Chapter Twenty-Three

Rhett

After Brenna threw me out on my ass, I felt like the scum of the earth. The words and accusations she’d hurled at me rattled around like a box of rocks in my brain. I couldn’t get the image of Brenna sneering out of my mind…or the word “assault” which she’d casually thrown into her argument like it meant nothing.

I wondered how many women I’d hurt before, like Brenna. I wondered how many of them were still angry with me, or still pain-stricken that they’d been manipulated and coerced. Everything I told Brenna had been the truth. I’d never assaulted a stripper, or taken advantage of a drunk, underage girl.

But that didn’t exactly leave me with a glowing reputation that would make my family proud.

Ever since I’d pitched in the minors, I’d loved the fame. And I loved everything that had come with it – the pussy, the money, the free booze at almost every bar in New York City. I even loved some of the hit pieces Brenna had written. I still remembered the first one – a sarcastic exposition of my escapades during New York Fashion Week – and cringed when I recalled my reaction. I’d actually had it framed, with the bold, black headline: Rhett Bradshaw – He’s The Man!

I was pretty sure that Ernie still had that framed, hanging in his condo. It had been like a mark of honor, like a frat boy fucking every member of a sorority and then bragging about it all over campus.

I never thought that I was hurting anyone. All of those girls who rubbed against me and showed me their tits, I thought I’d been giving them what they wanted, their own little piece of fame. And when they’d taken a little more than one random encounter to persuade into bed, well, I still thought it was no big deal. It had never occurred to me that I’d abused my position of power while wearing my black hat. I only thought I’d been doing what professional athletes do.

I’d been having so much fun as Rhett Bradshaw that I’d never taken the time and stopped to consider how my actions might have a ripple effect in the lives of others who weren’t as privileged as me.

My phone buzzed against my thigh, and I yanked it out, staring at the screen with a grimace. My heart sank. Shit. My dad. I just wasn’t in the mood for more of the parental bullshit. I hadn’t spoken with my parents since the disastrous dinner at Tony’s Di Napoli, and I wasn’t sure what to say. My mom still wanted to go after Brenna. I’d received a half-dozen emails from her, all berating me for dating someone who “disrespected” me. But I’d started to realize, in all my infinite wisdom of being twenty-nine years old, that just because my parents were older didn’t mean they were always right.

I answered the call right before it went to voicemail.

“Hey, Dad,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Oh, I’m glad you answered. I’ve really been wanting to talk to you.”

“Yeah.” My body stiffened in anticipation of the set-down. “How’s Mom?”

Dad chuckled. “Well, you know your mother. She’s a real mama bear, isn’t she?”

“Yep.”

“Rhett, we just want you to know…” Dad sighed, and I cringed. Here it comes.

“What?”

“We’re proud of you, son. It doesn’t matter that you have a reputation. We know you’ll grow out of it when it’s time. A real Bradshaw doesn’t sit back and let some little girl throw words around. You’re good at standing up for yourself.”

I groaned. “Dad, this really isn’t the best time–”

“I’m not finished yet. Look, I know you’re feeling down about what happened at dinner with…what was her name? Brenda?”

“Brenna,” I muttered, just about over the offensive butchering of her name.

“Right, with Brittany,” Dad said. “But you have to think about it like this – everyone in New York knows about you, son. You’re a star, you’re a pitcher for the Yankees.” His voice turned husky and full of pride. “And son, that’s just incredible. I always knew you had somethin’ special, ever since I bought you your first glove. But I’m so glad to see that you made it so far.”

“Uh, thanks, Dad.” I scratched my chin, unsure what else to say. “Look, I gotta–”

“Now wait just one minute,” Dad said, articulating the most sentences I’d heard him say in years. “I know your mom is really pushing you to settle down. But Rhett, listen – take some time, okay? Don’t do anything you’re gonna regret. You’re still a young man, and this is the time for you to do whatever you want.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah, Dad.” And don’t worry, the only woman I’d want a relationship with doesn’t want anything to do with me for the very activities you’re lauding like some kind of warped version of Jim Baker.

