“¡Sebastián! No hagas esto peor. Obviamente vio Izzy con Johnny. Estaban en el mismo evento.”
With the mention of Izzy and Johnny’s names, I’m off the floor and rinsing my mouth in record time. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘Don’t make things worse’?” I groan through the surge of throbbing with my sudden movements. “What does seeing Izzy with Johnny and being at the same event have to do with making things worse?” I rest my head against the wall next to me to stop the world—room, same difference—from spinning. “No fucking around the truth. Just grip and rip it. I’ve no doubt this Band-Aid is going to fucking hurt,” I groan as my head throbs a bit harder than it had been. It pulls on the strings attached to my stomach. “And I don’t know how much longer, I’m gonna be able to stand,” I finish with a hiccup.
They speak to each other low enough that my hangover-addled brain and ears can’t pick up a discernible word. “Now,” I growl.
“So, we weren’t planning on the media turning to Izzy. Last night might have made her London’s newest American sweetheart and she might be romantically involved with Johnny.” Baz delivers the news and it hits me like a one-two combo from him followed by a haymaker.
I see red. With my forehead planted to the wall and staring at nothing, I see red. My vision is hazed with anger and rage. My weak knees drop me to all fours. My traitorous body convulses with the sudden change in altitude. I steel my stomach, but the strength in my legs is zapped and I don’t know if I could identify what was more instrumental in bringing me to my hands and knees: the alcohol-infused self-loathing or the thought of Izzy being romantically connected to Johnny.
I plop to the floor when I regain control of my stomach muscles and my arms threaten to buckle under my weight. As soon as I’m situated, back against the wall, knees up, arms draped over the knees, head held in place by my hands, Lito waves a bottle of water in my field of vision. I gratefully, albeit begrudgingly, accept and am relieved that I don’t have to fuck with getting the cap off. Because he’s been our life guru and Yoda, it doesn’t really shock me that he also has a couple of pills to go with the water.
Holy shit! Talk about déja vu!
I swallow the white pills with a gulp of water and then drain the bottle in the next gulp. “Hijo,” Lito tries to sooth. “We knew this wasn’t going to be easy. That we couldn’t plan for all the possibilities.”
His words just make it worse. They’re an unintentional twist of the knife in my gut. “I know, Lito. It doesn’t make it any fucking easier.”
“Hate to kick you while you’re down, mano,” Baz starts in on me, “but you kinda asked for this.”
Lito holds me down with a hand to my chest when I move to get up. “What the fuck, Baz? I know what I did and how I could have avoided this, but how the fuck did I ‘ask’ for this?” I see Lito shoot Baz one of his you-better-behave looks he’d give us when we were kids and I shift to see what Baz will do.
“Diego, for as much as you are a pusher of the possible validity of conspiracy theories, you reeeeeally miss the conspiracy-like reality you often live.”
“Fuck you, Baz,” I retort back with little conviction. Undeniably, I tend to assume the trustworthiness of individuals simply because of their professional capacity. I really assumed my way into this one. “What a fucking ass,” I mumble to myself.
“You said it, mano,” Baz mumbles in response.
“That’s enough, Sebastián. Go make Diego some coffee. We have plans today, remember?” Lito gives me a knowing look “And the day’s rags don’t change that.”
My shoulders sag with defeat. Sure as death and taxes, there will be a mob outside the hotel lobby waiting to get my take on the relationship between Izzy and Johnny. “Might as well show me what I’m dealing with today,” I tell Lito. “No sense in going out into the wild unprepared.”
With a soft sigh, Lito appears to concede. Baz brings me a black as hell coffee and a sizable stack of rags. Before he hands me the stack, he offers some advice, “Remember what you know to be the truth.”
He drops the stack next to me and the top one was as bad as I had expected. On the cover is a shot of Izzy and Johnny cozied up on the red carpet. This one must have been taken after I’d made my way inside. Johnny’s arm is snuggly wrapped around Izzy’s waist and they’re both wearing genuine grins. Well, he is, but I can see the lie in Izzy’s eyes.
