomach the thought of her being completely alone.”
“Spencer and I will go then. Do you have any idea where she’s staying?” Charlie asks. “I would have flown out as soon as I saw this, but when I called her usual hotel, they said she’s not there. I even had them look under all the aliases I could think of, but no luck. Since she fired Helen and Simon, I have no idea who would know how to find her. Shelly doesn’t even know. She called here to see if I knew.”
“Ari’s smart,” Spencer says. “As soon as this went down, she probably changed hotels. She’s probably laying low until she can get out of town quietly.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t even know she was leaving until she was already gone. Her message didn’t say where she was staying.” I point both thumbs at my chest. “Fiancé of the year, right here.”
“Stop,” Charlie says. “Spencer travels all the time, and half the time, I have no idea what country he’s in, let alone which hotel. Don’t be so hard on yourself. This isn’t your fault.”
I look at her. “Then whose fault is it?”
She opens her mouth to respond, but I can tell from the look on her face she doesn’t know what to say.
“Exactly.”
Spencer walks to the kitchen, then comes back with a glass of scotch for the two of us and a glass of wine for Charlie. He puts mine and Charlie’s in front of us on the coffee table.
Charlie grabs the scotch out of his hand and takes a sip. “After today, a glass of pinot isn’t quite enough.”
He walks back to the kitchen, then returns with a glass for himself and the rest of the bottle. “I know we don’t want to talk about this, but someone has to ask the question. Do you think we need to worry about her… going off the rails? Today was really hard on her. Things are getting personal. Like you said, it’s getting out of control. Do
we have to worry if she can handle it?”
That thought had never crossed my mind. I’m not sure if that’s a sign of how much confidence I have in her or just another example that my head has been so far up my ass that I’m completely neglecting her.
“You don’t have to worry about that. Ari ran to avoid intense, intimate emotions that overwhelmed her, stuff she didn’t know how to process. This”—Charlie points at the laptop—“this she can handle. This she was born and raised to deal with. This is her bread and butter. She’s not going to run. She’s going to war, and I truly pity the people on the other side of the battlefield.”
“I think Aiden’s death hit her harder than any of us realized. And really, more than any of us could understand. None of us have been through half the shit she has. When he died and she found out about Blake and the affairs, it broke her. She didn’t handle that well.” I take a sip of my scotch, trying to remember where I was going with this. “My point is, that was a really unique set of circumstances. The perfect storm of pain for her. I don’t think we have to worry that it will happen again.”
“Makes sense,” Spencer says. “But I thought we should at least talk about it.”
Charlie puts her glass on a coaster. “So what do we do now?”
“We keep calling until she answers,” I reply. “We should check those celebrity finder apps and see if someone’s reported where she’s staying.” I flip open the laptop. “Until then, I’m going to call every hotel she might stay at. She’s pretty particular about where she stays. I should be able to narrow it down a little.”
“There’re thousands of hotels in New York,” Spencer says. “You can’t call them all.”
I type in five-star hotels, Manhattan. “Want to bet?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Arianna
The twenty-four-hour news cycle. If I were to pinpoint one of the most destructive forces eroding the moral fabric of this country, I would have to say it’s the twenty-four-hour news cycle.
All news channels have to find something to fill those twenty-four long hours in each day. Magazines, newspapers, tabloids have to find something to keep their web page active. In order for companies to stay afloat, for the thousands of people who work for those companies to keep their jobs, they have to come up with something good that will stop people from changing the channel and will get people to click on their links.
Competition is fierce and ruthless. The pressure is on to find dirt, any dirt they can. The more scandalous and tawdry, the better. Lucky for them, there’s a world of people out there with other people’s secrets they can’t wait to share. The “truth” is a powerful thing, especially when you get a handsome check for your time, not to mention your fifteen minutes of fame. There’s not a thing wrong with it. It’s practically your civic duty to share! America does have the right to know, after all.
“Reporters” have to dig deep into the bowels of America to find these people who are so desperate for their story to be heard. They look under every rock, bar stool, and La-Z-Boy recliner for anyone who can help them fill those long twenty-four hours. It may not be Pulitzer-Prize-winning journalism, but that hardly exists anymore. What choice do they have? They have mortgages to pay, kids to feed and clothe.
That’s what I tell myself. Every time some jackass shoves his camera in my face. Every time some website posts a completely fabricated story about me or Chase. I think, they’re just trying to put food on the table.
Sure, it’s more likely that half of these scumbags are single and waste their paychecks on bar tabs and hookers, but it helps me sleep better when I picture some poor kid staring at an empty cupboard until Dad brings home dinner.
Yesterday, a lot of Happy Meals were bought, thanks to me. It only cost me my career and my reputation.
Shelly was right. I did change the conversation, and now the missiles are pointed straight at me.
It started with Skip and his stupid theory that I’m the evil mastermind behind pay-for-pain. Well, that just opened the floodgates. The commissioner was asked as he was getting into his limo if he’d heard about Skip’s claims, and his response was, “I have not. I’m sure we’ll look into it.”
