Heartthrob Page 2
“I’ll see you later. Say bye to Mom for me.”
I nod then pick up my ringing cell phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Finn. It’s Rena.”
“Hey. How are you?” Rena is our team’s senior director of Public Relations.
“I’m good. How are you?”
“Hanging in there.”
“Glad to hear that. We’d like you to come in for a meeting on Tuesday. You available?”
“Sure.” No one says “no” to Rena. Not that anyone wants to. She may have a no-nonsense attitude, but she’s the best liaison there is when it comes to our fans and charities. Best of all, she treats me like a player, rather than an Auprince.
“Great. We’ll be connecting you with a social media manager for the off-season. Be here at ten.”
“Sounds goo—wait. What?”
“It’s something new we want to try. You’ve got huge followings on social media, but we want to go next-level. We do that by hiring a professional to take over your accounts, but who will work side by side with you in order to keep your profiles honest and authentic.”
“Is this a joke?” I do just fine posting on my own, albeit reluctantly and rarely, and I definitely don’t want someone taking over anything of mine.
“Not at all,” she says, no smile in her tone. “I promise this isn’t a bad thing, Finn. Especially with your behavior during the series and your injury. We want to—”
“Stop right there.” I don’t need to hear that the front office is worried about me and wants to help. In uncharacteristic fashion, I behaved like a dick during a couple of the World Series games. Nerves got the better of me for the first time, enough so that I even mouthed off to the home plate umpire. I’d never disrespected the game before and my reputation took a hit. “I’ll see you Tuesday,” I say tightly.
We disconnect. First a puppy. Now a social media manager. So much for a quiet recovery on my terms. I tilt my head back, resting it on the back of the couch. I got called to the majors at twenty. Won Rookie of the Year unanimously. I’m the youngest player to reach one hundred home runs and one hundred stolen bases. A two-time MVP. My career batting average is over .300. If I continue at this pace, I’ll break records, be a shoo-in for the Hall of the Fame (if I’m not already). Baseball is all I know. All I’ve ever wanted to know.
I’ve suffered bumps and bruises along the way, but cutting management some slack, I’ve never acted out or been injured like I am now. Never been escorted off the field by the team doctor. I don’t know what to do with it. I’m completely unprepared. There isn’t a manual for how to deal with injuries, and even if there were, I’d have a hard time reading it. When everything’s gone your way and then bam! All of a sudden, the future you’ve worked your ass off for isn’t a guarantee anymore, it takes a huge mental toll.
There are a couple of young, hotshot players in our club itching to take my place if I don’t come back strong. No way in hell do I want to be Wally Pipped at thirty years of age. Pipp was a Yankee and the first on his team to lead the American League in home runs, only to be replaced by Lou Gehrig for something minor, and we all know how that turned out.
So, if I have to give up some privacy to a social media manager to keep in good standing with the team, I’ll do it. Because no matter what it takes or the sacrifices I have to deal with, I’ll make sure I repair any damage to my name and remain the major league’s favorite center fielder.
*
A few hours later I’m sitting on the hardwood floor playing sock tug-of-war with Sammy. She’s fun and terrifying at the same time. My sweet, mellow puppy has decided to show her true colors now that she’s here to stay. She’s feisty. Energetic. And she’s got sharp little teeth. I found this out when she decided to nip at my sock-covered toes until the sock slid off my foot. Victory looked damn cute so I gave her my other sock, too. She’s no match for my strength, of course, but I let her win our battles over and over again. When I glance out the floor-to-ceiling window toward the ocean, I’m surprised to see only soft glowing light. Sammy’s taken my mind off my troubles for longer than I thought.
I laugh when she tugs the sock out of my hold and falls to the side, her big paws getting in the way of her balance. She shakes the sock vigorously back and forth and looks at me like this is the best game ever and she’s eager to play all night.
Then she stops. And takes a shit.
I drop my head into my hand. The latest poop from the life of Finn Auprince?
Puppy: 1
Professional baseball player: 0
Chapter Two
#CursesLikeChickensComeHomeToRoost
Chloe
This is it. The curse has finally been broken.
