by Abbey Foxx
I’ve kept myself away for too long, which is bad for everyone’s health.
I wonder if she’s as hot as I remember her being, and I wonder if she’ll even remember me. She spent half her time at LSU buried in books, and the other half trying her best to avoid the people she was so keen to write about. For someone so interested in sports journalism, she spent a hell of a lot of time trying to avoid it.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? All I’ve ever wanted to do in life is play football and get with girls, I just never realized what the consequences of that would be. A life that isn’t private, even if you have the whole world at your feet.
I wonder if Lucy will believe me when I tell her that despite all of that, despite my success, despite being considered the best quarterback in the world right now, and one of the best of all time, despite having different girls whenever I want them, I don’t feel happy. What I feel is lonely, and it sucks, because I feel like I’m the one responsible for making it so.
I guess you just can’t have one without the other. You can’t be the most famous football player on the planet and keep your private life private if you want to have a life at all. The two just don’t fit together.
One of those things has to give, and I think it might be time to choose. After all, I’ve achieved pretty much everything I need to in this game.
They can’t say I haven’t given it my all.
Two.
Lucy
Marcus thinks he’s retiring. He thinks he’s chosen me to break the news because it’s a typical Alex Vann Haden fuck you to the world of football, who have never been in support of his decision to keep himself away from press conferences and interviews for almost his entire professional career. You know, pick a nobody journalist and publish the story in a fanzine.
He almost got suspended the first year he decided to walk away from a reporter, refusing to enter a press conference after the subsequent match, and then disappearing entirely for two games until the coaching staff and owners agreed to his arrogant demands.
He was fined, warned, threatened with suspension and still he refused to conform. Eventually, when the team realized that without him they were little more than a journeyman side, they agreed to support him and Alex got his way.
Other players, both on his side and on other teams, ex-players, journalists, presenters and other professionals have all been critical of his approach, some demanding an outright ban and calling out on what they call favoritism.
Of course, in typical style, Alex has refused to comment, leaving his talking for the field, on which he has continued to display an almost Godlike ability to perform.
I don’t know what he wants. Maybe he’s had enough and he’s decided to call it a day, which would be kind of weird since he’s clearly born to play this sport, loves it more than anything else in the world and still has a lot of years left to play it. Twenty-seven would be young for anyone to hang up their boots, especially a quarterback, and especially one who has records still to break. If Alex wants to be considered the best of all time, he’s going to have to continue playing to achieve that.
Which brings us round to other possibilities. If he isn’t retiring, maybe he has other big news he wants the world to know about. Maybe he’s marrying someone, or he’s coming out of the closet (I hope not), or he’s got a secret baby somewhere someone is blackmailing him about, or maybe he’s sick of shutting himself away and just needs someone to talk to. You know, someone like me, someone who went to the same college, someone he can connect to over a glass of wine, on an open air terrace in the middle of fucking nowhere.
I’ve never been to the Caribbean. I don’t think I’ve ever been to an island before, unless America itself counts. Florida keys is probably the closest I’ve ever got. I was fourteen before I ever saw the ocean, and right now, I can’t see anything else.
Marcus is already planning the edition. The entire magazine dedicated to Alex Vann Haden. His career in pictures to go along with the article I’m going to write. He’s got the whole team searching for anything they can put together on him that hasn’t yet been officially prohibited from publication.
What I’ve got is a picture. The same picture I couldn’t keep my eyes off back at the office. That, a secret dictaphone, a hidden cell phone, my special sexy panties, just in case (not that I’m a whore, just prepared for any eventuality - I mean, I’m not going to take them off unless there is a very good reason to do so), and hope that A) he’s not going to retire, B) that he actually knows who I am, and C) that he’s not a massive dick I end up hating like I did back in college.
The plane ride is long and boring, and apart from the spectacular views, I’d rather be anywhere else. The airport in St Lucia is little better. It takes forever to get through border control and then an eternity to pick up my bag. I’m not exactly the kind of traveller who feels like they need to take everything with them on a short break away, and I’m definitely not a girly girl - give me a fountain pen instead of a lipstick any day of the week - but with such little information in advance, I wanted to make sure I was prepared. A reporter has got to look good after all, especially if invited to the private residence of a sexy-as-hell football star.
My name has been scrawled hastily across a cardboard sheet, and it takes me a moment to realize the dark skinned, casually dressed man holding it is there for me. The helicopter, as I expected it would be, is not stationed at the main airport. The driver takes me to his car and half an hour later we arrive at a private coastal helicopter pad, where a smiling pilot who looks far too young to be experienced enough to pilot the machine behind him, stands proudly with his hand outstretched to greet me.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Parker.”