And I’m grateful.
Things would be bleak, and walking around sober would be more than a mental challenge if what I’m feeling wasn’t reflected in Izzy’s eyes. Nothing like misery with a dash of company. Guilt settles in. Izzy’s smile remains broken, even if the rest of the world sees something different.
The misery piles on when cover after cover weaves a story of a knight in shining armor playing hero to a damsel in distress. The real kicker is the subtle implications that I was the cause of her distress. They’re not wrong. I am the cause. Fuck! This isn’t going to be easy.
It’s literally the last rag that blows my mind. “What the fuck?” On the cover, isn’t just a photograph of Izzy with Johnny. It’s a photograph of them from that night all those years ago at Izzy’s awards event.
With a sigh, I gulp down the coffee and I choke on the concoction. “Fuck, Baz. A little heavy-handed, huh? You trying to sober me up or get me drunker?”
“We don’t have the time for sober, mano. So we’re settling for something in between.” He shrugs his shoulders when Lito levels him a look. “Es la verdad,” Baz argues as if he was simply stating the obvious.
“Mijo, pon la basura donde va.” I wish I could stop looking at the trash and put it where it belongs like Lito said, but I can’t look away. Baz saves me from myself.
“Okay, mano. Show and tell is over. Field trip time.” He grabs the stack and tosses them in the garbage. “Finish the dog,” he commands referring to the tequila-loaded, black coffee I’ve been struggling to swallow and keep down. “Time to ask some questions and get some answers.” He perks an eyebrow as if to ask, You ready to get some answers?
I answer with a nod and choke down the rest of the hair-of-the-dog. A hot shower and I’ll be good. I’ve got questions that are going to get answers today. And there’s something I’ve got to do for Izzy.
Chapter Thirty-Five: Paint It, Black
March 2007
It’s fucking game day, but I’m beyond spent. With my head tucked under the hood of my sweatshirt and Pantera screaming in my ears, I try to erase the last four days. The event for We Are Women should be last week’s news, but the paparazzi still haven’t let up about the Izzy and Johnny story. You’d think this week’s underage addict and royal scandal would have shifted the story, but the people are “loving the fairy tale,” Johnny, playing the role of Prince Charming, to Izzy’s damsel-in-distress.
Breathe, Diego, I repeat this to myself when my thoughts run away from my current objective: GET THE FUCK RIGHT.
Breathe, Diego.
Because I find myself being Sasha’s bitch boy these days, when she asked me to come in early before practice yesterday, I obliged out of boredom. My apathy was quickly chased away when I got an earful from Sasha regarding a small featured article appearing in a couple of rags. She clearly didn’t appreciate the honorable mention.
I silently chuckle at the memory.
Sasha was not pleased that a photo of her soiled dress, and a small story about what happened, being one of the featured articles in either of the rags. Sure it wasn’t full-cover story worthy and I could have done without the bitching session, but it was worth the tarnished image it depicted. She was even pissed enough to think I’d show her some sympathy after she had me read the unflattering article.
Little did she know I couldn’t have been bothered to be sympathetic…I was the one that gave up the story. They didn’t even pay me for the informat
ion. I chuckle at the memory. I mean, I have to get my kicks in where I can.
The icing on the cake was when Sasha assumed it was was Javi Bastos that leaked the story. She gave me gold when she followed the unambiguous accusation with a reason behind her assumption. “Javi Bastos will pay for this,” she’d said. “That son of a bitch always did have problems with keeping his mouth shut.”
The information made me think about some rumors I’d heard floating around. A couple of phone calls and I think we found a chink in Sasha’s armor.
An exasperated sigh escapes. Even with this situation looking like things are turning up Diego and Izzy, I can’t shake the disinterested feeling. I flick the volume up a couple of notches and let the cries of Kirk Hammett’s guitar and James Hettfield’s growl of a lullaby chase away the outside world.
