“I’m here to work,” I said brightly, in a tone that gave the impression I had no idea why that was in question. All present parties knew I did.
Sarita cleared her throat. “You don’t think you might need… a little time? You had a rather eventful weekend, and you were initially supposed to have this week off. For your honeymoon.”
“That’s very true,” I responded, squaring my shoulders. “But, since I am obviously not in Bali right now, I felt it would be wise of me to continue my life as normal, instead of wallowing. Any other Monday, I would be here. Besides, it’s draft week. I shouldn’t leave my cohost to handle it by himself anyway.”
She snorted. “After you compared the combine to the slave trade, I’m sure he was probably relieved by the idea of covering the draft alone.”
I ran my tongue over my teeth, taking a second to choose more careful words than I wanted to. “Ah,” I smirked. “But isn’t that why our ratings are what they are? Hard-hitting analysis, delivered with a smile?”
“Is that what you think it is?” Sarita asked with a sneer, but before I could respond, Connie cut in.
“Of course it is,” she said, with a dismissive wave. “If you’re sure you’re up to it, we’re glad to have you, but please don’t feel like you have to. Your emotional health is important to us, but if you need more time…”
I smiled. What she was really saying was, “Men don’t watch our show to see you crying on air, so if we put you on, you better be ready to talk sports like a man, and smile and show a little cleavage while you do it.”
“I’m up to it, I promise,” I told her, adding a reassuring nod for good measure. “Aren’t I always?”
Neither of the women seemed that convinced, but it wasn’t as if they could really tell one of the stars of the show “no” about going on, not without it turning into a thing.
Connie and Sarita hated things.
“Fine,” Sarita said finally. “But we’ll be watching.”
With that “warning”, they left me alone, and I shook my head as I continued about my business. Coffee, and then to my dressing room for wardrobe, makeup, and hair, where my stylist fussed over the fact that instead of my usual press, my hair was in its natural state.
That had been a screw you to Darius, who preferred it to be sleek, and straight. Not that I’d ever given his opinion on my hair too much weight, but for the audience that our show pulled, the network preferred the straight hair as well.
So maybe my natural coils were a screw you to them as well. I wasn’t really in the mood for complaints.
As soon as he pulled out a flat iron, I nixed the idea, insisting that I wouldn’t wear it straight. He mumbled under his breath about it the whole time, but I wasn’t concerned about that. When he finished with it, my goddess braid updo was on point, and that was all that mattered.
The wardrobe stylist put me in a chic, slim-fitting pantsuit that made me feel like a badass, and by the time the makeup artist was done with me, I actually felt halfway human – a stark difference to the preceding days.
A knock sounded at the door, and a moment later one of the production assistants, Ellie, stuck her head in the door. “We’re ready for you on set Wil,” she told me, her normally perky voice holding a distinct note of pity. “Live in twenty.”
I nodded. “I’m on my way.”
Two minutes later, I was taking a seat in my chair, and makeup and hair were all over me again, making last minute adjustments to what the camera, and America, would see. A few minutes later, my costar ambled onto the set, and my first real smile in days blossomed on my face.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, dropping his heavy hands onto my shoulders for a squeeze before he moved to his own chair, which barely accommodated his solid frame.
“Why do people keep asking me that as if I’m not the cohost of this show? And a little birdie implied you may be disappointed that I’m here today. What’s up with that?”
One of Ramsey’s eyebrows shifted up, and then he frowned as a makeup artist went after him. He’d always hated their insistence on it, and always fought them off.
“Not a damn thing. Who told you that lie?”
“You know who.”
He grunted. “Yeah. Anyway – I like the hair. That’s fly.”
“Thank you. So is your suit.”
But that was no surprise. Ramsey was habitually fly, and today was no exception. The rich, dark navy of his suit popped against his caramel skin, and teal and lime accents added modern flair without making it “flashy”. Unlike me, Ramsey dressed himself for the show, and still managed to be better dressed than I ever felt.
“Thank you,” he said, running a hand over the thick, well-nourished hairs of his beard. “But seriously…” He leaned in, looking me in the eyes as production assistants and the like cleared the set. “What are you doing here? I expected you to need some time or something.” Under the desk, out of the view of the cameras, he put his hand on my knee, and squeezed.
I covered his hand with mine and squeezed back. “No. What I need is to work.”
“Alright everybody,” Tyrell, our technical director called out. “In your places. We’re going live in ten, nine, eight—”
I released my hold on Ramsey’s hand and scooted away from him to line my chair up on my mark, and put a bright smile on my face.
“four, three, two—”
“Hello everyone,” I started our standard show greeting. “As always, thank you for tuning in. I’m Wil Cunningham, and over there is my handsome cohost, the ever-stylish Ramsey Bishop, and we’re here to give you what you didn’t know you missed From the Sidelines.”
Beside me, Ramsey chuckled. “What they didn’t know they missed, really?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes I have to put a little ad-lib on it, you know? Shake things up a bit, make it more swaggy.”