If I wanted to back out, I should have done it already. I’m not the best flyer in the world, and staring at this huge metal contraption and the vast expanse of sea beyond it is making me very nervous indeed. Not to mention that the pilot looks like he’s about fourteen. Handsome, but young, which I’d trade for old and ugly any day of the week. Am I about to fly off into the middle of the sea and never come back? Was this always my destiny? Alex Vann Haden’s plan for me from the beginning? Perhaps he’s gone mad, and like some evil genius he’s killing off people from his past, one by one. Perhaps all that isolation has turned him a little insane.
I realize I still have the pilot’s hand in mine. I realize too, that I’m staring at the helicopter with a look of horror.
“Ready?”
Fuck no, but I guess that wasn’t really a question anyway. From now on, Alex makes the decisions, and this is number one.
Here I come. First stop, an island in the middle of the Caribbean sea. After that, the truth.
Never have I felt more like a journalist, and never have I been as scared to admit it.
The metal handrail feels cold as I lift myself up, skirt hitched gracefully so I can reach the awkwardly placed foot pad. I’ve never been in a chopper before, but every time I’ve seen them, they’ve struck me much more as some kind of gimmicky toy rather than a real, legitimate flying machine.
Once inside, however, the blades above me cutting the air into thick slices, I feel like I’m about to go to war, in a device designed exactly for that purpose. The pilot tells me how to strap myself in, his hands waving about frenetically as the sound of his voice is lost on the deep hum of the whipping arcs the propellers create above us. When he’s satisfied I’m secure enough, even though I have no idea whether I’ve done it properly, we take to the air, the frickin door open to the wind like some kind of James Bond escape scene.
There is nothing but blue sky in front of us and blue sea below for a worrying twenty minutes until a tiny dot appears on the horizon, that the pilot jabs enthusiastically towards to get my attention. This I presume is Alex Vann Haden’s private residence - his get-away-from-it-all palace in the sea.
I’m hardly able to catch my breath with the force of the wind cutting through the cabin, and I know it’s sort of cool in
a look-at-me-I’m-a-badass-flying-through-the-air-with-the-doors-wide-open kind of way, but I’d be just as happy with it shut, the air con on and the ability to think for a moment.
This has all been somewhat rushed. I was working on composing an article about the coming season when the call came through, and now, two days later, I’m here, about to touch down on an island in the middle of the Caribbean sea I haven’t even heard of. I can’t say I’m unprepared - I’ve been thinking what to ask Alex Vann Haden for years - I’m just a little blank, which I don’t like at all. The last thing I want to be is blank. A reporter isn’t blank. A reporter goes in there and asks the tough questions, she makes her charge sweat, she makes him want her, not the other way round. What she doesn’t do when the helicopter lands on a specially designed helicopter pad, her interviewee waiting for her with a charming smile, watching her every move, is eagerly remove herself from the cabin of the helicopter while waving at him much more enthusiastically than she should, get her leg caught in the arm belt, or seat belt, or anonymous belt whatever it is and fall two feet flat on her face. Except that’s exactly what I do.
Alex, a silhouette against the sun behind him, leans out over me, his hand outstretched, while the pilot tries unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle. Embarrassing. Super fucking embarrassing.
“You must be Lucy Parker?”
Yep, he doesn’t remember me.
Alex
She doesn’t remember me. I mean, she obviously knows who I am, but it’s clear she doesn’t remember me. I suppose there’s no real reason why she should. We moved in different circles, and despite her continued coverage of college football, our paths rarely crossed. She’s just as hot as I remember her. If anything, even more so. She’s matured, that’s clear, still just as clumsy, though.
“I’m Alex, Alex Vann Haden.”
Lucy takes my hand in one of hers and then wraps the other around my forearm to pull herself to her feet. She’s dressed formally, as though coming for a business interview and I wonder if I should have advised her more carefully about what she was likely to expect, or whether I should have put on a suit myself. To be honest, I don’t know if I even have one. I gave up formal functions years ago, and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt the need to dress up.
“How was your journey?”
Lucy looks back at the helicopter, and then up at me again.
“Hard”, she says, her lips curling at the end of the word into what I can only describe as a mischievous smile.
If I’m not mistaken, she’s got that look in her eye too. That here-we-are-you-and-me-on-our-own-in-the-middle-of-an-island-in-the-middle-of-nowhere look. I’ve seen it before. It’s a dead giveaway. I may be socially reclusive but I’m not socially inept, far from it actually. I see people all the time, I just make sure it’s on my terms and I make sure the world doesn’t know about it. That look, when people first meet me here, it’s a come-on. She may not know it yet, but she’s got fuck me written all over her. Like I said though, Lucy is here for business. If she wants a little R&R thrown into the deal as well, that’s another matter.
I know she’s single, I know that much. I know she hasn’t had a proper boyfriend since Dario cheated on her, with the male cleaner. I know she’s just as lonely as I am, and just as keen to put up a front.
“I thought it was going to be bigger.”
For a moment I wonder what she’s talking about and then I get it when she continues.
“You know, one of the richest men in football.”