About an hour later, the rest of locker room jolts me from my music therapy and mental preparation, shouting my names all at once. It was a mess of, “DIEGO!” “SANTO!”
“Whaaat?” I ask slightly annoyed.
My reaction creates a hush among the room. With my headphones off, I can register the sound of a television. A name I’m familiar with is mentioned next. “Johnny Specter, Mr. American Playboy—”I am rounding the corner before I realize what I’m doing—“is in attendance this late afternoon game.”
There on the screen in a private suite is Johnny Specter and—”Fucking Izzy?” My voice sounds disconnected. My knees give out from under me. As I’m guided to a nearby bench by my teammates, I listen for the mention of my wife. There was no mention of Izzy’s name and I take the opportunity to appreciate the little things. “Turn it off,” I say my voice empty and devoid.
Before I can let the weight of this sink in, the coaches and the training staff—and Sasha? I’m pretty sure the growl I heard wasn’t just in my head when I catch Jay giving me a look. I know what the tabloids are saying. I know because they’re saying what Sasha wants them to say. I can’t tell my teammates what’s going on, but I sure as hell don’t have to make them believe.
They make one last speech before we trod out to take the field. It’s game time and I have to leave everything not game related in the locker room. I ignore the adoring look from Sasha and meditate the image of Izzy here at the game with Johnny from my mind.
Once we’re on the pitch, I chance a glance in the direction of the suite and I’m grateful that I can’t make out more than just silhouette shapes. I shake my head and focus on the field. I sprint up and down the sideline loosening up my muscles and keeping my mind focused on the field and my teammates.
“You good, Diego,” Johnny asks from behind me. I look to see the sincerity of his question written all over his face.
“Peachy,” I grumble.
With an uncertain chuckle, he slaps my back. “Watch Bastos. He’ll be coming for you. Head on a swivel. He won’t hesitate to blindside you.”
I nod in understanding. It’s time to take the field. We line up and the starting whistle is blown.
The game got off to a good start. About ten minutes in, I passed the ball to Matt Walker and he scored with a one-timer, drilling it just high and right of the goalie’s head. I’ve played about forty-five minutes: we’re in overage time for stoppage, and it’s been complete shit. As soon as I was within earshot of Bastos, he’d take the opportunity to try to get under my skin. In the beginning, it was easy to ignore, but that didn’t last long. My focus was nearly one hundred percent on the game, but the part of me distracted was thinking of Izzy. I’m sure Bastos caught my line of sight a time or two and he hadn’t let me forget that she’s at the game and who she’s here with.
“Ahhh…that’s right. Mrs. Santo Feo has some company with her,” he chatted me up like the asshole he was. His jab had me eyeing the suite and not paying attention to the field. From my left comes the opposing team’s right midfielder and he manages to intercept the pass intended for me. Taken aback, I found myself flat-footed as I had to change directions and chase down the ball.
Bastos runs by me to offer support to his teammates and shouts, “Hey, Santo. Hook a brother up when the gringo’s done with your wife.”
That was the last straw. My field of vision narrowed on him and it was just my luck his teammate dropped the ball back to him. With all that I had in me, I pumped my legs to catch up to him, charging at full speed. It could be a punishing move to my body—or his ego, but I line up for it anyway. I manage to spare my body while bashing his ego, pushing Bastos off the ball and proceeding to dribble it towards our goal end of the field. He doesn’t fall completely, but he’s left stumbling in my dust.
I dribble past the last of the defenders and it’s just me and the goalie. As with every shot I take, the world around me disappears and I focus on where I want the ball to go. The goalie is out and he’s tracking the ball on my feet. I stop the ball with my left foot while continuing my forward progress. Flicking it up with the heel of my right foot, it comes from behind, up and over my shoulder. The goalie was expecting a shot on goal and dove in the opposite direction. I got him. All I have to do is gently lob the ball over the prone goalie and we’re up two to one.
Ummpf.
