by Jess Bentley
“Who is she?” Joel, the boy David had been talking to, asks. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“What do you think?”
“I think she is your girlfriend,” a little girl with curly hair says in a shy manner.
“Maybe,” David grins at them.
“David!” I punch him the arm, making all the kids laugh.
“Are you gonna get married?” Another boy asks. The kids are having a tough time stifling their giggles.
“Yes. Next week! Will you all come?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Yes!” They all answer in unison.
“But not if the green monster gets you first,” David makes his fingers into claws and suddenly rushes the kids and they all run off screaming and laughing with delight.
“Well that was quite the show,” I say when they’re gone.
“Kids are fun. Spend some time with them and all your worries and troubles go away momentarily.” There’s happiness in his eyes.
“That is so true. I love kids.”
“I knew it!” he exclaims.
“How?”
“Gut feeling,” he winks. “Shall we head off? I’ve got nothing else to do here.” He looks around, suddenly pensive.
“How’s the article coming along?” He asks as we’re being driven out of the training facility.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I love being mischievous around him, if only because I want to hear that sexy laugh of his. “Well, it’s going okay, I guess. I don’t know,” I admit.
“You don’t seem like the gossip mag types to me,” he suddenly says, surprising me.
“Why do you say so?”
“Because I've given enough interviews to know one when I see one and you, ma’am, ain’t one.”
“You're right,” I say after a pause. “I'm not. A year ago, I was reading and reviewing literary works and poems and all that but ambition got the better of me and I moved to Coyote. Except, Coyote took a different direction since then and because I have to pay my bills, here I am. Long story short,” I sigh. “I'm stuck here, writing for a publication that is largely a gossip magazine now with all the dreams of being a great writer fading away.”
“Sometimes it feels like the world is against you,” he says softly. That is exactly how I’ve been feeling of late. He put it so succinctly. The man has a far deeper sense of perception than people give him credit for.
“When I was nineteen,” David begins, “I got a very bad knee injury. Any sportsperson will tell you how they dread knee problems. I was advised to give up football completely and find another vocation while I was young. The coaches, my uncles, and even my brother Jon…they all cautioned me to take the safe path. It was very disappointing but like you, I had a passion inside of me. So I fought through the injury and now here I am.”
“Wow, that’s incredible.”
“And I'm not just telling you this story because you're writing about me. I'm also hoping that perhaps it will motivate you too, not to give up on your dreams.” A caring smile spreads on his face. David’s words hit a nerve.
“Thanks for the encouragement, David.” I answer, thoughtfully. Maybe he’s right.
“You look like you needed some cheering up. Now what’s bothering you about this article that you're supposed to write?” He asks.
How the hell does he know it’s the article? I wonder if I should tell him that everyone—from Max to Shauna to Scott—want me to paint a unabashedly positive picture of him. Thankfully I don’t have to.
“Let me guess. You're not sure about what angle to take, how much to reveal, what not to reveal and so on. Am I right?”
“More or less.”
“Since this whole article is about me, might I make a suggestion?”
I nod.
“Write from your heart. Write what you feel is the truth. To hell with what everyone is saying or expecting. As a responsible journalist, It's your job to paint a honest picture,” David concludes in a very assured manner.
“And what if the end result is not to your liking? What if parts of it are critical of your lifestyle?” I chime in.
“As long as that is the truth, so be it. I'm done playing this media game. I am what I am,” he shrugs. It’s unnerving to see him not bothered by what anyone else thinks of him and yet it’s intriguing, too.
“Besides, you’re new. Everyone expects you to cock it up anyway.” His teasing brings a smile to my face.
“Cripes, by the time I'm done with you, I’ll probably know a ton of British slang by heart!” I shake my head in mock disdain. “But tell me something, David? Why does your brother call you ‘Dazza?’” I ask.
“Oh dear God! That is too embarrassing.”
“Come on, now, tell me.” I put my hand over his as I egg him on to reveal the secret. The warmth of his body channels into mine, and by the time I realize it, it’s too awkward to pull it back.
“Okay, if you get to ask a question, then I get to ask one too?” Ah ha. I quickly cross my arms, using this chance to pull my hand away and eye him suspiciously. What could he possibly ask me?
His laugh makes my nervousness evaporate.
“Bloody hell, you look you're in a grand jury investigation!” He chuckles again.
“Oh, stop it and just tell me why you're called Dazza!”
“Well... back home, everyone has to have a nickname. So when I was a young boy, my uncles and my grandfather used to come and watch me play for the local team. So one day, after a pint or three, my grandfather said that watching me play on the field dazzled him. Of course, then all the lads started teasing me by calling me dazzler. Soon the word spread and everyone in the neighborhood was calling me dazzler too. It was embarrassing, especially with the birds... I meant the ladies. Then someone shortened it to Dazzle and then Dazz and finally it settled on Dazza. Thankfully the press hasn’t picked it up.”
“That’s not embarrassing… that’s kinda sweet.”
“Would you like to go everywhere and be addressed as Dazzler?”
“Probably not,” I laugh.
“Exactly!”
“I know what you mean... Dazza!”
