Superfan

by Sarina Bowen

“Get an entertainment lawyer to read it, too,” she says. “I need you to become less trusting. Don’t trust anyone who isn’t on your payroll. Don’t trust strangers who offer you candy. Don’t trust men who want to get in your pants. Or women, if you swing that way.” She lets out another peal of that deep, weird laughter. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.

  “Got it,” I say.

  “Now, shoo!” She waves me off. “We’ll talk soon. Chin up, Delilah. You’re going to be okay.”

  I like hearing it. I only wish I believed her.

  When I get back into the car with Mr. Muscles, I check my texts. There’s one from Silas. A long one.

  Hi girly. I was trying to play it cool so you won’t regret giving me your phone number. Note that I waited at least one hour after your plane landed to send you a message.

  I can’t play it cool when it comes to you. Last night was special to me, and not just the naked parts. Although the naked parts do stand out in my memory. My whole day is like:

  He includes a GIF that’s an actual photo of him with flames flickering in front of his crotch, and I laugh out loud.

  Kidding aside? You will always fascinate me. And I can’t wait to spend more time with you. So please tell me how that can be accomplished.

  Signed, your love slave, Silas Kelly/Ralph.

  I lean back against the seat and mentally compose my response.

  Dear Ralph, your message is pretty hard to top. And that’s basically how I feel about you in general. You are smart and funny and kind, as well as…

  I can’t actually type that. He makes me feel unworthy. If we actually tried to have a long-distance relationship, I suspect that I’d ruin everything. And how would that even work?

  The car moves slowly through traffic, and I feel overwhelmed. Last night was incredible. It was so great that I’m having trouble putting my mask back on. And I need that mask right now—it’s going to protect me from the assholes in my life.

  When I reread Silas’s message, it’s pretty hard to believe it’s really about me. So I don’t compose a gushing reply, even though he deserves one. I’m going to respond another way—a rock-star way. With a gift.

  I send a message to Becky. Could you get Silas’s home address on the sly? I’ll bet that nosy female publicist would give it to you. I want to send him a gift.

  On it! she replies immediately

  “Change of destination!” I say to Mr. Muscles. “I have some shopping to do.”

  Silas

  “She didn’t reply to your texts?” my roommate asks.

  “She did. But barely,” I puff as we jog past the carousel. It’s a humid July afternoon, and even the seagulls on the promenade look hot. But we decided to punish ourselves with this outdoor run, anyway.

  “And you think she’s blowing you off?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That sucks, man.”

  That’s putting it lightly. I feel…tortured. Delilah warned me that her life was complicated. She was very clear about that. But I thought our night together should change everything.

  It did for me.

  “Here’s what really bothers me,” I tell Jason. “I met her three years ago. We spent some hours together. They were casual hours but we had a connection and I felt it deep.”

  “I know you did. Maybe she did, too.”

  “But here’s where it gets confusing. She has this big career, right? And I got to listen to every note and follow along for three years.” I can’t explain out loud what that was like. Delilah poured raw emotion into my ears every night. “So, I’m still right there with her every step, but she’s not with me.”

  Castro doesn’t say anything, either out of respect for my stupidity, or because he’s just winded.

  “Back in California, I know she felt it, too. But now I wonder… Am I just another idiot superfan who thinks he knows what’s happening in her mind? Am I like my grandma who used to talk back to Pat Sajak while she watched Wheel of Fortune?”

  My roommate laughs and then slows down to a walk.

  I stop running, too. “Maybe I’m holding on to an illusion.”

  “But maybe not,” he says. “All you can do is remind her of the parts that are real. You two obviously need to be in the same room together again. Evidence suggests that works well for you.” He snickers.

  He isn’t wrong. But I’m well aware that I can pull off that kind of big gesture maybe one more time before I give up. “Eventually, she’s got to come to me.”

  “Give the girl a chance. What’s it been, a week? You said her life is blowing up. She might not be ready for you. Timing is everything.”

