“Wait, where’s your map?”
“In here.” I tap my temple and smile. I don’t explain anymore and ask him to follow me again. We leave the set and head back toward the office. I take him to meet my assistant Lisette, who does ask for his autograph, and they pose for many pictures. She even makes him pick her up. Julius does everything she asks and does it all with a smile.
“Do you have an office?” he asks.
“Not exactly. I have a dressing room, and when I need to use the computer or something, I go to the media room. It’s where most of us work when we’re not on air.”
“How come you’re not working today?”
“How do you know when I work?”
He shrugs and blushes slightly. “I may have looked you up the other night when I was tweeting you.”
“You were tweeting me?” This question displeases him. His smile disappears, and he looks confused.
“Well, I thought it was you. I guess I have the wrong handle.” Julius takes his phone out and shows his social media.
“No, that’s definitely mine, but sometimes Lisette will retweet things during my broadcast. She really manages most of my social media stuff.”
“Ah, so I was flirting with your assistant and not you?”
Now I’m the one blushing. “I’ll be sure to add the app to my phone.”
There’s an awkward pause between us—the “should I say something, or should he?” moment when neither of us knows what to do or how to act. I finally give in and look away from him before acting like I’ve come up with the most fantastic idea ever.
“Do you want to see my dressing room?”
Julius nods, and we head a few doors down from Lisette. Thankfully, we have a cleaning crew, so last night's dinner isn’t stinking up my room. “It’s not much, but it’s ten times what I had when I lived in North Dakota.” He walks around, touches the clothes on the rack, and then sits down on my sofa.
“Damn, this is comfortable. I’d probably fall asleep on this if we had couches in the locker room.”
“You do. I’ve seen them.”
Julius shakes his head and gives me a disgusting look. “Heed my words, never ever sit on anything in the locker room, ever. Footballers are gross. We walk around naked, take quick showers, and believe in superstitions.”
“Okay, well, I feel sick now.”
He pats the cushion next to him, and as much as I’d love to sit next there and get lost in his baby blue eyes, I can’t. I won’t put myself through unneeded agony. I opt for the chair at my vanity. It’s far enough away, and I won’t want to strangle him when his mood shifts.
“So, you have me at the station and gave me a tour. What is it that you want me to do for you?”
“This is a date, right? With no time limit?”
He nods.
“Well, first things first,” I say as I stand. “You need to sit here so I can put some make-up on you.”
“Haha, very funny.”
Except I’m not laughing.
I see nothing but fear written all over his face. “For what?” he asks.
“You’re going on air, Julius. You’re going to do the weather, weather boy.”
His mouth drops open, and I know I’ve beaten him at his little game.
Fourteen
Julius
“I . . . uh . . . there’s . . .” I don’t even know what I’m trying to say, but every word possible fails me. There has to be some mistake, right? I must’ve misheard Autumn because there is no way the station will allow someone who has no idea what they’re doing to go on air and report something as scientific as the weather. Then, it hits me. This is a joke because I made fun of Autumn’s job, and she’s trying to prove a point. I start to chuckle and nod. “I get it. I’m sorry for making fun of your job. What you do is very important.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad you have recognized that my job does require some skill, but you’re still going on air.”
“Wh-what? Why?” I stammer.
“Because it’s going to be a humbling experience for you,” she says. “And I think the viewers will love to see Julius Cunningham in a different light.”
“So, this is about PR?”
“No, it’s about showing you there is more to the world than football. Now, come sit.” Autumn pats the black chair and swivels it around so the seat is facing me. I look from it to her and see she’s serious about me doing this. Fuck. Autumn pats the chair again, and I groan. Each step I take is staggered. I’m dragging my feet like a three-year-old who has been told to come to the dinner table and eat broccoli. I really want to ask her if I have to do this, but I’m afraid of the answer. She bought me for the day and technically can tell me to do whatever she wants me to do. And I guess this is better than standing on the street corner dressed as a chicken. Although, no one would really know it was me. Nope, I have a feeling Autumn would alert the news or something. In hindsight, this will be the lesser of any other evil she could come up with.
I finally sit, and my body sags. Autumn spins me toward the mirror, and I lean forward. “Are those bags under my eyes?” The large light bulbs surrounding her mirror illuminate my face. I look horrendous like I haven’t slept in years. I don’t remember looking this bad when I left the house, but hell, maybe I did.
“Yes,” she says. “Not getting much sleep, huh?” Autumn is at her counter, going through her bags and drawers of what I’m guessing is make-up.
“Understatement. Have you ever had a toddler’s feet in your face while trying to sleep?”
Autumn laughs and comes toward me with a brush and some brown stuff. “Can’t say that I have. I’m sure that makes for a crowded bed at night.”
“It shouldn’t since Roxy is so tiny.”
Autumn continues to brush cream or something all over my face. I can’t really say if I like this or not. It’s definitely different, and I’m happy I don’t have to do this for any of my interviews after the game. What a nightmare.
“What does your wife do for work?” she asks.
I sigh and close my eyes when her fingers are nearby. “My soon-to-be ex-wife is trying to make it as an actress in Los Angeles.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? The fact that she’s my ex or an actress?”
Autumn pauses and then goes back to her counter. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You’re not. It’s somewhat public knowledge, especially if you watch the gossip shows. She has a boyfriend. She wants a different life.”
“For that, I’m truly sorry.”
“Me too. I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you like your job?”
“I love my job,” she says without hesitation. “There’s a joke that goes around about how being a meteorologist is the only job where you can be wrong and not get fired.”
My eyebrows raise. “That’s a good point.”
Autumn laughs lightly, and I find that it’s a sound I’d like to hear again. “Do you like your job?” she counters.