Next up is a hot stone pedicure and a gel manicure. These go swimmingly well. Both my nails and toes are a soft pink color which pops against my rich summer tan.
I can’t get Greece off the brain, so I stop at a food truck and order a gyro. It’s delicious. There’s nothing like food truck cuisine.
Next up is the hair salon. I decide that today I’m going to do a length check and get my curls blown out, trimmed, and colored. I want the works. Carla sends me the name of her stylist who is about twenty minutes where I’m from and has a last-minute cancellation.
Aside from the massage, I feel like my day is going pretty well. I think I could get used to a routine of self-care. The stylist offers me a hand mirror after ninety minutes of primping and prodding, cutting and coloring.
“How do you like it?”
I take a look in the mirror and fall in love with the woman in the reflection.
“It’s perfect.”
My hair feels lush and healthy and is dyed the perfect warm chestnut brown with a few strawberry-blond highlights. No more harsh black color. The stylist blew it out, trimmed the ends, and then gave me loose beach waves with a few flicks of a large barreled curling iron.
“Glad you like it. I’m trying to get your sister to get some highlights after she has the baby.”
“That’s a good idea. She’d look great.”
My phone hasn’t rung once and I’ve purposely avoided checking emails. If anything really pressing were to come up, I’m sure Jane would call me right away for some assistance. All must be well. It’s not easy for me, but I have to learn how to let go and be in the moment. I need to learn how to follow this new path that I’m on—wherever it may lead.
Before I head home, I decide that it might be a nice idea to take a stroll around my neighborhood while catching up on one of my favorite podcasts on acting. I’m about thirty minutes away from my apartment when the sky becomes overcast and billowy gray clouds start to roll in.
The meteorologist I watched on the news this morning should get a pay cut. She hasn’t predicted the correct weather in the last three weeks. At this point I think that meteorology might be a complete sham. Just like astrology.
I quicken my steps, because I don’t want a thunderstorm ruining my beautiful beach waves. It’s Thursday and the plan was to forget about that kiss by putting on a little red lipstick, some tight jeans, and hanging out with Monica for once. I at least wanted to show her my sexy hairdo before it turns into one giant frizz ball.
My body trembles at the sound.
Thunder.
Thunder that I can feel deep inside my chest.
Thunder that sounds eerily familiar and triggers a deep-seated fear in me that I can’t explain.
The thunder of my dreams.
The drops start to fall and are as heavy and punishing as a spray from a backyard water hose. Powerful. Heavy. Cool.
I start to run.
My hundred-and-fifty-dollar hairdo starts to fall and quickly sticks to the sides of my face. My sundress is drenched. My Converse are soaked. I run faster.
The thunder rumbles again.
And now lightning follows it.
Cracking the sky wide open and triggering a memory I had long believed was dormant forever.
I stop where I am and collapse on a set of concrete steps. Huddled into a ball. Reliving a nightmare under the clouds and the rain.
I remember.
Metal bending at the mercy of more metal.
The taste of blood and tears.
We were hit.
A car plowed into the back of ours. I can’t picture it exactly. I just know that there was another car involved and it hit us with enough brute force that my mother went flying forward, hitting her head on the steering wheel.
I on the other hand wasn’t wearing my seatbelt. I was hiding on the floor of the car from the storm. So, I went flying sideways, banging my head against the backseat door.
And now I remember the pain.
Sharp, excruciating, pain.
Being tossed like a rag doll as my mother and I flipped over and over in the car, all I could remember hearing were the sounds of my own screams.
And then there was utter silence.
The crash probably occurred in less than a span of sixty seconds, but it seemed like an eternity to me. Like a deep-sea diver who sometimes loses his bearings when he’s low on oxygen, I was lying on the inside roof of the car and completely disoriented.
I called for my mommy.
But she didn’t answer back.
I was frightened and thought she was asleep or maybe that she left. I didn’t know. It was dark and there wasn’t much I could see. Maybe I was dead.
I remember feeling sleepy and a little nauseous, so I thought it might be best to close my eyes for a while. Trusting that my mommy would come for me when she could.
Then I felt tugging on my arms. Someone was pulling me. It hurt.
“Wake up,” the voice ordered. “Wake up little girl.”
The voice was small but steady. Telling me to hang on as he pulled me out of the car and onto the side of the road by the river. It was still raining hard. So hard the droplets were hurting my head. The boy held me for a minute. Covering me with his body.
“Sit here for a minute,” he told me.
“My mommy.” I remember saying.
“One of the grown-ups will get her out. I’m sorry but I can’t do it.”
I began to cry.
There were other cars turned in various positions on the roadway behind us. We weren’t the only ones this happened to.
“Wolf!” I could hear a woman calling that name. Almost crying. She was calling for the boy who was holding me. “Where are you, Wolf?”