  “That’s not comforting. Timing has never been on our side.”

  “Ice cream shakes?” Castro asks, changing the subject.

  “Hell yes.”

  “Here, or at home?”

  “Home,” I grunt, because I can’t wait to get into the AC. It’s funny how I yearn for the fresh air during the hockey season. And now that summer is here, the heat is killing me.

  I’m grumpy, and I have been ever since I kissed Delilah goodbye at the hotel elevator last weekend. I need her in my life, and I don’t even know if that’s possible. Meanwhile, my summer break is flying by at a rapid rate.

  “Then giddy-up,” Castro says.

  Like horses who can’t wait to get back to the barn, we run a final fast mile back to Water Street, arriving sweat-covered and panting in front of our building.

  “Lookin’ good,” teases Miguel, the doorman.

  “We’re not supposed to look good right now,” Castro pants. “We’re just supposed to hear the Rocky theme music inside our heads.”

  “Are we?” I grumble. “All I hear is my fat cells crying out in pain.”

  “You don’t have any fat cells,” Miguel says. “But you do have a package to take upstairs.”

  “A package? I don’t remember ordering anything.” He waves me inside, where there is indeed a large box addressed to me.

  It’s from “D. Spark,” with a return address in L.A.

  “Oooh! Somebody got a present. I can’t wait to see what it is.” Castro actually jumps up and down.

  “Help me carry it upstairs, would you? I don’t want to sweat all over it.”

  Together we carry the box into the elevator and then into our apartment. “Ice cream time!” Jason says as we set it down.

  “You start, I’ll be right there.” First I have to locate some scissors and cut the tape sealing the box. When I finally get inside, I find… A turntable? And several records. Also a note.

  * * *

  Silas—

  I know that I’m supposed to be a writer. But I don’t think it’s possible for me to write a letter as lovely as the one you gave Becky for me. That was basically the nicest note I’ve ever read.

  But I just wanted you to know how wonderful it was to see you again. And now you can listen to music on vinyl if you want to. I didn’t want to give you a gift that was all about me, though, so here are some of my favorite albums, too.

  Still thinking of you,

  D.

  * * *

  Oh. Well. I feel a little better now.

  I’ve been trying not to be the kind of pest who won’t stop texting when he’s being ghosted. But now I find my phone and tap her number, hoping she’ll answer.

  She does. “Ralph,” she whispers into my ear. “Did you get my present?”

  “I did.”

  “That Clapton album is collectible. I hope I didn’t screw it up by shipping it.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” I say hastily. “What a great gift. But you know I’m going to play your album first.”

  “You ass-kisser, Ralph.”

  “If you were here right now, I’d happily kiss your ass and every other part of your body.”

  “GET A ROOM!” yells Castro from the kitchen. “Also, your shake is ready.”

  Delilah laughs. “Better get your shake. Is it chocolate?”

  “Probably
. But Jason probably put some kind of healthy crap in there, too. His girlfriend is turning him into a nutritionist. None of the rest of us can stand it.” I walk into the kitchen and take the pint glass that’s waiting for me.

  “You can clean the blender, you freeloader,” Jason says.

  Ignoring him, I take the shake back to my room and close the door. “How are you? Still stressed out about what’s-his-name and the album?”

  “I’ll be stressed out until he releases it,” she says. “But a few things are looking up. I have a new manager, and she’s a tigress.”

  “That’s good.” I take a sip of my shake and wonder what to say. It’s really none of my business. But I want Delilah to know that I’d do anything to help her. “Look…” I say slowly. I need to stay in my own lane. But my lane can be fun, too. “Do you ever take beach vacations?”

  “Not often. Shit, I can’t even remember the last time I took a real vacation. When I travel, it’s always for a show.”

  “Well, I have to go to a wedding next week. It’s on an island in the Caribbean.”

  “Fancy.”

  “I know. I promised not to give the date or location to anyone who wasn’t accompanying me to the wedding.”

