"Other plans," he told me.
"I've got a news team lined up for it." It was a bit of a stretch, but Beckie had sounded more yes than no on the phone. "It's going to be huge. I need you."
He looked thoughtful a moment, gazing up at the lights snapping to life around the parking lot. "Tell ya what. I'll text you an address to bring those balls to. Bring your news team. This'll be better than the soup kitchen."
I had a feeling the soup kitchen wouldn't think so, whatever it was. "I don't think I can change plans now," I told him.
"Trust me," he said, a little smile tugging up his mouth. "You want to. Bring the cameras."
I let out a frustrated sigh as Hamish pulled a phone from his pocket. "Number?" He held it out to me, unlocked. I entered my contact information and Hamish sent me a string of extremely inappropriate emojis featuring anatomy I had no idea they'd made emojis for. He grinned at me as I swiped at the screen. I couldn't help the giggle that escaped my lips.
"Lovely."
"Had them made special," he said.
"I'm sure they come in handy all the time." I shoved my phone back into my bag. "I'm trusting you, Hamish," I said, realizing there was a good chance I was going to regret this.
He responded by typing something into his phone. My phone chimed in my bag and Hamish climbed into his car. "Thanks for helping out with my balls," he said. "My balls are clearly too big for my car. Goodness, I have massive balls."
"It was funny the first time," I told him, turning to get into my own car.
"See you tomorrow." He slammed his door and drove the little blue car out of the parking lot, leaving me in charge of his massive balls and wondering what I'd just gotten myself into.
Chapter 24
Textual relations
Fernando
As I lay in bed Wednesday night, I couldn't stop thinking about Erica. I could still smell her on the sheets—a mixture of oranges and something creamy and sweet. She smelled a little like Christmas, and that was my favorite time of year. More points for Erica.
More thoughts of her swirled in my mind, and not just the images I'd basically screen captured inside my head to play later. I realized she evoked a feeling in me—of goodness, of optimism. I'd once thought she was some kind of militant feminist ball breaker, a woman who didn't like men, or at least didn't like me. But now that I knew her a little better, I could see she was simply determined and focused. What I'd assumed was dislike or annoyance had simply been her choosing to focus on something else.
Now? I wanted her focus on me.
I picked up my phone and texted her.
Me: Hey
Erica: Hey
Me: You sleeping?
Erica: Yes. I'm sleep-texting.
Me: So you're in bed?
Erica: Is this leading into some kind of attempt at sexting?
Me: Do you want it to?
Erica: Um...
Me: I'm thinking about you
Erica: Good or bad?
Me: All good thoughts. I can smell you on my sheets
I watched the three little dots dance for a while, but Erica didn't say anything. For a minute, I thought I'd made her uncomfortable. But then:
Erica: I wish I was there now.
Me: Come over?
Erica: It's late. I should sleep. So should you. Trace says practice was brutal.
Me: Trace is a pussy
Erica: Twin loyalty demands that I defend my brother.
Me: Go ahead.
Erica: ...
Me: Right.
Erica: Have you mentioned our date to him, BTW?
Me: Definitely on my agenda. You haven't said anything?
Erica: Nope. It's the guy's job to ask for the girl's hand
Me: In marriage, yeah. For a first date?
Erica: Same-same.
What was weird was that I didn’t recoil automatically at Erica’s reference to marriage like I might have in any previous dating relationship, though I didn’t believe Erica really saw a first date as an endeavor akin to marriage. I had to admit the thought of Erica as my wife wasn't as frightening as it should have been. And actually, it was kind of nice. I liked her independence, her fierce attitude. I liked a lot of things about her. I could see actually marrying someone like Erica Johnson someday. I’d never met anyone who I thought I could be happy with forever, though it was something I definitely wanted.
Erica was the first girl I’d met in a long time who didn’t care that I was the “Fuerte Fire,” and clearly wasn’t dating me because I was a soccer player. I actually thought she was willing to date me despite me being a soccer player.
Me: I'll talk to Trace tomorrow.
Erica: Okay.
I took a deep breath, knowing Erica wouldn't like what I had to say next.
Me: BTW, I can't serve at the soup kitchen tomorrow night. I'm really sorry.
I couldn't let my team down—my other team, I mean. Those kids didn't have a hell of a lot, but I wanted them to know they had me. The team had meant everything to me as a kid, and if I could inspire even one of them to find something to dream about, something to reach for, I thought it would be worth the time spent and then some. I wanted to tell her, but I didn't want something that important to me used as another tool in the belt of the Sharks' media machine. It wasn't all Erica—there were commercials and promos done by our ad agency that used shots like the one Erica was trying to set up at the soup kitchen. And that was fine for the guys on the Sharks, but these were little kids who had enough to worry about. The last thing they needed was the media showing me as some kind of hero for spending a couple hours a week with them.
Erica: Your mom?
Me: I've got another commitment on Thursdays when I'm in town.
There was a pause, and I knew she was thinking about what commitments I might have that I wasn't willing to tell her about. She'd asked before about the team, and I just didn't feel right sharing it—not in the context in which she'd asked, at least.