That was all that the story needed to sprout legs. Every news channel in Denver reported that I’m now being investigated as the potential lynchpin of the Ninergate scandal. Looks like the imbecilic name is sticking after all.
Once that hit the broadband, tons of people spoke out in my defense, a fact that warms my heart. Many of them pointed out that if this is what the investigation is coming to, clearly the NFL has gone way off course. Friends and colleagues stuck their necks out to defend me, reaffirming my faith that there are some honorable people out there.
But news can’t be news unless it’s balanced. You must have the good with the bad. One of the more liberal news networks had my new gal pal Candy McHue on to spill the beans about our “on-going feud.” She let it slip that her show was canceled because I paid off the network in order to hide my embarrassing tirade when I refused to help the other players’ wives on a philanthropic venture.
She also mentioned that Jenna, who couldn’t join them because she’s in Zaire feeding starving children, believes Chase would never be involved with something like this. I most certainly must have acted alone and am setting him up to take the blame. She went on and on about how I weaseled my way back into Chase’s heart by giving him “top-secret” information about the other teams that I obtained during my time as a newscaster.
My feminine wiles hard at work again.
No one seemed to pick up on the fact that Zaire doesn’t exist anymore, but when you’ve already swallowed that much bullshit, what’s a little more?
A local news station saw Shelly’s press release that included information about my work at Huckleberry House, and they sent a crew down for some interviews. They found a kid to tell them I’m a raving bitch who doesn’t care about the kids and only goes there for the publicity. I’m sure when he found out he would get paid for his interview, he was happy to say anything they wanted. Of course no one thought to check if this kid and I have ever met. Which we haven’t.
Janet posted online, saying the boy in the news report wasn’t even one of Huckleberry’s kids and refuted everything the boy said. But that story is nowhere near as interesting, so it never got any traction.
I was completely unaware any of this was going on. I did phone interviews all morning and was at Ralph Lauren for hours in the afternoon. It wasn’t until I was attacked on my walk back to my hotel that I realized the tide had turned against me.
I went back to my hotel, washed the egg out of my hair, changed, and went straight to Teterboro to charter a plane home.
There’s nothing left in New York for me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Arianna
My flight gets in around one in the morning, and I take a cab to Daddy’s house. I try Chase’s cell when I’m en route, but it goes straight to voicemail. I leave a message, but who knows if he’ll get it. The house is dark when I pull up. Chase’s truck isn’t in the garage. Was he leaving for DC today or tomorrow? I can’t remember.
I hate feeling so out of sync with him. I haven’t spoken to him since he left the meeting with Butch. I’ve left him a million messages, but we haven’t connected. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know where Heisman is. And I have no idea how to fix the mess we’re in.
I search the entire house for signs of them. The suitcase Chase takes with him on the road is still here, so where is he? I dig through my purse and fish out my phone to see if he’s sent me a message. I look at my notifications. Five hundred sixty-three missed calls. I can only guess how many are from reporters. My voicemail box is full. Two hundred forty-eight texts. It makes me want to throw my phone in the trash and get a new number.
As I look through the texts, I notice one from Simon.
You were warned. I hate to say I told you so, but…
Ain’t that a kick in
the teeth? Anyone uncouth enough to send that text isn’t someone I want on my payroll anyway. As much as I wish I had an agent to rely on through this mess, I’ve never felt more confident about a firing than I do right now.
Charlie’s texted a million times, so I drop her a quick line.
Just got back to Daddy’s. Need sleep and decompression. Will call tomorrow.
She calls me seconds later. The point of texting you was because I don’t feel like talking. When I let it go to voicemail, she calls back, so I just turn off the damn thing.
Convinced I can still feel eggshells in my hair, I take another shower and try to wash away the grime of this awful day. When I get out, I dig through my closet for my ancient Wimbledon sweatshirt and yoga pants.
For some reason, I decide to go into the trophy room. I haven’t been in here in ages. Seeing the picture of my father make my heart pang with sadness and loss.
I walk through and look at the various cups and trophies and awards Mom, Daddy, and I amassed in our careers. Case after case of accomplishments that are just about our performance in the sport—our pure athletic ability. Not who we are as people, or our success as a public persona, or a brand, or a corporation. These trophies represent years of hard work, commitment, and determination. Popular opinion and media polls have no influence here.
I can’t help but wonder what our lives would have been like if only our respective sports were our focus. I look at Pat and Katie. Pat was a pitcher, a damn good one. All he wanted to do was play baseball. He wasn’t interested in being an entrepreneur or getting contracts to be a spokesman. He used to joke that he’d make a terrible tire salesman, unlike Daddy, the Tire King. When Pat retired from playing, he went straight into the front office because that’s how much he loved the game.
Growing up, I saw the differences between his life and Daddy’s. Their lifestyles and priorities were vastly dissimilar, and like the pretentious child I was, I always assumed Daddy was doing it right and Pat had missed the path to success. But I look at the peaceful, simple life Pat and Katie have and the life my parents led, and I can’t help but wonder if I had it wrong.
Love To Love You (Love/Hate #3) Page 20