“I’m always on board with added swag, so I’m not complaining, but you forgot something in my greeting.”
A smirk spread over my lips. “I already reminded the people you were fashionable, and I was sure to give them your name.”
“Ah, but it’s been a minute since we reminded them that I rushed for twenty-six hundred yards my last season in the NFL, breaking a record that had been held since 1984, and hasn’t been topped since,” he said, popping his collar as he grinned at the camera.
“Okay, okay,” I nodded. “But if we’re talking about record breaking, we’ll have to get into the ones I smashed in the 100 and 200 meters for Olympic Gold, and I don’t think y’all are ready for that, sorry. I just don’t. You’re not.”
Ramsey grinned. “Are you stunting right now?”
“Just a little,” I said, raising a hand to show the camera my pinched fingers, and he laughed.
“You’re right, we’re not ready. But you know what we are ready for?”
“I’m going to guess it’s the highlights from last night’s game four between the Celtics and Bulls,” I mused, and playing along, Ramsey nodded.
“You would be right.”
“So let’s get into it.”
For the next forty minutes, we went through various highlights and analytics, sprinkled as always with plenty of laughs as we played off of each other. Peace was a feeling that had been hard to come by since the day of that gossip report, but here on this soundstage, bantering back and forth with Ramsey about sports… this was blissful.
“It’s one of my favorite times of the show,” Ramsey said, relaxing back into his chair. Somehow, he didn’t look slouchy, just comfortable.
“That’s because you’re a sucker for any type of feel-good story. You can’t help it,” I teased, and he grinned in response.
“I’m not even going to try to deny that, I’m just going to take us right into “Off the Clock”, where we talk to you about the good things happening in the sports world – after the final whistle.”
“Okay, so what’s up first? Tell me something good.”
“Well, as you kno
w, the second installment of Trent Bailey’s football camp wrapped up last week in New Jersey. Trent is the head quarterback for the Connecticut Kings, who, due to a shake up in the team roster, made his comeback last season after having been away from the game because of trouble with the law. He and wide-receiver Jordan Johnson brought the Kings back from a season that started out looking like an impending disaster, taking them all the way to the Super Bowl. Now, Trent has been giving back to high-schoolers in both Connecticut and New Jersey, helping them focus their energy into something productive – football.”
“I’m really, really glad to see that, especially from someone like Trent, who could have allowed an irresponsible, costly mistake to turn him into a “what not to do” story for these kids with dreams of being in the NFL. Instead, he’s not allowing what could have destroyed him to take up residence in his legacy. Yes, the jail time will be there, as part of his biography, but I have a feeling it’s going to be outweighed by what he did after. It really is a helluva comeback story.”
“Yes, it is,” Ramsey answered, in a distinctly wistful tone that I made a note to ask him about later, once we were off the air. “And I was honored to have our request for access approved, so that I could see it with my own eyes. Trent – and Jordan, too – you can tell that they absolutely believed in those kids. This wasn’t just some “good PR tour” thing, they genuinely cared about giving those kids an outlet other than running the streets.”
“Which is exactly the type of heart that actually does good in the world. When can we see it?”
Ramsey grinned. “After draft week.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?” I laughed. “In any case, it sounds amazing, and we’re excited to see what you’ve put together.” My eyes found the teleprompter, searching out the next item. This segment was constantly evolving, down to the minute sometimes if news broke while we were on the air.
“Our next item is pushing the boundaries of “sports” news a little bit,” I read from the on-screen script, grateful that I didn’t have to make anything up. Beside me, I felt a change in energy from Ramsey, but couldn’t look up to see what the problem was. “But the producers, crew, and entire staff here at WAWG and From the Sidelines want to offer a warm congratulations to our very own—”
Ramsey nudged my foot under the table at the same time I realized what I was reading. Behind the teleprompter, people were scrambling, trying to figure out what was happening. My eyes skipped ahead, silently absorbing the rest of the message.
…want to offer a warm congratulations to our very own Wil Cunningham on her recent nuptials to network television’s hottest young CEO, Darius Hayward, star of “The Boardroom” which makes him part of the WAWG family as well. We wish you all the best.
The screen blinked, and something else came up. Ramsey – Thank God – had enough presence of mind to take over, while I plastered a smile on my face and pretended to pay attention.
What the hell was that?!
I mean… I knew what it was, but still. I knew the prep work for each episode sometimes happened days and days in advance, with items being put in as placeholders, so… I was answering my own question.
Someone had forgotten to take it out.
I wasn’t even supposed to be here today – that script was something they’d put in for Ramsey, even though he probably would have ad-libbed. It was sweet, that they’d wanted to be sure to acknowledge me, but… damn.
In the middle of my first moment of peace, where I wasn’t thinking about the troubles of personal life was really, really bad timing for an inadvertent reminder.
Somehow, I made it through the rest of the show. I managed to brush it off enough to – hopefully – not be painfully awkward, but as soon as we were clear, I practically snatched off my mic, and rushed back to my dressing room.
