SHANE

 

April 28th

Sanderson Park

Los Angeles, CA

 

 

Today is a trip. I flew into town last night only to find out I was due at the park at seven in the morning. It’s a rough turnaround but I’ve done worse. I’ve played against the Packers with zero sleep and a hangover, and I still didn’t let anything slip. I can do a day in the park with a pretty girl any day of the week.

If she shows up.

The rest of the crew was here when I drove into the parking lot. Two cameras, a small food table, and a crowd of people easily twenty strong were waiting on me. I learned a lot of names and remember about a third of them, but one of the guys was definitely a lawyer. He was here for ten minutes to make sure the contracts he sent over last night were signed and in order. Once I convinced him they were, he was gone. He took a donut off the table and disappeared behind the deep, black windows of a gold BMW. I snagged a maple glazed for myself and parked on a bench warming in the sun. That’s where I’ve been for the last half hour. Waiting.

The crew is making themselves busy. They run in and out of the dappled sunlight under the trees, looking for the best lighting. The best angles. They have me stand in a spot out on the field for about five minutes to make sure they’ve got my framing right, but then I’m sent back to my bench with an Evian and a promise that things will be rolling soon.

They aren’t.

Twenty minutes later and we’re still sitting around with our thumbs up our asses. By then, the crew looks as bored as I feel. People start milling around and chatting. I learn names again, this time making sure to repeat them so they stick. I sign a few autographs for fans that approach me. I spend ten minutes playing a quick but furious game of touch football with a group of eight year olds. It’s a mix of girls and boys, and there’s one spry little beauty that’s got serious moves. She legit skirts by me to score a touchdown at the end of the game. It wasn’t a mercy. I seriously couldn’t get my hands on her. I sign the ball for her and tell her to call me in ten years when she’s looking to go pro. I promise to hook her up with my agent.

“Cute kids,” Deb comments when I come back to the shade where the crew is waiting.

I nod, running my hand through my hair to cool my scalp. The day is heating up and sprinting in jeans has never been my favorite feeling. “Yeah, they’re pretty cool.”

“Do you have any?”

“God, no,” I laugh. “I’m not done being a kid yet. I can’t have any. Do you?”

“Three. All girls.”

“I have two,” Jared, a guy with sideburns and a glaring Hawaiian shirt, chimes in. “A boy and a girl. The boy is hell of a lot easier than the girl.”

“That’s what I hear,” Deb says sullenly. She doesn’t sound depressed, not exactly. More like someone who ordered their food only to find out moments later that there was something way better on the menu. You’ll eat what you got and you’ll like it, but part of you is left wondering what if…

“What celebrities have you slept with?” Jared asks me suddenly. He says it like he’s asking what kind of car I drive or what insurance I have on my house. It’s so casual, I wonder for a second if I heard him right.

“What?” I chuckle reflexively.

“Jesus, Jared,” Deb groans. “Do you have to ask everyone that?”

“It’s interesting.”

“To you. It’s insulting to the people you ask.”

“Whatever.”

Jared looks at me expectantly.

I stare back blankly, giving him nothing. And not only because there’s nothing to give, but because Deb is right. That’s an irritating question.

 The truth is, I haven’t slept with any celebrities. Colt has but Colt used to be a slut, so apples and oranges, I guess. I’ll make out with just about any girl who’s willing, but I’ve been a lot more cautious with who I go to bed with. It’s not a religious or moral thing. I just don’t do it for the hell of it. For me, it feels better when you’re connected with the person. It feels good even if you’re not, and if I’m hard-up enough I’ll fuck a bagel, but it’s better when you feel something for the person. And there’s only so much emotion you can muster for a cinnamon/raisin with extra Schmeer.

Suddenly, everyone’s walkies come alive.

“Sutton has arrived,” a man’s voice says briskly.

Jared gives me a consoling look. “She’s here.”

“Oh, she made it, huh?” I ask dryly.

“Looks like it. We need you over on the field ASAP for the first meeting.”

“Well, we better hurry then.”

I take my time heading over to the trash can next to me to toss my empty Evian bottle inside. I slowly wipe my hands on my jeans to dislodge the remnants of sugar from my donut, carefully wiping my mouth when I’m done with my hands.

Blake, a skinny guy with a clipboard and anxious eyes, hops from foot to foot next to me. “Mr. Lowry.”

“Yep,” I answer, heading toward the field with slow, even steps.

Blake follows closely at my heels.

“I’m sure there’s a good reason for the delay,” he promises me.

“She’s almost an hour late. That doesn’t drive you guys nuts?”

“There has to be a good reason.”

Whether there is or not, they’ll make sure I hear one. Odds are this chick is a diva running on her own schedule, but they’ll tell me she had a flat tire. She got stuck in traffic. She pulled over on the expressway to save a puppy that was running down the middle of the road. Whatever the reason, it won’t be her fault.

“Where exactly do you need me?” I ask my guide. I make sure to soften my tone because it’s not his fault. I shouldn’t make him or anyone else pay for it by being a dick.

“This way, Mr. Lowry.”

He leads me to where the cameras are set up. They’ve propped up big silver shields to bounce the sun where they want it. I stand in the center on the mark that they give me and listen patiently to my instructions.

