Game On(7)

Don’t worry, barkeep, I thought. I am quite aware of how much I f*cked that up. At this point there was only one thing left to do. I pushed my empty shot glass towards him.

“One more,” I said.

***

I woke with a horrendous hangover. My head was pounding and the inside of my mouth was dry and disgusting, like kitty litter. Not that I knew how kitty litter tasted. My mouth just felt how I imagined it would. I looked down at myself and groaned. I had slept in my bra and a hand to my head revealed that I had left my hair in a bun all night. Unknotting that mess was going to take all morning. No wonder my head ached. Well, that and all the tequila I had chugged. I looked over at the clock and swore.

“Fuck!” It was already eleven a.m. I had to be at the practice field in an hour. It wasn’t far away, but I still had to make myself presentable, make sure all my equipment was ready, and stop the pain in my head. Step one—shower.

Somehow I wrestled the elastic out of my hair, managing to yank a couple of dozen strands from my head in the process. I rubbed at my sore scalp, hoping that it would alleviate some of the pain I felt right now.

The water was hot, very hot, as I ducked into the shower. It felt good and some of my headache floated away with the steam. I let the water hit me straight in the face. Somehow that always made me feel better.

But then I remembered what had happened last night. How I had probably f*cked up my assignment with one little mistake.

I didn’t know what I had been thinking. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have just kept flirting and then when I showed up the next day we both could have feigned surprise.

Stupid, stupid Sophie, I told myself, pressing my forehead against the cold tile of the shower. Why couldn’t you have just left? Why did you have to say who you were? He was having fun. You were having fun. Everything was going great. Ugh. I gently mimed hitting my head against the shower wall, but even the slight bob of my head made it hurt again. Ugh. This was going to be a rough day.

I stayed in the shower until most of my headache was gone and I had decided on a plan. I was going to pretend like last night had never even happened. I would not bring it up, not reference it all. Perhaps he was so drunk that he wouldn’t even remember what had happened.

Yeah. Right. I had seen him, he had been drinking but he was nowhere near drunk. In fact, his gaze had become sharp and focused the minute I had sprung my unpleasant identity on him.

Yet, I hadn’t let his abrupt departure keep me from drinking myself stupid and that’s why I was shoving myself into my clothes, wincing with every sudden movement. Somehow I managed to wrangle my hair, wet and tangled, into a presentable braid. Sunscreen and curled eyelashes were as good as I was going to get makeup-wise today; besides, even if I had time, I didn’t have anything that would get rid of the puffiness under my eyes and my general state of disarray. I looked like I was hung over. Even in my nicest pair of jeans—the ones that Nick had always said made my ass look great—and a nice but casual white shirt, I still looked like death on a stick. I looked terrible and I was going to be late. I hated, hated being late. My mother was always late.

Speaking of which. I checked my phone and sure enough, three missed calls from her. I had just enough time to call as I headed to the practice field. I grabbed my bag, with my recorder and press badge, and headed for the lobby.

“Call you a cab?” Greg at the front desk asked as I walked past him. I paused.

I shouldn’t, but I was already running late, it was going to be hot, and the stadium was at least ten minutes away by car.

What the hell, I was on assignment. I could live a little, couldn’t I? That’s what all my co-workers would do. I turned back to Greg and gave him a wide smile.

“A cab would be great,” I said.

Five minutes later, I was speeding towards the field, the A/C blasting. My phone rang.

“Hon,” my mother said, when I picked up. I could hear the cigarettes in her voice. “I thought you were dead.”

“Not dead,” I told her. “Just in Austin.” Even though we spoke on a fairly regular basis and lived in the same city, I hadn’t seen my mom much lately. I told myself that it was because I was working so hard, but I knew that it was just easier to have the same conversation we always ended up having if I could hang up at the end of them. I knew that it hurt her that I wasn’t around as much, but I was just tired of feeling like I could never do right by her. We may look like sisters but beyond that we didn’t have much in common, primarily when it came down to the things we wanted for me. She wanted me to have a husband and I preferred a career. I was too young to be thinking about marriage, I kept telling her, but I knew she was worried I’d end up like her—a single mom whose resume included a lot of part-time jobs with no long-term security.

“How’s the hotel?” she asked.

“Really nice.” I knew she’d be impressed with the details. She loved a fancy hotel—had even worked in a couple over the years. “There’s a chandelier in the lobby.”

She let out a whistle. “Well, that ain’t bad.” I heard her take a drag of her cigarette. “Did you go out last night?”

No doubt she could hear it in my voice.

“Just for a quick drink.” No use getting into it with her, though she would have been proud that I didn’t pay for any of my drinks. “That’s what God made men for,” she always said. “That and fixing your car.”