  Delilah laughs. “Who’s the paranoid bride?”

  “It’s the groom. Do you know who Nate Kattenberger is?”

  “The billionaire? Sure. He owns your hockey team.”

  “That’s the guy. So you’re a hockey fan now?”

  “Shut up. So I did a little harmless Googling on my way home to L.A.”

  It’s embarrassing how much pleasure it gives me to picture Delilah stalking me on the internet. “It’s his wedding. Why don’t you come with me? I get a plus-one.”

  “But…” She hesitates. “I’d feel weird crashing a wedding. And I’m not the easiest guest. My security guy goes everywhere I go.”

  “What if you could leave him behind?” I think it over for a second. “Let me make a couple of calls. If I can promise you four days on a private island with me, and if security was provided, will you do it?”

  “Well…”

  I hold my breath.

  “A few days won’t kill off my career, right? I would really like to try.”

  My relief is all-consuming. “Awesome. Stay tuned. I need to make some plans.”

  I spend the next several days on an expectant high, working out with my friends and looking forward to the trip. “Maybe I need a new bathing suit,” I tell Jason as we trade off sets on the squat rack in the training facility.

  “Fashion crisis?” he teases.

  “We’re going to a beach. I only have one suit in New York and it’s all bleached out from hotel hot tubs. Where do I buy a bathing suit?”

  Jason grunts as he sets the barbell back onto the rack. “Heidi. Duh.” His girlfriend has a business where she does errands for hockey players for extra cash. He hasn’t set foot in a store since last summer. “One more set?” he asks me. “Bonus round?”

  “I’m done,” I decide. I have some shopping to do.

  After I get out of the shower, there are two texts on my phone. One is from Delilah, and it’s a photo of palm trees. This is my last view of the sky for the day, she writes. Recording studios have no windows.

  Neither do hockey rinks, I reply. Every year I feel like a vampire by April.

  Vampires can be sexy, she replies. Hello, Edward Cullen?

  And now I have a dilemma. Do I cop to knowing exactly who she means? Can a real man admit that he once watched the Twilight movies on a plane? Asking for a friend.

  She replies with a Twilight gif where Edward is looking pretty sexy, if everyone is honest.

  My other text message is from Heidi, whose full-time job these days is assisting the team’s general manager. Are you in the building? Carl Bayer is looking for you. He’s set up in the security office.

  I’ll be right up, I reply.

  Whistling to myself, I jog through the sunlit tunnel connecting the practice facility to the Bruisers’ office complex, then take the stairs two at a time.

  Carl Bayer is the head of the security company who watches over Nate Kattenberger’s empire, including the hockey team. He’s also the father of my retired teammate, Eric Bayer.

  Carl rarely shows his face in Brooklyn. He runs a big company, and his minions usually do all the legwork. But today I find Carl seated at a conference table, papers spread out in front of him.

  “Hey, kid,” he says as I enter. “How’s life?”

  “Not bad. You’re working here today?” His office is somewhere in Manhattan, I think. This office is usually occupied by the security staff member who works full time for the team.

  “Yeah. I have a meeting with Nate and Rebecca in an hour. And I’m just working on the guest list. Next week is showtime. So let’s chat about your date.”

  My stomach flips over. “Is she coming?”

  The older man tips his head from side to side, as if to acknowledge his uncertainty. “I hope so. But yesterday, her security company tried to convince me that she can’t go anywhere without them. And we can’t accommodate a security team on the island where you are staying.”

  “She won’t need security on this island, right? It’s tiny.”

  “Tiny, isolated, and guarded by my team as well as two dozen professional athletes.” Carl grins. “But her security guys are pissed off that I won’t provide the name of the hosts, the coordinates of the island, or the guest list. It’s frankly obnoxious that they’d ask. Bayer Security isn’t just a couple of rent-a-cops. We have a global reputation for protecting high-net-worth clients. The whole thing kinda rubs me the wrong way.”