“I gotta go. The firemen are here. Don’t worry. They’ll get your mom out.”
“Wait.”
“I’ll come back for you all right? Sit right here. Don’t move and they’ll help you.”
I cry when he leaves.
I’m crying right now.
Wolf.
The boy who pulled me to safety.
I gasp at the recollection.
I think his name was Wolf.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I have to tell you that I was pleasantly surprised that you called me, Mr. Barnes. I didn’t think you were actually going to agree to this interview, much less be the one to initiate it.”
“I guess all those days you’ve spent sitting on the bleachers cozying up with Owens didn’t help with your understanding of me. Didn’t she communicate that I’m a man of my word?”
Jim the reporter looks at me contemplatively.
“We don’t talk about you much,” he says with a cautious smirk.
Motherfucker.
We both sit down, directly across from each other, in some sort of homemade lounge set up in The Examiner offices.
“Speaking of Ursula, is she coming today? I know she usually likes to attend most press events, and since she did have an indirect hand in making this happen, I’d hoped she’d be here.”
I bet you did.
“She won’t be joining us today but while we’re on the topic of … Ursula … I just wanted to get something straight with you.”
“And what is that?”
“She’s off limits. Meaning she can’t engage in any personal relationships with staff. It’s a direct conflict of interest. You understand.”
Jim stares at me with a cocky grin.
“I don’t work for you, Mr. Barnes.”
“You work The Nighthawk beat, I am a franchise Nighthawk player, and Owens works for me. Therefore, it’s a direct conflict of interest.”
“I don’t think it is, and until she tells me differently, I’d prefer it if you’d stay out of my and Ursula’s private affairs. You know … I just wouldn’t want to make things awkward for her.”
I sit back in the large leather club chair I’m sitting on and lift my legs up on the matching ottoman. Jim is determined to ge
t under my skin and while I should probably get up and leave now, I want to see where this is headed. What’s his angle?
“Maybe we should get started,” I say.
“Awesome. Can I get you anything?”
“I’m good. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Fine by me. Like I said, I appreciate you taking the time out of your very busy schedule.”
He says that like it’s a federal crime that I work.
“Just so you’re aware, Mr. Barnes, I’ll be taping this conversation for reference purposes, fact checking, etcetera.”
“I figured as much.”
There are a few things about Jim that rub me completely the wrong way. He talks too much about Owens. He acts like he knows her so well when I know that cannot be the case. Secondly, he’s cocky to a fault. He has some sort of chip on his shoulder. If I had to guess it’s because he played football in high school, loved it, but sucked at it and now he hates all of us who are fortunate to make a living at it. Lastly, he’s ambitious and not in the healthy way. I think he’d sell out his own mother to get ahead in his career.
“Readers love to hear about their favorite player’s hometown roots. Could you tell us a little bit about your life in Georgia?”
“Georgia is one of my favorite places in the world. The only way to really describe it is that it’s a place I think about when I’m thinking of good food, good people, and home.”
“You were raised there your entire life?”
“Born and bred. I never lived anywhere else until I came to New York as a rookie.”
“Your life in Georgia seems a lot different than your life now in New York. How do the two compare?”
Where is he going with this shit?
“New York is my new home, and I love it in different ways. It’s where my fans are, it’s where my businesses are, and it also has a great community of people. Just a lot more of ’em.”
“Do you think you’d ever leave the Nighthawks for a different team?”
“There’s only but so much control you have over your career in the NFL. If the team wants to trade me at some point, they will, and there won’t be much I can do about it.”
“Except maybe buy the team.”
We both laugh uncomfortably, but I don’t respond to that comment. There’s been talk about me investing in a NFL franchise for some time, but nothing has materialized. It’s just been a few conversations here and there.
The reality is that owners don’t want to see players gain ownership, especially young ones like me who know players on every team and who have relationships with those players. It would be bad for business.
“It’s been said that the only situation where the team would ever consider trading you would be to make room in the budget to draft some of the missing pieces in the offense. Maybe defense too. Would you consider taking a pay cut to allow room in the budget to get what the Nighthawks need?”
He might as well just say I should play for free. Yeah right, that shit isn’t happening. I put my body on the line every season to try and bring this city a championship. I should be compensated for that whether or not I’m already rich or not.
“I actually think we look damn good this year. Definitely playoff contenders. We’re not missing much, so I guess that’s not something I need to worry about in the near future.”
He scribbles down some notes on a notepad.
“How are you feeling so far about the trades made over the summer. There’s a new backup quarterback in town and his name is Parinzino.”
“I don’t know much about him yet, but I’m sure he will be a great addition to the team. I look forward to seeing what he can actually do. I hear that he has had very little actual time on the field.”
Coach is going to make me pay for that passive aggressive comment.
