Overnight Sensation(13)

“Who’s asking?”

“I am, you—” He doesn’t finish that thought. “Tell me, so I can help you craft your message.”

“There is no message. Hot Pepper didn’t want to go home to Manhattan and wouldn’t tell me her address. I took her up to our place, where she puked in our bathroom. Then I tucked her in and let her sleep it off.” I edit out the part where we shared a bed. “When I woke up she was gone. Probably embarrassed. Haven’t heard from her since.” A little prickle of worry hits me as I say those words. “She’s okay, right?”

“She’s fine. She’s on the bus with the team. It’s you I’m worried about. I don’t think the commissioner is going to like his baby’s picture on the blogs…”

...getting manhandled by a league player. He doesn’t even have to finish the sentence. I can hear how it ends.

“So what do I do?” I ask him. “I mean, I didn’t do anything wrong. So I can’t apologize.”

“No,” he agrees swiftly. “You can’t. It’s not that kind of situation. I just have to be ready to answer any questions that media outlets might ask. I’ve already got one newspaper guy asking me if she’s okay, and what does her father have to say about the photo.”

Ugh. I’m sorry I ever poured that girl a drink. I don’t need this headache. And neither does she. Hers is probably an actual headache, too. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” I grunt. “But I think staying the hell away from her is the best course of action.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. No drinking with the ladies this weekend, okay? This party is going to be all nosy socialites and season ticket holders.”

“No kidding.” His little warning irritates me. “I was there last year.” Unlike you. “I’ll be a good boy.”

“Sounds like a plan. See you after practice for the team photos.”

I say goodbye and hang up the phone. We’re flying down the L.I.E. toward the Hamptons. “You having fun at least?” I grunt at Silas.

“You know it. Was Tommy pissed at you?”

“Not sure. I didn’t do a thing wrong.”

“I know that.” He casts a glance in my direction. “Then there’s nothing to worry about. Except for her dad making a scene.”

“That’s when I leave the party through the kitchen.”

“I’ll follow you out,” Silas says. “We’ll go for another joy ride.” Then—with obvious glee—he floors it.





5





Heidi


The bus ride from the team headquarters in Brooklyn to the golf resort is unending. I have a white-knuckle grip on the armrests of the luxury coach as we speed toward East Hampton. It’s three hours of torture. My head aches, and my stomach is foamy and hot. Little waves of nausea pass through me every few minutes, worsening each time the bus makes a turn.

I chose a seat near the back of the bus, just in case I needed to sprint toward the coach’s little bathroom. But now I realize this was a mistake. I feel claustrophobic back here where I can’t see the road. When I was a little girl who got carsick, Daddy always told me to look at the horizon to steady myself.

My stomach gives another angry lurch, and I start praying again. Dearest Lord above, I’ll never drink again if you could just make it stop. No more tequila. No more darts. No more climbing into hockey players’ laps in the backs of cars and begging them for sex.

That mortifying memory brings the taste of bile to my throat. I swallow hard, feeling sweaty. If I could just get off this bus, everything would be fine. I need to stand outside in the sunshine and breathe the fresh air.

I check the map on my phone for the tenth time. We’re still twenty minutes away from East Hampton. I’ve almost survived the trip, but these last miles are crawling by. If I don’t find some relief, I’ll lose my mind.

There’s a text from Castro, checking on me. I should answer the man, but I’m not feeling well enough to think of something pithy to say. How does a girl beg for forgiveness in this situation?

In charm school, I learned to write condolence notes and thank-you notes. But they didn’t prepare me for this situation. Dear Jason, I’m sorry I got senior-prom-drunk and then begged you for nookie.

Every time I remember the words I used, I want to die all over again. I thought I was living life out loud, and being true to myself. But I was only humiliating myself.

The dot on my phone’s map creeps forward too slowly. I need air.

Rising onto unsteady legs, I shoulder my handbag and then lurch toward the front of the coach. The only saving grace is that Jason Castro is not on this bus. Some players opted to drive to the Hamptons instead.

Thank you, Baby Jesus. I couldn’t face him right now.

I toddle forward. In the second row, there’s an empty seat beside Bayer, who’s dozing with his head against the window. I slip into the empty seat and fix my eyes on the road.

And it’s a little better up here. There’s less motion, and I can see out the giant front windows. I take a deep breath in and then exhale slowly.

“Hungover?” Bayer asks without opening his eyes.

“Seems so,” I grunt. It’s not the most ladylike response, but I can’t afford to be polite right at this moment. I can barely breathe through my misery.