I snap a picture and post it to social, which the publicity team already gave me permission to do.
When guests start to flow in, I take a minute to escape to the washroom. I got a message from Brooke earlier telling me to kick ass, and even Mari wished me luck before I hopped on my plane this morning. Another text comes in when I’m about to reach for the stall door.
Grumpy Baller: Good luck tonight, Pink. Blow their minds.
My heart flips over.
“Did you see the portraits? They’re so crass.” A woman’s voice comes from outside the stall.
Another responds. “I heard she was a last-minute stand-in. They had another artist lined up, and it fell through.”
“The director likes avant-garde, but this is ridiculous. The studio threw money at them. They would’ve been better to spend it on more champagne.”
Laughter follows, and I’m suddenly lightheaded, as if I hadn’t eaten all day. I wait until I hear the bathroom door shut to unlock the stall and step out.
Out in the foyer, ushers are moving people into the theater.
I want to run, but I can’t. It would be too awkward. So, I follow their hand gestures and head into the dark cinema. My seat is partway up. The cast is seated closer to the front, dressed elegantly. The men on either side of me are wearing press badges.
When the lights go down, the music and credits starting, my mind goes back.
“She was a last-minute stand-in.”
“They’re so crass.”
I sit in the dark, watching the film and ignoring the way my eyes burn.
The movie is beautiful, but it’s hard to focus on it with the criticism playing in my head.
It’s not even that they hated me or my work but that Annie took a chance on bringing me in for this and I can’t stand the thought of letting her down.
At the end, I’m swept out into the foyer with the others. Industry insiders cluster in groups, drinking and gossiping and laughing. I take snapshots of the art for social.
A few guests congratulate me when I tell them I’m the artist.
Which ones hated it? There’s no way of knowing.
I skip the lines of people heading for champagne and duck outside. It’s warm in early October, the light breeze lifting the hairs under my up-do.
My phone is heavy in my hands as I stare at the photo I posted earlier of the portraits, back when I was proud and confident.
I click back into my texts and hit a contact.
“Pink,” Clay answers.
It’s the single syllable that unleashes the floodgates. Silent tears stream down my face.
“How’s your event?” he asks.
“Great.” I swallow. “Okay, not great. Someone hated my art.”
“They’re morons,” he says evenly.
My mouth works for a moment as I glance around the alley. “You haven’t seen the portraits. I only posted them on social, and you’re not on social.”
“I check yours.”
That revelation takes a moment to settle. “You do?”
“Yeah.” He sounds caught out, as if he might already regret telling me. “Point is, it’s not about you, it’s about them. People hate on me every day. Look at a single article, a single post from the team or any of the news outlets. It’s full of judgment.”
I frown, swiping at my cheeks. “Is that supposed to make it hurt less?”
“I won’t tell you how you’re supposed to feel. What I will tell you is I’ve been there.”
The moon is full, just visible when I pace toward the back of the alley in my sparkly heels.
This is what it feels like for Clay. Every single day.
For the first time in a long time, I feel as if I understand a piece of him that he hides from the world.
I feel as if he wants me to.
“Where are you?” he asks at last.
“Alley beside the theater.”
“You got a new thing for alleys?”
I snort, his warmth contagious even from hundreds of miles away.
“Maybe I do.” I bite my cheek. “Where are you?”
My feet carry me toward the street again, the noise of traffic and conversation entering the bubble of quiet that was Clay and me.
“Just went to visit Coach. He’ll be out of hospital in a few days.”
“You’re still in Denver.” That knowledge lifts my spirits, though I can’t place why. “How long are you staying?”
“I’m not sure. A few days more. For Coach.”
“That’s great,” I say and mean it—both that Coach’s condition is improving and that Clay is there with him.
It has nothing to do with the fact that I want to see him again.
I lean against the brick wall, thinking only of the man on the other end of the call. “Annie Jamieson and Tyler Adams are the most amazing couple. I don’t know how they survive all the pressure and still seem well adjusted.”
“You get their secret, you let me know.” I smile, and I picture him doing the same.
He clears his throat. “When are you coming back?”
He means to Denver, but for a second, I imagine he means something else.
“Tomorrow.”
“You need a care package for the plane? Say the word and there’ll be a bottle of tequila waiting.”
My lips curve.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
12
CLAY
“It’s a good offer, Clay. A great offer,” my agent says over the phone as I finish my set of bench presses.
“Three years,” I say as I wipe off the equipment, then I move over to the treadmill.
I’ve always used a private gym or the Kodiaks’ one, but since I’m still in Denver, I’m using the communal gym in my condo building.
I kept the place because it seemed like more of a hassle to sell it, and it wasn’t a priority. But for the moment, I’m glad I did.
A guy wearing expensive workout clothes crosses to the bench press, poking at the plates on either side.
“Twenty a year,” Dee confirms.
I hit both the incline and speed buttons at once, the belt whirring as it catches up to the pace I want.
“Even if we both know you’re not going to command the max salary, you’re still expensive. Teams don’t have enough contract space to sign a player like you with the season already underway. Their budgets are committed.”
The gym has a bank of windows with a mountain view on a clear day. It’s like a crack of light into the dark place I’ve been living in for the past few months.
I grimace at myself in the mirror as I run, hitting the up button again so the speed increases until my knee registers a complaint.
“It’s also New York. Excellent quality of life. You’d be close to Kat, could visit on the weekends.”
“They’re not a contender,” I point out.
“No one can win every year.”
If I take the gig, these could be my final years. They’d be comfortable but not sensational. I’d be trading living on the edge for safety, security.
“I’ll think about it.” I click off the call, then step off the treadmill and hit the reset button.