I wasn't willing to use them that way, and though I knew Erica would understand, I still knew she’d see it as a way out of the mess I was in—that was her job. She was driven and focused, and it made her good at what she did—but I didn’t know if she’d be able to see past her job for this. It wasn't something we needed to talk about yet.
I knew I was letting her down either way. Erica had planned some big charity event for me, basically—to make me look good. I was telling her I wouldn't be there.
Erica: No worries. Hey, I need to go to sleep. Super tired.
Me: Okay, sleep tight, pretty girl.
Erica: You too.
And then Erica closed out our conversation by sending me a string of the most offensive and inappropriate emojis I'd ever seen.
She'd clearly been texting with Hammer.
Chapter 25
Rabbits in a Wool Sock
Erica
The team was off Thursday morning, so the stadium was quiet when I let myself into the corporate offices, and just a few of the HQ staff were in this early. I had another strongly worded email from Theo about Friday's coverage, and found myself staring at it for several long minutes, unsure how to reply. I'd set up the soup kitchen and a couple players including Trace were showing up there either way, but I hadn't heard from Beckie, and now Hamish was telling me I'd be better off delivering balls.
The only reason I was listening to him was because I suspected he understood what I was trying to accomplish, and when he said whatever he had going on was better, I believed it actually might be. One did not load forty balls into a car just to drive aimlessly around town. I thought there were probably some intended recipients somewhere, and I was eager to find out exactly what was going on.
I closed Theo’s email without a response. Whatever would be, would be. Theo wasn't the cleanest guy in the world, PR-wise. At this point I was mostly hoping any publicity would be seen as good publicity, and that the team could weather the fallout. I was pretty sure the Sharks would be fine
. I really thought even Fernando would probably be fine once Theo calmed down. The Sharks really couldn’t afford to cut him this close to the season even if Theo did have a real reason to hate him—but it was still my job to try to head off the worst of it. I was a lot less sure I’d be fine. Theo’s threats rang in my head and I wondered if I’d be looking for a new job after Friday.
“Quiet in here today,” Annette observed, pausing in front of my desk. Annette was from southern Georgia, and I generally enjoyed chatting with her, mostly because I’d learned some of the most colorful expressions of my life from her. When the air conditioning in the offices broke, she told me it was “hotter than two rabbits screwing in a wool sock” and when Theo had come storming in here last week, she’d commented that, “if brains were leather, that boy wouldn’t have enough to saddle a June bug.” I was keeping these gems on a little notepad in my desk for future use.
“It is,” I agreed, waiting for the latest addition to my list of hilarious southern sayings.
Annette and I stared at each other a long minute, and I felt both awkward and let down. Finally I couldn’t take it any more.
“Anything else, Annette?”
“Naw, girl. Just wondering why you’re looking like you just found out Chevrolet quit making trucks.” She leaned her generous hip on the side of my desk and made a sad little pout with her fuschia-painted lips.
“I’m okay,” I said, deducing that this expression must mean I looked sad. “Just worried about this news piece with Theo’s ex.”
Annette clucked and nodded, but evidently had nothing else to add. Great, even she thought I was fucked.
Before I could slide too far down the toilet bowl of self-doubt about my potential and likely upcoming careerlessness, my phone rang and Beckie's name appeared on the screen. Annette stood and moved off to her own desk across the big open office space.
"You owe me big, Johnson," Becky said.
"I owe you a big Johnson? I haven't been taking measurements, but I can ask around if you're desperate." I couldn't help it. Inappropriate humor was my default after years of sports PR.
"Funny. No. Although..." Beckie's voice trailed off as she apparently considered big johnsons. "That's a different conversation. I got you a news team tonight. They're free from four to seven and have agreed to do whatever you say."
Yes! Something was finally going my way. Though now I wasn’t sure exactly what I needed them for. I raised an eyebrow. "Well, the soup kitchen thing isn't happening... or it is, but I might ask them to come with me to cover something else."
"Erica, this is a big deal. You better have a plan."
"I have a plan. Tell them to meet me at the stadium at four. I'll text you if anything changes."
"Okay. I hope this helps you," she said.
"I hope so too. I think my job is hanging by a thread." I sighed. "I don't suppose the station is hiring? Need an anchor?" Beckie had actually gotten my dream job, and made it look easy. I tried not to let my envy affect our relationship, but there were definitely times when I wished I was the one in front of the camera. But PR fit me—I’d always been in the shadows. But maybe one day I could find a way out.
"Yes, they are handing out tickets for anchor jobs to people with no experience whatsoever. Come on down."
"That's not nice. And I have news experience..." I kind of didn't, but if you were to draw a very unsteady line, PR and broadcast news could be looked at as being in the same field, at least. They were certainly related.
"If you’re serious, we can totally talk about that later.”
A little spike of excitement went through me, but I realized this was not the time. “I’d love that,” I said. It was a little hard for me to reveal myself to her, to show her how much I envied what she had, but Beckie was my best friend.
“Definitely,” she said. “When this calms down, okay? In the meantime, treat the camera team well. They're doing us both a favor."