I don’t even try to contain my smile as I run up the stairs to my boyfriend Leo’s apartment. Jittery excitement, the kind you feel right before riding a roller coaster or jumping into the glorious, but cold ocean, has me catching my breath when I reach the second floor. Leo’s just returned from a business trip and texted me to come right over. The original idea was he’d pick me up for dinner, but he had a change in plans, he’d written, which leads me to believe he’s got something special up his sleeve at his place.
Today is our one-year anniversary.
Twelve months of happy and the kind of contentment I thought I might never find. It’s the longest I’ve been with a guy. The longest I’ve been in love. I fought it at first, but Leo’s height, his handsome face, his sense of humor, made it impossible not to fall for him. That he fell first helped.
I run my sweaty palms down my navy polo dress. I’ve paired it with my pewter Vans. This is as spruced up as I get, my athletic style one of the things Leo loves about me. My hair is down, peach lip gloss applied, legs shaved and moisturized. If I’ve read all the signs right, tonight isn’t just a dinner date.
Given the time difference between here and London, we haven’t had much of a chance to connect while he’s been away, but before he left I got the distinct vibe he was ready to go from calling me girlfriend to calling me fiancée. The idea makes me so unbelievably relieved—and happy—that I’ve tried not to think about it too hard. I don’t want to jinx it. We haven’t talked about tying the knot specifically, though marriage is something we both want. Kids, too. Leo is amazing with his nieces and nephews. It’s another thing I love about him. He has a big family, something I really enjoy.
I pause outside his door. Since my mom passed away twelve years ago, it’s been just my dad and me, thick as thieves. We’d been close before she died, but her absence strengthened our bond even more. Back then I hadn’t wanted to let Dad out of my sight, terrified he’d leave me, too, so he took me on the road with him during baseball season, homeschooling me when he wasn’t on the field to umpire. I may not be able to ramble off all the U.S. presidents’ names without an assist (history was my least favorite subject), but I can list every major league baseball team, their division, and the name of their stadium with exceptional ease.
My chest tightens. For eight months out of the year, Dad’s whole life revolves around calling balls and strikes and his recent diagnosis worries me. His being alone when I move out of the house worries me.
Of course, I’d think about that right now. We talk through any big decisions. Not that my saying yes to Leo’s proposal is up for discussion. But knowing Dad likes Leo makes this a moment I can act on with confidence.
Normally, I’d let myself in to Leo’s, but not this time. I don’t want to ruin the surprise. I knock twice, in time to the quick beating of my heart.
Leo opens the door wide, his height filling the space. “Hi, Chloe. Thanks for coming over.”
Chloe. Not babe. Or baby, as he is apt to call me. Especially after his business trips. His tone is also flat, dutiful, not at all cheerful. A funny feeling invades my stomach because more things are noticeably absent: a kiss, a lifting off my feet, a God-I-missed-you smile. I take a step back. This is not what I’d envisioned for the past hour. This is all wrong.
“Chloe.” My name has never sounded so hurtful.
Our eyes meet again, and this time I notice my boyfriend isn’t happy to see me. He’s shamefaced.
“Please come in.”
I can’t. I physically can’t. My feet are stuck. If I step over the threshold, my world as I know it will change, and I don’t want it to change. Not. Again.
Leo takes my hand. He brings me inside. He closes the door. A beautiful girl with dark hair and dark eyes, dressed like she stepped out of a fashion magazine, stands up from the couch.
“Chloe, this is Adele.”
No offense, but I hate you, Adele.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen…” he says.
I stand there, stunned and numb as Leo tells me he met Adele his first night in London and their attraction was undeniable and blah, blah, blah.
“I hope we can stay friends,” he concludes sometime later. I think it’s only been a minute, but I can’t be sure.
I hope your penis breaks in half.
“What?”
Oops. Guess I said that out loud. “I hope you have a happy life,” I amend, keeping my expression neutral. No way am I giving them the satisfaction of knowing my insides feel like they’ve been fed through a weed whacker. Then I turn and walk out the door.
Refusing to show people your heartache means when you get to your car and you’re alone inside the old, but trusty two doors, you cry like a baby.
I cry until the betrayal is leached from my bones. So, ten, fifteen minutes. I mean it’s not like I haven’t suffered this unfairness before. I have. Four other times.