I hold her eye contact. “I don’t like to show off.”
“Private helicopter to an island in the middle of the sea, intentionally keeps themselves away from the world, I’d say that was attention grabbing.”
“You know, I was going to suggest we should wait until tomorrow before we start work.”
Lucy smiles. She knows she’s doing it. A reporter never stops asking questions, never stops digging dirt.
“Why am I here?”
“Straight to the point.”
“That’s usually how I work.”
“You want to go home so early? You’ve only just got here.”
“My boss thinks you’re retiring.”
“The blades haven’t even stopped spinning and you’re asking me your killer question.”
“I thought I’d see if I could catch it back. Alex Vann Haden, the mysterious man of football retires at twenty-eight.”
She marks the headline out in the air with her hand.
“I’m not twenty-eight until next year.”
“We’ll hold back the release then.”
For a moment we just watch each other, two strangers on a rock floating in the sea.
“You want to come inside?”
“I could do with a drink I suppose.”
I hold out my hand. “Dictaphone.”
Lucy sticks her tongue into her cheek and looks away momentarily before looking back at me, both hands clasped protectively around the strap of her handbag.
“How am I-?”
“Dictaphone”, I say again.
“You do realize that interviews are usually conducted in a matter of hours, with a dictaphone, not over the course of a week without one.”
She digs it out of her bag and hands it over. Reluctantly.
“I don’t want you making your mind up about me before the end of the week is up.”
“Why, are you scared of the truth?”
“Some versions of it, yeah.”
“Like the versions people have published already and you’ve had removed from the public domain?”
“I’ve got to protect my liberty.”
“What about public right of information?”
“Are you going to be a hard ass all week?”
“You’re the one that invited me here.”
“I think I liked you better when you were face down on the ground.”
“Why did you choose me?”
“Come on, knock it off for a moment. Let’s go inside, I’ll show you which side of the mansion is yours, and then we can have a drink and relax. Over dinner you can grill me.”
Lucy narrows her eyes at me.
“What?”
“One thing.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve followed your rules, I get that you have this weird aversion to being in the public, and you’ve done your best over the years to change the opinion people have developed over the years about you. I know you’ve brought me here for a reason, whatever that is, but I’m going to tell you one thing and we need to be clear on that or I’m out of here, swimming if I have to.”
“Shoot.”
“I’m writing the truth about you. I’m not here to write some cutesy bullshit story about how Alex Vann Haden lives in a palace in the sea with millions of furry animals and is the best person in the world ever, If I think you are an asshole, which, by the way, I already do, just so you know, and it’s going to take more than those thick arms and turquoise blue eyes and perfect hairline to change that, that’s the story I’m going to write. If you want cutesy, hire someone else. And if you’ve invited me here for anything else, outside of what has been agreed, because you’re lonely or whatever, you can forget about it now.”
I let her get her breath, my eyes wide at the outburst. “Finished?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Travelling makes me cranky too. You must be tired.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You don’t have to be embarrassed to admit it. I mean, meeting me must be making you nervous, there’s no shame in that. I’ve had girls faint at my feet before.”
“You see? That.”
“What?”
“That right there.”
“What?”
“It’s that attitude that makes people think you’re an asshole.”
“Come on, you’re hurting my feelings now.”
“I’m just saying what I’m seeing.”
“I brought you here as a re
porter not as a therapist.”
“Then you’ll let me write the truth.”
“Write what you like, just don’t do anything until the end of the week.”
I turn, knowing that she’ll follow me.
“You’re not going to offer to carry my bags?”
“Lucy, I already know that you are the kind of girl that will resent me asking you because it will look chauvinistic, but secretly want me to anyway. If I did, you’d refuse, but now that I haven’t you’re upset. Someone will bring them.”
I walk towards the house and after a moment Lucy comes up alongside me.
“You still haven’t told me why I’m here.”
“You’re here to write about me. You’re right, everyone thinks I’m an asshole for doing what I’ve done, and I’m sick of it. I ask for a little bit of a private life and I get shunned.”
“That’s not the only reason people think you’re an asshole.”
Now my eyes narrow. “That was a long time ago, and I was a different person back then.”
“You’ve never liked us lot, so why now?”
“Because I need you to convince me I can have both.”
“Both what?”
“Football and a private life.”
“I don’t know if you can.”
“Then if I can’t, I have to choose.”
“You are retiring.”
I sigh. “That depends on you.”
“On me? You want to explain what I have to do with your decision to retire?”
“I need someone to convince me I shouldn’t.”
“If you really are an asshole, retiring isn’t going to change that.”
“No, it won’t, but at least people will leave me alone.”
“Then you’ll still be an asshole, you just won’t be held accountable for it.”
“I’m not anyway.”
“Not out here in the middle of nowhere with seagulls and waves for company.”
She gives me that look again and I can feel a whole forgotten world of memories of our time back at LSU come flooding back to me.
