Charlotte

I usually don’t care much about going to these events, especially on a weekend when I could be home relaxing. But it’s been so long since I have done a press event, I am some parts excited too. I don’t think I’m out of practice, but I do think I will have to work hard to get a leg up. Lucky for me, the channel I correspond for already has all the connections in the sports world.

My only real job before I go is to make sure I look nice enough to be spoken to, a part of the job I came to accept a long time ago. Even as a freelance sports correspondent, I have to live by the same rules.

“You look amazing.” Catherine, my older sister by three years, is in the living room when I walk out.

“I tried.” I sigh, looking down at my black heels that already hurt, and the purple chiffon dress with thin straps and shaped material that stops at my knees. I even did something with my hair other than a high bun—down and curly, shaped by mousse.

“Well, good job.” She twists her face laughing at me in her head—I know her very well. She looks just like me except she always wears her natural hair straightened, and her skin is a shade darker than my russet color. She is shapelier too. Over the years, it has come from her working out less and working more, which makes sense since she is a therapist, and people here in Santa Clara always have problems.

“Right. I should be back by… pretty late. I don’t know.” I laugh at myself as I cross the platform to the kitchen where I always exit out the back door. My house is oddly shaped, perched on a hill, and mostly hidden from my neighbors. I attribute my nice living to the high fee I charge for these events as an independent freelancer and owning my salon in the city.

“I know the drill. She’s taking her nap now,” she tells me.

It’s only five, but I don’t question it because I am used to it, and even after all these years, I still hate leaving her sometimes.

“Okay, thanks.” I wave over my shoulder to Catherine and am out the door in seconds. My car is dangerously parked on the curve, the hill sloping so far, I get in the car awkwardly. Since it’s an SUV, the park brake is always on. I never feel like it will go sliding down the hill, but if it isn’t just me, I always park in the garage.

I suddenly feel like I shouldn’t have declined the offer from the network to send me a car. Using the navigation so I don’t get lost reminds me of the old days when I would trek out to small locations to build up my network. Now I get the calls, and sometimes I decide whether or not to take the job. I only did this one because it is the start of playoffs, and everyone will be there—anyone important, at least. And for my business at the salon, I get so many referrals to send women to me there. The generalizations about football as a sport and most of the women associated with it are true since my salon is mostly for styles catered to my community.

And I don’t know why I still go back to the events that remind me of a time in my life when it was both the happiest and the saddest, or even the most regretful. I think it keeps the memory alive, and that’s why I chase it. Football stopped being only a sport to me when I was a junior in college, and it wasn’t because I got my first gig with the student paper and the one interview everyone wanted—even the real news channels could never get the all-star, record-breaking quarterback—to give them an interview. Back then I wanted to be mad that my looks arguably got me the interview, or that he saw me and only then wanted to talk to me. But Lowell Blake proved me wrong, and then he reminded me always to trust my instincts after I didn’t. And it cost me so much.

I arrive at the venue and find the valet who will probably park my car a mile away. Things are still getting set up outside the stadium, so it’s mostly the bustle of crews moving around doing their jobs. All the information I need is on my phone, so I go to the right place and wait for the rest of my crew to arrive from the network—a camera person, recorder, and assistant.

“Charlotte!”

I turn to whoever is calling my name even though I already recognize the voice—Stacy Brown, one of the assistants I am lucky to work with each time I do this. I wouldn’t say we are best friends, but every once in a while, when I correspond for the network, we spend hours together and have to entertain ourselves somehow.

“Hey, Stacy.” I smile back at her. We hug and look each other over dramatically. She looks amazing in her simple black dress, blonde hair in a sleek, high ponytail, and makeup better than mine. But she utilized the network’s stylist, and I declined.

“You look great, it’s been so long.” She sits next to me in the room behind the red-carpet setup. All the reporters are waiting because they’re prepping their questions and saving their voice to yell. I always ask the same questions, and I have a shortlist of players the network wants quotes from. When I have that list, I always get it done right.

“It has, how are you?” I ask her. We are the same age, but assistant to whoever correspondent she is assigned to isn’t her end game. From what I remember, it’s becoming a producer which takes quite a bit of paying your dues.

“Good, tired. How is Kimberly?”

I smile my widest. “Perfect. Hating kindergarten.” She laughs with me.

To pass the time, we have the same easy conversation until the cameraman arrives. I don’t recognize him, so he must be new. Stacy is the one recording this time, so she is right at my side when we find our places on the red carpet directed by one of the event staff.

The event itself is a glorified press conference and mixer between athletes and journalists. Players from the teams going into the playoffs have flown in—only the big hitters, though—and the agents with them to work their players into interviews on screen, deals with networks, and such. I stopped keeping up with football a while ago, so I have no clue which teams or players will be coming. But when they start piling in—imposing, athletic football players—I don’t recognize any faces either.

Not until one, in particular, stands out in the crowd of people ahead of the red carpet. I only saw him once or twice, but I remember him by name because of the shadow he always lived in. Jacob… something. I don’t remember that much. He is as tall as a wide receiver should be—lithe in frame but not in build—with smooth ochre skin cameras love to photograph and magazines love to use for their covers.

“That’s Jacob Briggs, wide receiver from one of the playoff teams,” Stacy whispers to me not knowing I already know.

“Is he on the list?” I ask. She glances at her phone and then shakes her head down at me as she is a few inches taller.

I ignore him and hope he hasn’t come with his right-hand man. But I wouldn’t know, and I almost wish I did.

When the crowd parts in a most dramatic fashion, and when the shouting dissipates only to pipe up again, my body aches from the inside out with a discomfort I never experienced before. Nothing like the first time I saw him because I was so full of butterflies and nerves that I knew nothing else.

Lowell Blake locks eyes with me, and everything around me disappears, nothing to distract me from the sinking feeling. Trapped, almost, in feelings I thought were gone. Because when he left five years ago and never looked back, it was supposed to be the last time I saw him.