Dex

I was in the shower in my hotel room in Paris, standing under the jets of hot water with my eyes closed, when I heard my phone ring. I turned off the water, picked my phone up from the counter, and answered it.

“Listen, shithead,” came Sebastian Santos’s voice on the other end of the line. “You’re in.”

I blinked. Maybe my misery, mixed with exhaustion and jet lag, was giving me a stress dream. Or a stress nightmare. “What the ever-loving fuck,” I managed, “are you talking about?”

“You met with the League, right?” Santos said. “Today?”

“Yes.” The meeting had finished an hour ago. They’d heard me out and promised to consider it. They hadn’t given me an answer.

“So, I called them and told them to quit fucking around and reinstate you,” Santos said. “They said fine. You’re back in, Dex. You’ll get the call in about ten minutes.”

“What?” I said. I was naked and dripping in a strange bathroom, wondering if Sebastian Santos was getting his revenge by pranking me. “Why the hell did you do that?”

“Because I’m decent, buttwipe,” Santos said. No one had ever accused him of having a wide vocabulary. “It’s just the way I am.”

“No you’re not,” I argued. “You’re an annoying asshole.”

“That’s true, but you shouldn’t say that, since you broke my nose. And since I just saved your ass.”

“You actually did it, didn’t you?” I said, realizing he wasn’t joking. “You actually called them and put in a word for me.”

“Are you deaf? I just said I did.”

“Why? Why would you do that for me?”

“Because she asked me to.”

No. It couldn’t be. And yet I didn’t hesitate. I knew instantly who he was talking about. “Sophie?”

“That’s right,” Santos said. “Your sexy-ass stepsister called me up. Bluffed her way past my agent and everything. She made a good case. Told me how Eric dumped you over me. I never did like that guy.”

“Me neither,” I said, thinking, Sophie called him up? Is this for real?

“I never thought you should be banned for life over it anyway,” Santos said. “You paid some shitty dues, you apologized, it’s over. Though I admit I did it mostly for the chance to kick your ass on the field again. And to see if I could get in her pants.”

“Thank you,” I managed. “And you will never, ever get in her fucking pants. I swear it.”

“We’ll see. I think she liked me. Besides, it doesn’t matter. You’re not going to be playing for long.”

“Why not?”

“Because you want out.”

“What?” I said. That made no sense. Why the hell was I in fucking Paris, begging to play the game again, if I wanted out? “You’re delusional. I don’t want out.”

“Sure you do,” Santos said. “That’s why you broke my nose. Because you want out and that was the fastest way to do it. It’s, like, subliminal.”

“Who are you, Dr. Phil?”

“No, dumbass, I’m a guy who gets therapy to deal with my issues. I have issues, man. I’m just telling you what I know. I’m under the same pressure you are, and I deal with the same shit. The difference is that I get therapy and you don’t. That’s why I keep my cool and you end up with your fist in my face, and no idea why you’re fucking doing it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said.

“See for yourself,” he said. “I got you back in. Now see if it makes you happy. See you on the field, loser.” And he hung up.

I stood there in the dissipating steam, and everything went through me at once. Jubilation at my victory. Fear. Anger at Sophie for meddling after she’d basically told me to get lost. Annoyance at Santos. Discomfort that maybe he was right. Admiration that for all my celebrity, fame, and power, it had taken one phone call from “I insist I’m a nobody” Sophie to turn all of my luck around.

Really, that was pretty fucking badass.

Why had she done that? Had she been trying to prove something? That wasn’t Sophie—she didn’t feel the need to prove anything. It wasn’t the way she worked. Had she done it because she cared?

I hate this, she’d texted me.

I knew what she meant. I hated it too. I felt pretty fucking shitty about us right now, but she was Sophie, and I wasn’t going to do some petulant act, hoping she’d come crawling. So I’d told her we were fine. I hadn’t gotten what I wanted, but I’d fucking deal. It wasn’t her fault.

And now she’d done this. I dialed her number, but got her voicemail. “It’s me,” I said. “Call me.” When I hung up, my phone rang in my hand. It was the president of the International League.

So I took the call that resurrected my career bare-ass naked, using all the dignity I could summon with my dick hanging out. I thanked him and told him I’d do my best from now on. I told him I was very aware of the honor that was being granted me. I hung up and I phoned Sophie again. “I need to talk to you,” I said. “Call me when you get this.”

My phone would start ringing, I knew. The shitstorm would start again. But suddenly I was really, really fucking tired. I just couldn’t hold my head up anymore. So I did the unthinkable: I turned my phone off, crawled into the big hotel bed, and fell asleep.