The staff was to intuitive enough not to mention it.
They had to know I was bothered, because of my lack of my usual demeanor. The talking, laughing, joking I usually did as they helped rid me of the makeup and clothes and hairpins was nowhere to be found. Thirty minutes later, I was back in my yoga pants and jacket, with my hair wild and face scrubbed clean.
I should be on my honeymoon right now.
That thought kept playing in my head, even after the door had closed behind the last person, leaving me in the room alone. Wondering what I would be doing right now if Darius hadn’t cheated was a given – I would be happily married to him. But… what if I’d simply never found out? What if she’d waited a month, a year, before she decided to spill the beans?
Would he ever have told me on his own? If I’d gotten pregnant with our first child, would the guilt have eaten him up so much that he couldn’t hold on to it any longer?
Would I have been less unsuspecting? Once I was his wife, not his girlfriend, his fiancé, would the ring and the title have given me better insight? Would I suddenly know better than to believe him when he looked in my eyes and said, “Babe, come on. I know you don’t believe that shit. They lie about everybody fucking everybody. It’s just part of this life.”
Had he always given such roundabout answers? Did he ever blatantly, specifically say, No, I’m not screwing Jessica” or was it always, “man, these tabloids are always lying”? I shook my head, not wanting to allow my thoughts to travel down that path, but they were already barreling away from me, at high speed.
How stupid could I be?
There were always signs. Always signs that something was up, that something had changed. Maybe I ignored them, maybe I missed them, or maybe… maybe it had just been naïve of me.
Like he said… it was part of this life.
A knock at the door startled me so badly I clutched my chest. After a deep breath, I stood to go answer it, ignoring the continued buzzing of my phone – concerned friends and family who’d probably seen the live broadcast of the show.
I opened the door to find Ramsey draped in my doorframe. He’d changed too, and was in a dark gray Henley and jeans instead of his suit, but somehow looking just as well-dressed. He didn’t wait for an invitation before he ambled inside, and I closed the door behind him. I turned to face him as he pushed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
“That was… fucked up.” I nodded. I didn’t have to ask to know he was referring to me almost reading the wedding announcement. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t write it. You didn’t forget to remove it. It’s not your fault.”
“Still. If it makes it any better, there was supposed to be a picture of you and him on the big screen behind us. That wasn’t there, and the announcement wasn’t on the ticker either. It just… somehow didn’t make it out of the script,” he shrugged.
“That does make me feel slightly better, actually. Thank you for that.”
One of his hands came out of his pocket to stroke his beard. “Not a problem. How are you holding up?”
“I’m managing.”
“You never responded to my text.”
For about half a second, I frowned, but then I remember the text in question, and smiled.
“Do you want me to kick his ass? – R. Bishop”
I’d gotten it the same night the news broke, but had been in no position to answer then. In the chaos of everything that had happened since, it slipped my mind. This was our first time talking since then.
Now that we weren’t on air, where I was paid to look happy, my smile felt foreign enough to make the corners of my mouth itch. I was heartbroken, angry, embarrassed – I wasn’t supposed to be grinning.
“So… is ol’ boy keeping his teeth, or not?” Ramsey pushed, and I forgot my musings about not smiling long enough to laugh.
“Um… let’s put a pin it for now.”
Ramsey shrugged. “Okay. Will do.” Neither of us said anything for several moments, but then he came closer, enough to grab my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “I…” he met my eyes, and I could tell he was struggling with what to say. His
Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I’m sorry he hurt you like this, Champ.”
“So am I,” I replied, because… I didn’t know what else to say. His grip on my hand tightened for a second, a gesture of comfort, or reassurance, or something… but I shook my head. “I… I just want to understand. Was it something I did, or didn’t—”
My words died on my lips, muffled by his body as Ramsey pulled me into an embrace. “Don’t do that shit,” his voice rumbled in my ear as his solid arms closed around me. I buried my face in the space between his neck and shoulder, hoping the pressure would help me fight off what I’d been trying to avoid.
It didn’t.
Hot tears started pouring from my eyes, and Ramsey didn’t even flinch. I tried to grab onto the anger that had been sustaining me for the last several days, but I couldn’t. The sorrow I’d been holding off consumed me abruptly, like an eclipse. Ramsey’s hold around my waist simply grew more firm, supporting me as I released deep, energy-draining sobs onto his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sniffling as I pulled back, after several long minutes had passed. “I’m soaking your shirt, and getting you all snotty.”
He laughed, and shook his head before he wrapped me in another quick hug before he released his hold, taking a half-step back. “You’re good, Champ. Seemed like you needed to let it out.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Probably so.”
“You gonna take that break now? Or you’re going to be hard-headed, and come in tomorrow?”
I sucked my teeth as I wiped my face with the backs of my hands. “You already know the answer to that. Actually… I need my morning session.”
His eyebrow shot up. “You sure about that?”
“Another question you already…”
Determining Possession (Connecticut Kings Book 3) Page 2