  “I’ll bet. But Delilah is an adult. She can go wherever she wants. She doesn’t need their approval.”

  “Agreed. I can’t imagine they’d convince her that this trip is dangerous. Honestly, her coming along is an inconvenience to me, not the other way around.”

  “Why?”

  “Crazy fans.” He shrugs. “There are people who would rent a boat and follow a popstar around the Caribbean. You do my job for forty years, you see some things.”

  “I, uh…” I hadn’t thought this through. “Sorry to make things complicated.”

  “Don’t be!” Carl chuckles. “Aside from being a little extra-vigilant when we bring her to the island, it’s not a deal killer. I assumed her security guys would just get over themselves. But then I got a Skype call from her bodyguard. He called me from home, from his roommate’s computer. And I didn’t get the feeling that it was an official call.”

  “Wait, what? Was he a giant dude? No neck?”

  “That’s the one. No idea where he shops for shirts. Anyway, it was a strange conversation. He says, ‘I’ll bring her to the meetup, no problem. But they keep tabs on who she’s with. They’ll know afterwards. Maybe she should stay out of pictures.’” Carl shrugs. “I’m thinking—fine whatever. After the wedding is over, the whole thing will be public anyway. Photos will be draped across the internet.”

  “That guy didn’t strike me as the sharpest tool in the shed,” I point out.

  “That was my first impression, too.” Carl clicks the button on his pen a few times, thinking. “But reading people is my job, and it sounded as if he was trying to warn you. He mentioned that her security detail is provided by her record company.”

  “Right. She wants to change that, but she hasn’t done it yet.”

  “Because she broke up with the producer guy? I Googled.”

  “Yeah.”

  Carl puts his meaty forearms on the desk. “I think the bodyguard is saying that if she vacations with you, the ex is going to blow his musket.”

  “So?” My blood pressure spikes. “Again—adults can do what they want. He’s her ex for a reason.”

  “Agreed. But I’m a cynical old man who’s met a lot of assholes. Wouldn’t want this to blow back on her.”

  “He’s a sore loser.” I know this all too well. “But she’s never going ba
ck to him. He needs to understand. And I don’t see how denying her a trip to the beach is even a little bit fair.”

  “All right,” Carl says simply. “I’ll tell those assholes that I’ll bring her across on the launch myself. They can just deal with it.”

  “Thank you,” I say, getting up. “I appreciate it.”

  He chuckles. “Oh, to be young again. See you on the island, kid.”

  Delilah

  I’m seated with a dozen or so people on a boat that’s cutting across turquoise waters, clutching my floppy hat against the breeze. It’s so beautiful here.

  I almost didn’t come. And not because this trip is inconvenient. Charla Harris is working hard to line up songwriting dates for me, and I had to delay them for this trip. And getting here wasn’t easy—a flight to San Juan, followed by another to Tortola. I put Mr. Muscles up at a hotel there for five days, because it was cheaper than flying him home.

  Besides, who wouldn’t want a free trip to Tortola? But my bodyguard seemed more anxious than happy. His security company didn’t like this trip. At all. Not that I care.

  But the biggest problem with this trip is me. I’m a nervous wreck. What if it’s weird? What if Silas and I don’t have as much to talk about as we thought? What if he’d rather party with his friends than spend time with me?

  What if it’s just not the same? I’m worried that I’ve built up our one night together in my head.

  The woman next to me reaches over and covers my hand with her own. And I realize that I’ve been drumming anxiously on the gunwale. “Sorry,” I say quickly.

  She laughs, and I turn to see that we’re wearing almost identical big dark sunglasses and floppy hats. She also has thick, dark hair. We could be cousins. The biggest difference between us is the squirmy toddler on her lap, who is currently trying to pull her own sunhat off.

  “I’m Zara,” the woman says. “And I can’t believe I just did that. It’s a mom thing. If your drink was too close to the edge of the table, I’d also move that away from your hand. Hopefully I won’t actually wipe your face with my napkin. It’s a sickness.”