“Dear God! Not you too.”
Going to bed that night, I think back on the wonderful day I spent with David. It feels funny now to think of all the resentment I had for him. He’s been nothing but a perfect gentleman since the day I met him at Jon’s restaurant. In fact, he’s been a lot more; charming, considerate and surprisingly intelligent.
Most of all, he’s nothing like how that model, Ana, had described him. I’m starting to feel a strong sense of guilt at the article I wrote, under pressure from Max. Like a dishonest person who colluded with all of these people who cared for nothing but personal gain.
I owe David an apology. No—I owe him more. I can help him show his true side to the world. The person he really is, underneath the dazzler.
Chapter 88
These last two days have been the most pointless days I’ve spent at work since I joined Coyote magazine. Max is still not back, while my other superiors haven’t bothered me since in their minds, I’m busy writing the David Adams story. The British superstar, however, was out of town for an away game and that’s giving me plenty of time for myself.
I got a haircut, nails done and even paid a short visit to my mother. She was the only gray cloud in the otherwise two sunny days that I’ve spent without worry. No matter how much I tell her to have faith, my mom has made it clear that if the last loan application also gets rejected, then she’s going to sell Dad’s bar.
All I can do is pray that it works out. The idea of losing Dad’s bar, where I played as a kid and worked as a teen, is too heartbreaking. It also makes me sad to see my mom at a point where all the fight has left her and she’s ready to give it all up for an easier life. She was a strong woman once, but now, she’s a shadow of her former self.
David is back today from the East Coast and he called to invite me over to his house for lunch.
&nb
sp; It’s funny. I’ve known him only for a week or so and already I’ve gone from resenting him to feeling eager to see him. With a spring in my step, I speed through downtown Los Angeles on my way to David’s Bel Air mansion. Gone is the anxiety and the nervousness that I felt the first time I was going that way. Today, I’m just anxious to see him.
The coach went easy on him and put David in the starting lineup. David repaid that faith by scoring not one, not two, but three goals. I was pretty excited to watch my first ever soccer game live on TV and cheered loudly every time David scored. I even felt giddy every time the camera focused on David or Willie, who was funny even on the pitch, playing with a perpetual smile on his face.
This time I don’t have to talk to anyone to get in. I press the buzzer and the gate automatically opens. I smile at the familiar site of the steep, curved driveway that leads to the main house. The same place I cursed last time round. The place looks much more spacious now that there aren’t all those cars parked around, like on the day of the party. As I park my own in one corner and make my way inside, David greets me.
“My, my, don’t you look the bee’s knees,” he smiles.
“Er... English please?” I raise my brows, unable to keep a smile off my face.
“You look lovely.” He comes forward and kisses me on the cheek. His scent, a mixture of Old Spice and pure masculinity is pleasantly overwhelming. The way his strong arms hug me make me feel safe and cared for. As he breaks away from the hug, I find myself wishing he wouldn’t.
“You look quite spiffy too, but that’s to be expected after you score three goals, I guess.”
“Well, well. Looks like somebody has taken up an interest in football.” Now it’s his turn to raise his eyebrows. I find it cute that David refuses to call the game soccer. He insists on referring to it as football, the way they call it back in Europe.
“Interest? Nah. That’s going too far. I call it an occupational hazard,” I tease. David laughs that full hearty laugh of his, the one I love the most. And here I was under the impression that all Brits are supposed to be snooty and uptight.
“Come on in. Willie’s cooking and that heavenly aroma has been making me ravenous, but I wanted to wait for you,” he says, smiling warmly. My heart melts. When was the last time someone waited so they could eat with me? Never.
“That’s very sweet of you David,” I say, melting.
David leads me to the pool area and there, dressed just like a professional chef, stands Willie Bryant, busy working at the barbecue.
“Willie cooks! Who would’ve thunk,” I laugh in amazement.
“He is a man of many talents. Why do you think he is my best friend in L.A?”
“Why? Are all your friends mysteriously talented?” I ask.
“Some more than others. For instance, I still don’t know about your hidden talents.”
“What if I don’t have any?”
“For some reason, I find that hard to believe.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, and leans down to look straight into my eyes. The way heat explodes inside my body every time he does that makes me nervous. I haven’t felt such electric desire, such lust at the sight of anymore before. Not even for Max. I’m starting to think that was just a fleeting attraction for a superior.
“Carrie!” Willie exclaims as he sees them approach. “Come here, girl! I hope you brought your appetite with you?”
“She is a struggling writer Willie, you bet she has brought her appetite along,” Shauna says as she gets up from the bar to walk toward us.
“Hey, Shauna,” I say, trying to sound normal in her presence. Shauna intimidates me, especially after she saw my outburst in Max’s office.
“How’s that article coming along?” Shauna asks.
“Pretty good,” I say.
“I hope that boss of yours isn’t being a jerk about it,” Shauna asks, as she sips her drink.
“Not really. He’s out of town with Katherine.” I’m not sure why I add in the last part.
“Oh, right. The rich heiress that he wants to mooch off of. What a scumbag.”