"Thanks, Beckie."
We hung up and I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms over my head and leaning back as I blew out a long breath.
"That bad, huh?" Annette asked from where she sat, looking concerned. She was an older woman, and in some ways she mothered us all. I'd always liked her, and appreciated her concern (and the cookies she liked to bring into the office now and then) a lot.
"Might be okay," I told her. "If I can dig us out from under Marissa's crazy accusations."
Annette tsked and shook her head. "That lady's got a big 'ol hole in her screen door."
I stifled a laugh. "I think she's just desperate, really. She doesn't feel like Theo treated her fairly in the divorce."
"Well, Theo will squeeze a nickel till the buffalo screams, no doubt about that. If he'd done right by her, maybe she'd just go away quietly."
I wasn’t so sure. "Maybe, but it doesn't matter now. Just wish me luck tonight. I might have something that can at least distract everyone from Marissa's claims."
"Good luck, sweetie." Annette gave me a soft smile and headed for the door. “Gotta run a few errands. You okay here?”
“I’m good, thanks.” I smiled at her back as she left, thinking about the Chevrolet comment. Trace would like that one.
Time to get things moving. I picked up my phone just as the text came in from Hamish.
It was a senseless screen of dick emojis.
Before I could reply, another message popped up with an address and a time.
Me: Not the best neighborhood.
Hamish: You'll be fine. I'll be there early to protect you.
A few minutes after hearing from Hamish, Fuerte texted.
Fernando: How are you today?
Me: Good. You?
Fernando: Wishing I could see you.
Me: I'll see you tomorrow for our date! Where are you taking me?
Fernando: I want it to be a surprise. Wear a dress.
A little thrill rushed through me at the idea of dressing up for Fuerte, going out on his arm. I might work in PR, but image had never been very important to me personally. I had to admit to being a little torn though. While dressing up for Fernando was an idea I liked, being seen out on his arm was less compelling—not because I didn’t want to be seen with him, but because there was a chance I’d feel a little like one girl in a long line.
There’d been plenty of pretty girls on Fuerte’s arm. Wasn’t that part of the issue I was currently battling at work? I tried to push down that thought and just focus on the excitement of having his attention, of believing it was more than he’d given other girls.
Me: Wear a dress, huh? Are you going to wear a dress?
Fernando: No, I thought I'd just wear a thong. It's supposed to be hot tomorrow.
Me: Ew. No. Man thong is one step too far.
Fernando responded by sending me back a few of the emojis I'd borrowed from Hamish to send the night before.
Me: Well played.
Fernando: Have a good night. Wish me luck—I'm calling your brother.
I cringed. But Trace was reasonable. And when confronted with a straightforward question, he wouldn't say no—I was sure of it because I knew that under everything else, he loved me. And he wanted me to be happy. I just hoped he didn't mention the cheese. I didn't think he would.
My brother and I spent a lot of time giving each other shit, but in the end, all we wanted was to see the other happy. And Trace was the one who told me to try Mr. Match in the first place. He wouldn't say no, even to Fuerte.
I texted goodbye to Fernando and put down my phone, and my mind turned to trying to figure out what exactly Hamish was planning. Forty soccer balls and a potentially dangerous neighborhood. What could possibly go wrong?
* * *
At four o'clock, a news van from Beckie's station was sitting in the parking lot near my Explorer. I jogged out to toss my stuff into my car and then went to greet them, approaching the driver-side window, which lowered as I stepped near.
"Hey," I said. "I'm Erica Johnson. Thanks so
much for coming out today."
"Hey," said a girl who looked like she couldn't have been much over nineteen. She wore a Channel Six News shirt and gave me an eager smile. "Beckie said there'd be Sharks players, so I agreed."
I shrugged. "Hamish Armstrong will be out for sure," I told her.
Her face lit up and she grinned at me again. "We'll just follow you, okay? Want to give me a hint where we're going?"
"Barrio Logan," I told her, watching the wattage of her smile decrease by half. "Here's the address." I held my phone up for her to see and she entered the address into her own phone.
"Okay," she said, sounding hesitant.
A thin guy with long brown hair pulled up on his head into a man bun sat next to her, watching us. "It'll be fine, Amber. We're down there all the time."
"Right," she said, then leaned a bit out the window. "I'm an intern," she whispered. "This is my first time heading out with the cameras."
I began to realize I probably hadn't gotten the A team here, in terms of news coverage, but a camera was a camera. "It'll be great," I said, projecting a confidence I definitely didn't feel. "Let's head over."
"Ride with us?" Amber asked.
"Thanks, but I've got forty soccer balls in my car that are part of this somehow," I told her. "See you down there."
“We don’t have room anyway,” an annoyed female voice came from the back.
She sounded fun. I couldn’t wait to meet her.
I gave Amber an encouraging smile and she rolled her window back up. Soon we were headed south down the Five freeway toward National City and Barrio Logan. I stared out to my right as we exited just beyond the Navy shipyards.
Scoring the Keeper’s Sister: Mr. Match Book 1 Page 11