Deb, the director, is the one to give them to me. She has brown hair and librarian glasses that make her full face look even bigger than it is. She’s pretty, though, for an older woman. Her eyes are soft and green.

“Sutton is coming in through the parking lot over there,” she explains, gesturing over her shoulder to where I can see more members of the crew swarming. “We’ll be filming her reaction and yours to the first meeting. This is very important. We have to get the first time you meet down on film for the first episode.”

“Got it.” I roll my shoulders back, standing to my full height. “How do you want me to react to her?”

“Naturally. This is all supposed to be very organic.”

“Yeah, well, organically, I’m annoyed,” I chuckle. “We’ve been waiting for her to get here for an hour. You want me to play that for the cameras? Like I’m pissed?”

“If that’s how you’re feeling, yes. Everything should be natural. Like I said.”

“Aren’t you annoyed?”

She smiles slightly. “Mr. Lowry, if I got annoyed every time I faced a delay, I’d never feel anything else. Eventually you have to go numb.”

“That’s not really my style.”

“Then that’s what you should play to the cameras. Your style, no matter what it is.”

I shrug, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “It’s your show.”

“When she gets here, you’ll need to make conversation. Talk about how nice it is to get to meet up here at the park where you practice sometimes. Ask her if she’s ever played football before.”

“Has she?”

“No,”

“Then why would I—”

“We have a ball here for you.” Deb glances around, frowning. “Sheila has it somewhere. We’ll find it.”

“I have an old one in my Jeep.”

“No, no. We have one specifically for this. We want it clean. You’ll throw that around with her. You don’t have to say much about that. Just be laughing and fun.”

“And organic?”

“Yes, exactly. Then she’ll teach you to dance a few steps. Something quick. After that, we’ll move on to your goodbyes. Promises to see each other at the studio. You can’t wait. You’re so excited to be a part of this.”

I chuckle, looking around. “Is there a script I can get all of this from?”

“No. It’ll will be off-the-cuff. Very casual and fun. Remember to have fun.”

“I always do,” I mutter under my breath.

She isn’t listening. She looks at me without seeing me. Her eyes have gone vacant the way Coach’s do when he’s listening to his headpiece on the playing field. Suddenly, she snaps out of it. “She’s coming. Be yourself, Mr. Lowry. Your fun, energetic, exciting self!”

Everyone backs away until I’m left alone under the gaze of the camera. I can see another section of the crew with the second camera coming in from the parking lot. They’re following a whisper of a woman up onto the grass. She’s short, even compared to some of the smaller people in the crew. She’s wearing jeans and pink tennis shoes. Nearly no makeup and a yellow tank top with the Kodiak’s logo printed on the front over her small chest. It looks so new I can almost smell the ink on it from here.

On my flight home last night, I Googled her like Chris told me to. I found pictures of her as a kid on Broadway. That’s what she’s most famous for. She was the star in Annie and Matilda for years. When she got older she did School of Rock and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. She played Wendy in Peter Pan for one year before abruptly leaving New York for L.A.

That’s when the pictures changed. From one frame to the next she went from looking like a little girl to looking like a woman. A fully formed, softly molded, gently curved woman with pouty pink lips and fierce gray eyes. Her hair is long and golden, more blond than brown. In her DNA pics, she was wearing next to nothing. Just a glittery white bathing suit with a joke of a skirt at the bottom that did nothing to hide her legs. She’s toned. Tight like an athlete. She’s small but she looks strong, mostly in her eyes. In the determined set of her jaw.

“Shane Lowry,” she gushes from about twenty feet away. Her smile is big and pink as her shoes. It looks genuine but so does her hair color, and something tells me she’s not a natural blond.

I smile, closing the distance between us slowly so the cameras can follow. “It’s good to meet you, Sutton.”

“You too! I’ve heard so much about you.”

She opens her arms to take me into a hug that feels forced and awkward. Definitely not ‘organic’. She’s tiny in my arms. Like a kid. Her body is impossibly narrow and her head only barely comes to my chest. I let her go quickly, worried I’ll suffocate her there against my pecs.

“Thanks for meeting me here,” I tell her mechanically, feeling like an idiot.

“I’m so excited to work with you.”

It’s a lie. I can’t hear it in her voice, but I see it in her eyes. The cameras will never pick it up, meaning the audience will never know, but Sutton Roe is anything but excited to work with me.

Over the last hour of waiting for her to show up, I’ve started to feel the same way.

“Congratulations on the Super Bowl win,” she tells me proudly. “That’s such a huge deal. For the Kodiaks and the city.”

“Thanks. It was one of the best days of my life.”

“Of course it was. Yeah.”

There’s a weird pause between us. It only lasts a second, but in that second I can hear the sound of the park around us. Kids playing on a structure downfield. A dog barking through the trees. Birds above us and a warm breeze rolling up the hill and through her hair. She stares at me patiently, her smile painted on her face unfailingly.

“Oh, uh, congratulations to you, too,” I fumble. “For winning the competition last year. Right? You and Jace Ryker.”

“We’ll edit that out,” Deb shouts from the sidelines.