Shauna says it matter of factly, as if this is a fact that everyone knows.
“What do you mean?” I have to ask.
“Sweetie, where have you been living? This is old news. So much so that Max doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.”
I hate to say it but I’m still not sure what Shauna means.
“He’s gonna take all her money and ruin everything the Griswolds have built over the years.” Shauna shakes her head.
“But I thought he was good at what he does?”
“Appearances, sweetie—appearances. He’s kept up the charade of being successful for far too long and plenty of people have fallen for it. But really, it’s all smoke and mirrors. You’ll see.”
Shauna’s words scare me, and I’m questioning my sense of judgement. I thought Max was a genuine gentleman. A hard-working man who built his life with hard work. But then I also believed that he loved me. Am I really that naive? I wish I understood the games these people play in this town.
“Here you go!” The gray thoughts disappear as David hands me a drink. “Cheers!”
“Wait, I thought you were going to be a good boy now and not drink?” I inquire after taking a sip and realizing that there’s alcohol in the glass.
“I'm not. Yours is a mojito. Mine is a virgin mojito,” he grins.
“So you're trying to get me drunk while you stay sober? You better not be thinking of taking advantage of me!”
“And what if I am?” He takes a step closer to me. Ahh! It makes me nervous when he strides like a tiger, his intent gaze leaving no question of who is the prey.
“Then I’d call you a... a... a rogue.” At this point, I’m just blurting out whatever comes into my mind.
“I can live with that. I've been called worse.”
David leans in to say something more, but Willie calls out to us.
“Y’all gonna eat something, or what?” he shouts.
“We better go eat or he’s going to create a ruckus,” David smiles.
“Yes please! I'm starving,” I rub my belly. Grabbing a couple of hot dogs and a burger, I hold a plate while David picks up a steak. His personal chef, who’s apparently not pleased at being outdone by Willie, made some delicious peach ice tea that’s perfect for a hot sunny day. After wolfing down the last of the grilled potato salad that Willie forced upon me, I could just lay down on the grass right here and go to sleep.
“Willie can really cook,” I sigh happily.
“Why do you think women pay him any attention? It’s all because of the food.” David stifles a laugh.
“I heard that!” Willie points the long-handled tong at David.
“What are you going to do? Flip me with it?” He laughs.
“Just for that, You aren’t getting any food next time.”
“All right, all right,” David holds his hands up in defense. “Fine. Willie is a ladies’ magnet and not just because of his cooking.” Willie’s grinning but David hasn’t finished his sentence. “But because he’s also very good at doing laundry.”
David lunges off his seat as Willie throws the pair of tongs at him and chases him around. I hold my stomach, which is now aching because of laughing too much. They both could be a comedy act.
David stops running around when he sees Scott, his manager, walk out of the living room.
“Hey, Scott! When did you get here?” He asks. Scott looks up at him with a glum face that says he has some bad news.
“What’s up, Scott? What happened?”
My mind is racing in a hundred directions wondering what the news will be. Is there some new scandal? Did the coach cut him from the team?
“Just blurt it out Scott,” Shauna’s getting edgy.
“Javier is back,” Scott says, and after a moment David slaps his hand to his mouth. “Yes,” Scott confirms. “Javier ‘El Matador’ Romero.”
“What do you mean he’s back?” Dav
id asks.
“You know how Miami lost a bunch of their players to the injury? They made an appeal and the league commissioner granted them an exception, allowing them to add a player to their roster. So they went ahead and signed up Javier.” Scott hangs his head, as if it’s his fault.
“But isn’t he retired from professional soccer?” Willie chimes in.
“Apparently he came out of retirement because his dream was to play in the US.”
“Bullshit. He’s just coming here to make one final paycheck. I bet the Federation is pleased, ” Shauna snorts.
“Yes. they're looking at this as a great opportunity to market the league abroad. Especially since Javier has such an international following and keep in mind that...“ He pauses and sheepishly looks at David. “I mean, since he has won so much throughout his career.”
David says nothing but turns away from all of them, staring into space. He speaks quietly. “I know what they're trying to do. they're playing us against each other to earn even more money. Jesus! Just when I think I'm out of the mess, they pull me right back in.”
“I’m sorry David,” Scott says.
“It’s okay, mate. No worries. Not your fault,” David replies without turning around.
Everyone is unsure what to do now, especially me. I have no clue what’s going on.
“Fuck!!” David shouts suddenly and slams the glass top table next to him, down on the patio. Tiny pieces of glass fly all over the place. His face red with anger, veins in his neck throbbing, he storms back into the house. Nobody dares to follow him.
I had almost no clue what was going on. All I can fathom is that some soccer player called Javier is going to play in the same league as David, and for some reason, that’s bad news.
“That’s not good,” Shauna says to Scott. “Not good at all. Can’t we file a complaint? Is this kind of thing even allowed in the middle of the season?”
“Well, there’s no rule barring it…but there’s no rule about accepting such a signing either. I spoke to my guy at the league offices and he says the best we can do is send in a complaint. I'm more worried about the impact it’s gonna have on him,” He nods in the direction David stormed off.