“And don’t you worry about, oh, I don’t know. Women’s lib – feminism – whatever the hell those broads are calling it nowadays. Rhett, women like being taken advantage of – that’s what they all want. Why do you think they run around half naked, swiping right, and begging for a hook-up? I’ll tell you why, son. You see some girl with her tits hanging out, well damn, that’s because she wants you to look.”

I groaned, not believing my own ears. Had Bill Cosby overtaken my father’s body? “Dad, really–”

“And you’re not just a man – you’re a Bradshaw. And we Bradshaws are real tough men, aren’t we, son? We get shit done, and we get what we want.”

“Yeah, Dad,” I said, trying to placate him. I just wanted to get off the damn phone before I said something disrespectful to my father. He meant well, but his small-town and backward family values were ones I’d shed years ago.

In theory, I realized, but not in practice.

“So, I’m just saying…don’t feel any pressure to put a ring on that girl just because she showed some spine,” Dad said. “You go out and have fun with half of New York if you want. Any girl who winds up with you is gonna have to understand that you’re a man, and men have needs.”

I coughed. “What?’

Dad laughed. “Son, I’m just sayin’ – settling down doesn’t mean settling for one gal, you know?”

“I don’t know,” I said, wondering in that moment if my dad was confessing his own sins. The thought of my kindhearted Ma dealing with that kind of sick shit made me feel nauseated. I may be a player on the field and off, but marriage meant something to me. Which is why I’d decided to avoid the noose. “Are you trying to tell me that it’s okay to have a girlfriend because I can cheat on her?”

“Well, son, I wouldn’t go putting it like that.”

“Are you saying you’ve had affairs behind Mom’s back?” I stared at the ground in disgust.

“I’m a Bradshaw, aren’t I? Just like my father before me. And we’re men, son. We do what we want – women are just programmed to accept it, that’s all.”

I felt absolutely disgusted. “I gotta go,” I said. “Bye, Dad.” I hung up and shoved my phone in my pocket, groaning.

I didn’t want to wind up like my father. I didn’t want to wake up in my fifties, still justifying frat boy behavior because I was a “Bradshaw.” I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life objectifying women and treating them like sex objects just because they threw themselves at me.

If I wanted to make things right, I was going to have to do a hell of a lot more than just apologize to Brenna.

Turning on my heel, I ran toward the nearest curb and hailed a taxi.

***

A little less than twenty minutes later, I stepped onto the curb outside of the Sport Taste office building. I’d been here a few times before. Most recently, for a promotional photo-shoot that Riley had organized with a bunch of underprivileged kids from the Bronx. At the time, I’d told her it was ridiculous…but that hadn’t exactly stopped me from participating. Thinking about it now made me want to cringe. I’d been such a fucking phony, and for what?

Blown up photos of famous New York athletes throughout the years decorated the modern lobby. I stopped in front of a giant Joe DiMaggio, grinning and striking the same pose as The Yankee Clipper. When I was a little kid, I’d dreamed of being as famous as DiMaggio…the fact that he’d fucked Marilyn Monroe hadn’t made it any less appealing.

“I’ll get there one day,” I whispered, staring up at his looming visage. “Don’t write me off just yet.”

A crowd of people bustled around the lobby. When I got on the elevator, a group of tourists pushed inside with me. They were young – maybe college kids – and two of the guys immediately recognized me. I figured they were here for the mini-museum at the top of the building – Sport Taste had a display of articles and photos that didn’t make the magazine, and it was free of charge.

“Holy shit,” one of them said. “That’s fucking Rhett Bradshaw!”

“No fucking way,” the other guy said, eyeing me. “Don’t be such a fucking spaz. This is New York, there are like sixty billion people here. There’s no fucking way it’s him. It’s just some dude who looks like him.”

“It has to be him,” the first guy repeated. He looked at me and narrowed his eyes. “Sorry, are you Rhett Bradshaw?”

Just as I was about to say yes and offer an autograph, one of the girls in the group rolled her eyes.

“It better not be him,” she said in this snotty voice as she brought her black painted fingernails up to pinch her nose shut. “He’s such a disgusting pig, ew! What is it with professional athletes who like, take advantage of women like haters?”