My legs are taken out from underneath me and the air knocked from my lungs. I hear whistles blowing, but my vision is slightly blurred from the impact with the turf. I roll to my back and I see the referee give Bastos a yellow card.
Fuck that shit! Motherfucker took me out. Asshole needs a red! I didn’t say these things out loud. My energy was too focused on getting up and back on my feet.
While the referee sets up my free kick, I scan the field for Bastos. He catches my glare and smirks. His expression a question of, “What are you going to do about it?”
With my hands clenched and my mind unfocused, I have to take this shot. A goal here and we’d be up by two with no time left in the first half. I slow down my breathing and repeat the process of taking a shot on goal. Stepping back, I line up my shot. Two steps in and I draw my right foot back to take my sh—
“Boss’ bitch!” A shout from behind me rings out and my shot hooks far right and I miss the goal by a mile. I know without looking that it was Bastos that delivered the taunt. I’ve lost focus. All I can think about now is taking him out. Sometimes this saint grows horns.
It’s the half. We’re up one nothing and the coaches are discussing strategies. My focus is anywhere else until someone mentions Bastos.
“Bastos is mine,” I claim.
“Okay. No red, Santo.” I don’t acknowledge his no-red directive. I’m pretty sure I’m getting a red card this afternoon. Fuck it. Fuck Bastos. And fuck Sasha. I spend the rest of the halftime focusing on the possibilities for how this will end up bad for Bastos. I imagine taking him out or down in so many ways. I’m excited about the possibilities.
“Fucker painted a target on his back,” I grumble as we’re lined up in the tunnel waiting to take the field again. Jay nudges my shoulder and I turn to look at him. I can’t make out what he’s trying to say with the look on his face, so I just nod.
When the second half starts, the Greenwich Palace FC is lined up differently. We don’t even have to make the necessary adjustments for me to take on Bastos. The son of a bitch is lined up in the left midfielder position and all I have to do is make up the short distance between us. Looks like they either figured I’d be coming for him or he asked to go after me.
Minutes go by and they’ve yet to get Bastos the ball and I’m wondering if they’ve taken me out of the equation by not using him. After they score a goal to tie it up, it seems plausible. He looks just as frustrated about not seeing the ball as I am about not having the opportunity to penalize him for his taunts.
We’re now twenty-five to thirty minutes into the second half, and I’m not waiting for the opportunity to present itself. I’m going to make it happen.
Leaving Bastos, I charge toward his teammate that has the ball. I’m on him in a flash, and it’s nearly too late when the rest of Bastos’ team realizes the shift in my focus. Their shouts of “man on” are for naught.
At full speed, I relieve the opposing forward of the ball and decide that revenge can wait. It’s practically an open pitch from where I am to the goal. Levi Thoen rolls up beside me and I pass back the ball to him, cutting left and sprinting up to meet his pass back just in front of the goal. With the ball at my feet, I spin to avoid the charging defender and drill the ball into the back of the net, near-side bottom corner.
I don’t even have the moment to celebrate before I find myself being thrown into the goal post from behind. My left shoulder crashes into the post and amongst the cheers of the fans, I register a collective gasp.
I’m not on the ground for long. The pain in my shoulder existing in a different dimension. I stand up to find Bastos attempting to hover over me. I smirk at him, silently thanking him for leaving me with my strong side healthy enough to pay him back. As the thought stews in my brain, I know that revenge isn’t just possible, it’s inevitable. I cock my right fist back and throw it towards Bastos’ face. With a crack, my fist drives into his nose as it grazes his cheek. The motherfucker drops like a fly and it’s my turn to hover.
Whistles blow and there’s a red card being waved in my face, but my eyes are still trained on the bleeding Bastos. “Damn, Javi. What happened to your face?” I taunt. He shifts as if he’s going to get up and do something. I stand my ground over him, “Stay down, Bastos. In case, I haven’t already made it clear, I can take you with the use of only one arm.” The team medic is at his side and he’s forced to be treated. “Until next time, Bastos.”
Love Needs Another Chance (Truth About Love #3) Page 22