“Umm … that’s a good point you make.” Jim’s eyes light up. He thinks he’s got me right where he wants me. I took that one jab at Parinzino, but it won’t happen again. “Do you know if Saint Stevenson is getting to know him? Mentoring him on handling the pressures of being a prime time quarterback?”
“It’s not Saint’s job to mentor Parinzino, it’s his job to win ball games, but I can’t speak for either of them. I’m sure they’re handling Nighthawk business like we always do.”
“Like a well-oiled machine.”
“That’s right.”
He jots down a few more notes.
“I think it’s fair to say, Mr. Barnes, that you’ve had some distractions over the years. A few Twitter wars. Several bar fights. A discrimination case at one of your pizzerias.”
What a bad segue.
“That’s old news, Jim.”
“Fair enough, but—”
“If it’s a fair point then why are you bringing all of that old shit up?”
“Trust me it’s leading somewhere. I’m just wondering if perhaps your past trauma may explain some of the drama to the fans.”
My stomach drops. He knows.
“What past trauma.”
“Well, Mr. Barnes, it’s a matter of record that you were abducted in your hometown in Georgia when you were just ten years old.”
I clench my fists.
“Held for five days and even taken across state lines to New York.”
“Turn the recorder off.”
“Only for divine intervention to step in and save you, when you and your abductor were involved in a car crash on the FDR drive.”
“That shit is not public record.”
“I’m sure your family paid to have your records sealed, but if you dig deep enough there are ways to unearth any case file. No paper trail is ever really destroyed.”
I stand up.
Fuming.
My breaths are rapid and harsh.
I want to lash out. I want to hurt someone. I want to hurt Jim.
“I know you may be angry right now, but I’m not trying to blindside you, I’m just trying to tell your story in your words.”
“That’s not a story I have ever wanted to tell.”
“Why? You could inspire so many victims. Look at what happened to you and look who you are today.”
“That’s not your call to make. That’s not why I agreed to this interview.”
“Well I could have just reported this without your input or your approval. I’m just trying to be respectful.”
“You think you’re being respectful? You think you’re doing me some sort of fucking favor?”
“I don’t understand why you’re being so secretive about this. Because a woman abducted you? You were a kid. It wasn’t your fault.”
“You little shit. This is my business. My story to tell or not tell. It’s not up for discussion now or at any time unless I say it is. If you publish it, I will sue you and your dime store paper. You won’t be able to get a job at any news outlet in this country. In fact, you’d be lucky if you can get a job teaching English to first graders in a third world country.”
We stare each other down.
“The story will run,” he says matter of factly.
I approach him in a threatening manner. Towering over him by height and width.
“You’re fucking with the wrong person, Jimmy.”
“And so are you. Ursula is smart enough to make her own decisions about who she wants to date, and I’m smart enough to know a good story when I see one.”
“This is your last warning.”
Especially when it comes to Owens.
I’m not to be fucked with.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’m sitting in the common area thinking about what I’ve learned over the last twenty-four hours. It’s a lot to digest.
“What do I have on the books today, Owens?”
I look up at my boss in wonderment and ask myself if I ever knew this man at all.
“Three meetings at eleven, one and then four p.m.”
“Cancel them.”
“All of them?”
“Yep.�
��
“Why, what’s up?”
“I have a last-minute lunch meeting.”
“With who?”
“A friend of mine from Los Angeles.”
“You have friends?”
“Very funny, smarty.”
“Okay, I’ll take care of it. Is there anything else I can get you?”
Coop cocks his head to the side.
“You’re acting weird.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are. What’s wrong with you today?”
“Nothing.”
“Come here.”
He pulls me toward him with a hungry look in his eyes. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me again, but then he stops, and only gives me a hug. It’s a great hug though.
“What about Jane?” I whisper as he holds me a little longer.
“I don’t care. I haven’t seen you in a while,” he says softly by my ear. “I missed you.”
I hesitate for a moment and then I say it. “I missed you too.”
Coop pulls me away from him, holding me firmly by my shoulders with a confused look on his face.
“Spill it.”
“What?”
“Owens, you have to be the worst liar I’ve ever seen. Tell me right now what’s going on.”
Jane exits my office and interrupts us.
“Hey guys I’m going on a bagel run. There’s a new bakery next door that makes gluten free ones. Would you two like anything? I heard they make amazing bagels, muffins and scones there.”
“No thank you, Jane. Coop doesn’t do baked goods during the season, and I’m going to pass too.”
She looks mortified.
“Oh my God, I forgot about your strict eating regimen during the season. Looks like I have a lot more to learn. I apologize.”
“Not a big deal.”
“I’ll be back in literally ten minutes.”
“No problem, Perez. Go ahead. We don’t punch a clock here.”
After Jane leaves, I turn to go to my office. I want to say something to Coop about what’s going on with me, but I don’t know how to say it because when I do, it will change everything.
Wolf: A Sports Romance: The Nighthawk Series #2 Page 10
