Petty much?
Yeah, no. I can’t say that or I’ll be the one who looks like a douchebag.
Still, it makes me uneasy seeing his face plastered all over the news, bad press roasting him.
I can’t eat.
Can’t sleep.
Guilt is a terrible bed partner…
Nine
Tripp
My phone is blowing up.
Has been for days.
Everyone wants a statement about the flip. The video has gone viral; news outlets from around the globe are having a field day with the story, with the video of Chandler and me dancing. Us arguing with our surly expressions then her tucking her hand beneath my armpit, lowering her head, and tipping me onto the cold, hard floor for the whole damn world to see.
I could have broken my neck!
Sunny Bellefonte won’t stop calling, relentlessly in pursuit of an exclusive interview—one I refused to give her the night of the wedding. She even went as far as sending her questions to my publicist—wanting to interview Chandler, us both, together—and after some brief snooping, it wasn’t difficult to obtain her information.
I mean, Chandler is the granddaughter of the Steam’s owner. You’d have to be living under a rock if you’re in sports and don’t recognize a member of the Westbrooke family when you lay eyes on one.
Same brown hair. Same smile. Same observant eyes.
“For the last time, I am not doing an interview,” I tell the team’s publicist for the second time today. He has been tailing me since I arrived at the stadium for practice, waiting near the locker room showers for me to emerge.
“That’s your decision, but you kind of look like a…” He pauses, hesitant. “Schmuck.”
A what? “How did I become the asshole in this narrative?” I throw a towel over the back of my neck, fresh from the shower, with Travis already riding my ass, trying to earn his overinflated wage.
I’ve been at work seven hours; can he not cut me some slack? I’m naked for fuck’s sake.
Jesus.
“Look Mr. Wallace, with all due respect, you haven’t had any press in a while—months. It might be good for your image, especially with, um…salary renegotiations coming up.”
Is he threatening me? It’s hard to tell with the sweat rolling down his nervous brow.
“How is getting bested by a girl good for my image, Travis? Help me see it. Paint me a picture, would you?” I scoff.
“Well.” He pushes his black-rimmed glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. “You’ve hardly been warm and fuzzy to reporters—Tom Brady did a whole segment for E! from his house in California.”
Fucking Tom Brady with his organic garden and his giant mansion and charity work and being married to a supermodel.
Big deal.
Like it’s hard?
“Honestly, Travis, I don’t give a shit what anyone else is doing or not doing, and I certainly don’t feel like giving an interview to Sunny Bellefonte is going to make a bit of difference in my contract negotiation.”
I’ve given Sunny enough already—she was in the room when the whole thing happened, saw it firsthand. If she didn’t get photos or video or a few sound bites when she had me, that’s her fucking problem.
“She might have been in the room,” Travis says, “but she didn’t scoop it. It was viral before she knew what was going on.”
“That’s her problem,” I reiterate, in no mood to beleaguer the point. I grab my navy duffle out of my cubby and pull out a clean pair of boxer briefs. “Sunny Bellefonte will make it through the day with or without the exclusive.”
Travis stands behind me, still hovering, awkwardly clutching his tablet and phone, looking a lot like Hollis and my brother’s wedding planner—or like he needs to take a giant, anxiety-fueled shit.
It is not my fault the dude is afraid of me and doesn’t have the balls to boss me around. Our last publicist would schedule the interview, tell me when and where to show up, and threaten to fine me if I didn’t do my job.
She knew how to throw her weight around and had bigger balls than most men—certainly bigger balls than Travis here.
I’m obligated to do press; it’s written into my contract. I know it and Travis knows it, but he’s too chickenshit to lay down the law with me.
A weakness I exploit.
I pull on mesh track pants, stomach growling. I’m starved and having dinner with my parents at my place and cannot freaking wait to see what Mom brought over.
“Is that all?” I keep challenging him. “I’m having company over.”
“Uh…for now, I guess, Mr. Wallace.”
You guess? I want to sarcastically say. “Then we’re done.” And if he calls me Mr. Wallace one more time, I’ll lose my damn shit. We’re the same age. It’s weird; he needs to stop.
“J-just think about it. The story is hot—trending on social media.”
Social media, I want to snarl. What good has that done anyone? Bunch of people taking pictures of their food and babies. Ha!
“Yeah, yeah,” I tell him, walking away. “I’ll think about it tonight.”
At never o’clock sharp.
“…I cannot believe that after five days, the story hasn’t died down,” Mom is saying, hefting a giant pan of homemade lasagna out of my oven. She’s been at my place baking most of the afternoon and it’s a rare treat having my parents all to myself without my butthole brother and sister present.
It’s nearly impossible finding windows of opportunity for family gatherings like this and with Buzz on his honeymoon and True traveling, I think Mom is feeling lonely since the wedding chatter has died down.
So, they made the two-hour drive to feed me, and lecture me as they typically do.
“If possible, it’s gained momentum.” Mom sets the pan on a hot pad in the center of my kitchen counter.
She’s not wrong. The video is being played and replayed on networks I’ve never even heard of. Entertainment channels and gossip blogs. The news. European news.
I can’t go out in public without fans approaching—they all seem to bring it up. Instead of getting excited about an upcoming game, they ramble on and on about Chandler Westbrooke kicking my ass.
“Wallace, would you mind telling us how tall the girl was who whooped your butt?”
“She sure showed you.”
“You lost your man card after that, huh?”
Thanks everyone.
Thanks.
“You know,” she prattles on, passing Dad the plates. “You know,” she says again to make sure I’m listening, glancing over at me. “I’ve been thinking about all this Chandler karate-throwing business that’s been going on—all the ladies in the book club are in a tizzy about it.” Mom uses a spatula to carve out a piece of flaming hot cheese, sauce, and pasta—like slicing a cake—scoops it up, slides it onto my father’s waiting plate. “The girls are convinced none of that whole production was real.”
Calling them the girls is being generous. These women—the members of her book club—haven’t been girls in about sixty years.
See, Buzz and I are in a book club with our mom. It’s called something lame, like the Bellmont Readers, and it’s mostly grandmas and shit, plus me and my brother. No one really knows about it except them, and Buzz and now Hollis, who sometimes comes to the meetings too, if the book selection is a title she’s been wanting to read.