I woke up five hours later, at four o’clock in the morning, jet lag playing its crazy game with my brain. I was groggy, but at least I could deal with things. I at least needed to at least call my father. I picked up my phone and turned it on again. Lying in bed, I groaned.

A call from Eric, wanting to talk about repping me again.

Calls from three other high-powered agents, circling me in the water like sharks.

Calls from four different sports journalists, looking for quotes.

A call from a model named Kate Brightly, who I’d briefly dated two years ago, saying she was in Paris and wanted to hook up.

A call from a very polite-sounding man at the Osatori watch company, wishing to discuss the sponsorship deal with me face to face.

Just like that, Dex Carter was back.

But there was no call from Sophie. No text, either.

I got out of bed and got dressed in workout pants and a t-shirt. The hotel had a twenty-four-hour gym, and I’d go make use of it. What the hell time was it in California? I had no idea. Maybe I’d ask at the front desk on the way down, so I could decide whether to call her again.

My phone rang again as I was pulling on my trainers. It was Dad, so I answered it.

“Dad,” I said. “I have news.”

His voice was like a black hole. “Dex.”

I sat up ramrod straight on the edge of the bed. “What? Did something happen? What’s going on?”

“Is it true?” he asked. “About you and Sophie?”

“What?”

“They’re reporting it on the Internet.”

For a second I saw only red, and I couldn’t breathe. “What,” I said to my father, pushing each word out, “what is on the fucking Internet?”

“Oh my God,” he said. “It is true.”

I stumbled to my suitcase and pulled out my laptop in panic. “No,” I said, begging the universe. “No way. Just no.”

“Are you saying it isn’t true?” Dad said.

“It is true,” I told him. “But there’s no way the Internet could fucking know. We were so careful.”

I heard Patty’s voice in the background, and my dad talking to her. They were both losing their shit. I felt bad about that, but they would get over it. The shock would go away. I was twenty-six, and what I did with my dick was my business. Well, right now it was mine and Sophie’s.

Oh, fuck. Sophie.

I clicked open the browser while my parents freaked out on the other end of the phone, and searched “Dex Carter stepsister.” The hits came up right away.

The top one was a big gossip site. There was a picture of me and Sophie leaving Dad’s launch party, the picture taken from an angle behind us. We were walking close together, my hand on the small of her back. The headline said, IS DEX CARTER’S STEPSISTER HIS SECRET GIRLFRIEND?

I clicked through the other links, found the same picture again. One taken from a cell phone, of me handing Sophie into the hired car. I was leaning close to her, her hand in mine. We looked… close. But we weren’t touching or kissing. Dex Carter seemed awfully close to his stepsister, Sophie Breen, at a party recently, a photo caption read. In fact, they seemed to be flirting. Could she be the reason for the end of his relationship with Jesetta Bibliona, and that we haven’t seen him with a girlfriend since?

“Is that it?” I shouted into the phone, silencing my dad. “That’s all they’ve got? A picture of us leaving the party?”

“The articles say something about the two of you seen leaving a bathroom,” Dad said.

“That’s bullshit,” I said. “No one saw that.”

“No one saw that?” he bellowed in my ear. Behind him, I heard Patty wail.

“Calm down,” I said, clicking through the links and finding the same thing over and over, each site reporting the same flimsy story. They were speaking closely and intimately… He was smiling at her… They left early, and he escorted her to a waiting car. “You’re not used to this the way I am. This is a load of complete fucking shit. This can be contained.”

“Goddamn it, Dex,” Dad said. “Sophie doesn’t think so.”

“Where is she?” I demanded. “Put her on.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”

“Is she out of her mind?” I shouted. “Put her on.”

“Not right now, Dex. She needs some time to process this. We all do.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I finished with Dad, letting him yell at me some more, then hung up so I could think. The news was breaking that I was playing again—that had stirred up extra interest in me. Someone had seen me leave that bathroom, with Sophie following. But whoever the anonymous source was, they had no proof—just a photo of us walking together and a sexy bit of gossip. Since my name was golden to the gossip sites right now, they’d reported it.

This was business as usual for these sites. Whatever silly thing comes up, they report it in the hopes of getting a few clicks, some cheap attention. Then something else comes up—usually literally within a few hours—and that takes over the page. Every celebrity has dealt with this kind of shit. You ignore it, it goes away. In the Internet culture, everyone’s forgotten about it and moved on to the next thing in less than a day.

I dialed Sophie and listened to her phone ring. When she didn’t pick up, I texted her. Just ignore it and it will go away. And fucking call me, please.

Then I packed my suitcase and got ready to go to the airport. I had no need to be in Paris anymore.

When she called me thirty minutes later, she was crying.