Immediately, I dropped my gaze to the floor. The two guys laughed.

“Yeah,” one of them said, snickering. “He’s a real hero. I wish I could get the pussy that Rhett Bradshaw gets.”

The girl smacked him with her handbag and the kid crouched down with a yelp of pain.

“Jesus fucking Christ, I was just joking,” the guy muttered, rubbing his arm with a definite flair for the dramatics. “Lighten up, Carissa, and learn to take a joke! I’m on Rhett’s side. You women are joyless.”

When the elevator stopped at the Sport Taste offices, I bolted out, trying to ignore the squabbling voices behind me. I felt like I was living in some kind of hellscape – my perfect New York City, turned upside down, with everyone out to get me. My worst nightmare.

I’d just stepped inside the reception area when I saw Riley rounding the corner of cubicles with an older woman, maybe in her mid-fifties. She had an intimidating puff of black hair piled high on her head, dark eyes, and a severe expression. She pointed a red-tipped finger and lectured Riley under her breath. When Riley saw me, her eyes lit up.

“Oh, Nina, thank god,” Riley said. “Here he is now – Rhett Bradshaw.” She hopped from one foot to the other, keeping an eye on me. “Rhett?”

“Uh, yeah?” I narrowed my eyes at Riley. “Sorry, have we met before?”

Riley’s jaw dropped. “He’s kidding,” she said to the woman in a rush of syllables. “He has such a great sense of humor, don’t you, Rhett?”

I shrugged. “I’m looking for the editor,” I said to the woman with dark hair. “Do you know where I can find her?”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “That would be me,” she said in a measured tone, sizing me up with her hawk-like eyes. I imagined myself as a mouse running across an open prairie. The woman looked like she’d swoop right down and end me. “Nina Capon. May I help you?”

“Nina, oh my god, this is so great,” Riley babbled on. “Now that Rhett’s here, we can talk about that feature I mentioned last week!” She leaned down and tapped a girl who sat typing on her laptop in the nearest cubicle. “Hey, Liz! Look, Rhett’s here! I can finally get you his autograph like I promised!”

The girl bounced up from her chair and darted over to Riley. “Oh my gosh,” she gushed. “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting the Rhett Bradshaw.”

“Riley, what is going on?” Nina asked, her lips puckering into a frown. “I won’t have you trying to turn this office into a fan club. We’re a sports publication. Athletes come here all the time.”

“I’m not doing–”

“Riley just promised she’d get me Rhett’s signature,” Liz squealed past her glossy lips. “I can’t believe she actually came through.”

I shrugged again and laughed, used to being recognized and having my personal space invaded. Might as well soak it up before I turned over my new leaf. “I’d be happy to sign for you,” I said, pointing at Riley. “But not because she asked.”

Riley glared at me. I could almost see streams of hot vapor shooting out her ears. She wanted to play games and hurt Brenna? Well, two could enter that competition. “Rhett, this isn’t funny.”

“No,” Nina spat. “It certainly is not. Riley, what is going on?”

“I don’t know,” Riley said, throwing her hands up in the air. I watched the blood drain from her cheeks. “I swear, I know Rhett.” Her voice rose an octave as she spoke, struggling to control herself. I knew she wanted to rail at me. I had her cornered. Time to move in for the killing strike. “We’ve met before. Remember?”

I burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” I said to Nina. “This happens a lot – you know, everyone recognizes me. Some of them I’ve met sometime but just don’t remember. But everyone who’s important? I know them. I don’t know this chick from Adam.”

Nina didn’t laugh. “Riley, wait for me in my office. Now.”

“I was really hoping to speak with the editor, but it seems like you really have your hands full already, Nina. Should I wait?”

Nina rolled her eyes and puffed out her cheeks. She glanced from me, to Riley, to Liz, who patiently held out a copy of Sport Taste and a pen while her eyes blazed admiration.

“Rhett, Riley, come with me,” Nina said, spinning on her sensible heel like a drill sergeant. “We’ve apparently got some urgent matters to discuss.”