I glance at her where she stands next to the nearest camera. “What?”

Sutton shakes her head at me. Her face is serious, her smile gone. “Don’t look at the cameras or talk to the crew.”

“But what are they editing out? What’d I say?”

“‘Jace Ryker’. We can’t use his name this season.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Deb promises me brusquely. She rolls her hand impatiently. “Let’s keep moving forward. You’re doing great.”

I blink rapidly, looking back at Sutton.

She’s smiling again; big and bright as before. “Thank you. It was an amazing feeling. Are you ready to win again with me this year?”

“I’m ready to try.”

“That’s all anyone can do, isn’t it? But before I teach you anything,” she playfully pokes at my stomach before walking backwards a few steps, “I want you to teach me to throw a football. I’ve never done it before.”

Suddenly, the crowd shifts. A football is thrust into my hands and I’m being sent toward the end of the field. I’m followed by one camera while Sutton is trailed by the other. She ignores it effortlessly, jogging a little ways downfield until we’re roughly fifteen yards apart. She turns to face me with a quick pivot that’s graceful in a way I didn’t know a human could be, her hair flying behind her like a long, white flag. With her eyes suddenly on mine and a smile on her lips that looks genuine as the air in my lungs, I forget the cameras. I forget the football in my hand. I forget the irritation that built inside me with every minute she made us wait for her to arrive. All I can think is that she’s beautiful. Brutally so.

“Is this close enough?” she calls.

I nod, not sure what she wants to be close enough for. How am I going to teach her to throw a football from fifteen yards away?

I balance the ball in my hands, thinking it feels under-inflated. That’s probably for her sake. Her hands are easily half the size of mine. She won’t be able to hold it if it’s at full volume.

“Are you ready?” I ask her.

She puts her hands out in front of her, nodding. “Ready!”

I resist the urge to look at the director. I want to know how hard I should throw this thing. Do I treat Sutton like an adult or a kid, because that’s what she looks like to me. She’s so small, I’m worried I’ll knock her on her ass if I throw it full force.

“Shane,” she laughs breathily. “Come on!”

I pull my arm back, raising my eyebrows at her with a smile that feels real. “You ready?”

“I’ve been ready! Throw it!”

I lob it high, giving her plenty of time to get under it. She doesn’t, though. She waits for it to come to her and it falls between her hands without contact. She laughs when it hits the ground at her feet, slowly rolling away.

“Ah! I’m terrible!” she cries.

I chuckle as I watch her chase after the ball. Finally, she gets it in her hands and stands up straight. Her hair immediately attacks her face in the wind. She spits and sputters dramatically to push it away.

“You need some help?” I ask her.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Sutton squares her stance, setting her feet wide apart. She holds the ball in both hands and asks, “How do I do it?”

“Fingers over the laces. Hold it in one hand, if you can.”

“Ha ha,” she chuckles wryly.

I smile, showing her my own hand in the air. “Like this. Then you pull it back and throw it with the right side of your body. Use more than just your arm.”

She does what I tell her to. Sort of. She’s too focused on her footing and when she comes forward with the ball, she doesn’t release it soon enough. Instead, she spikes it right into the ground. It bounces up at her face, making her shriek as she leaps away from it.

“How did I almost hit myself with it?!” she demands laughingly.

I chuckle, hurrying toward her. I’m vaguely aware of the cameras following me, but I focus on her. On the light sound of her laughter and the rosy color in her cheeks pushed high with her smile. She’s seriously gorgeous. Better looking than her pictures now that I’m talking to her, and I think it’s because of her attitude. She’s so bright. Much more easygoing than I expected her to be.

“Here.” I pick up the ball for her. She eyes me with playful suspicion before closing the space between us to take it in her tiny hands. The tips of her fingers are cold but her palm against mine is warm. Her skin is soft as silk. “It’s bad luck you got me for this. You should have been learning from Tom Berg. I’m no quarterback.”

Sutton’s face immediately falls, her shoulders going slack. She pulls her hands away from mine.

“We’ll edit!” Deb, calls.

I look quickly between the two of them. “Edit what? What’d I say now?”

“Tom Berg,” Sutton tells me impatiently. Every ounce of playfulness is wiped from her face. She’s looking at me with sharp, gray eyes that cut me down to nearly nothing. “You can’t talk about him. Didn’t anyone tell you this stuff?”

“Tell me what stuff?”

“What you’re supposed to be doing here.”

“I’m meeting you. Am I not doing that?” I turn to the director to get away from the ice in Sutton’s stare. “How the fuck am I doing this wrong?”

Sutton groans. “Jesus, really?”

“What now?”

“You can’t swear when we’re filming. They’ll have to edit that out.”

I take a step back from her. “It’s starting to sound like they’ll have to edit all of me out.”

“Maybe that’s for the best.”

I frown, taken aback by the change in her. Out of nowhere, she’s a totally different girl. There’s nothing fun and beautiful about her. Any attraction I felt toward her is gone in an instant because the girl I was digging, the one who was laughing and playful, is gone. That’s not her. Apparently, this is the real her.

And Sutton Roe is a stone-cold bitch.