See, I’m cursed as a good luck charm—for my exes. Long story short (because I’m already down, I don’t need to be kicked any harder), every boyfriend I’ve had has found his one true love while dating me. Yes, while. Not after. During. It’s ironic, really. Cue the Alanis Morissette song. Because as my dad likes to say, Those boys weren’t meant for you. But it doesn’t make it any easier to get dumped. My boyfriend before Leo? We were at a restaurant eating dinner when two women, a mom and daughter I’d come to find out, sat down at the table next to us. I excused myself to use the bathroom and when I returned Tyler and the daughter were talking and laughing—the mom nowhere to be seen. “I’ve never been drawn to someone so quickly or strongly. I’m sorry,” Tyler said to me.
I’d said, “What the fuck?” More to the universe than to Tyler, before I hurried out of the restaurant.
This time, though, is the worst. I wasn’t ready to marry any of the other guys. My head falls back against the car seat. “Why?” I say aloud. Why am I the gatekeeper to others’ happily ever after? Why does ‘I love you’ mean I-like-you-until-someone-better-comes-along. It’s uncanny, really. Date me and your dream girl will present herself. And never the two shall mix.
I turn the key in the ignition and drive home blurry-eyed. The tears continue to fall, my heart hurting like Leo’s poisoned each chamber and the organ is slowly shutting down. Good. Because this is the last time I’m liking, letting alone falling in love with someone. I love my dad. I love my friends. I love my work. That’s enough.
The sun is behind the mountains and streetlights flicker on. Twilight is usually my favorite time of day, but right now it sucks. I’m also, I realize, driving the wrong way. I wipe at my eyes, swallow the string of lumps in my throat.
The car beside me honks when I accidentally cut them off to move into the left lane to make a U-turn at the stoplight. I wave in apology and mouth “sorry.” The light turns green. There are no cars coming from the other direction so I make my U-turn. And crash into another car making a right turn. Shit! Isn’t this just the cherry on top of a sucktastic day.
Fortunately, neither of us was driving fast. I put it in reverse since I’m the one kissing the shiny white Porsche SUV’s side fender then follow the car into the corner parking lot of a fast-food restaurant to check out the damage and make sure the diver is okay.
I get out of the car on shaky legs. The breakup with Leo, and now this, has wreaked havoc on my stability. I see an entire one-pound bag of almond M&M’s and some television in my future.
But first I need to deal with this situation. I had a green light, thus the right of way. Meaning despite what it looks like, it’s not my fault we collided. (Confession: I had a minor fender bender a few months ago and my insurance went up. I can barely afford the coverage so I can’t have another claim against me.)
The first thing I notice about the other driver is his long, muscular, jean-clad legs as they exit the vehicle. Next is his hard-bodied torso and a sling on his arm. Last, but definitely not least, are his surreal blue eyes, brown hair longer on top than the sides, and scruff around his full lips and along his chiseled jawline.
Unbelievable. As if my day cannot get any worse, I’ve hit Finn Auprince. Major League Baseball’s golden boy. He’s arguably one of the best center fielders ever. His stats are unreal. On top of that he’s American royalty, a “prince” in the media, his family one of the wealthiest and most influential in the world with their hotel empire. His popularity on and off the field is talked about weekly. Which is probably the reason he thinks he’s God’s gift to all women.
Except this one.
The minute he called my dad a “blind sack of shit” and proceeded to show him up in front of the fans by drawing a line in the dirt with his bat to illustrate the path of the ball off the plate in game three of the World Series, he was removed from my list of favorite players, never to earn a spot back. I was sitting behind home plate. The pitch was clearly strike three. To my dad’s credit he didn’t throw Finn out of the game, choosing as he usually does to tolerate a player’s aggravation and not take it personally.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hi.” He looks at me funny and for a beat we take each other in. Does he recognize me? I’ve sat in the stands dozens of times but he rarely looks at the crowd. Except that once. When our eyes connected and I stopped breathing. “Uh, are you okay?” he asks breaking the charged silence.
“No.” See this gaping hole in my chest? It’s where my heart used to be. Oh, wait. He means am I okay from the accident. “I mean, yes. Sorry. You?”
He smiles, flashing his straight white teeth. Smiles like his make birds sing and flowers bloom. And hearts pitter-patter. Good thing mine is dead. I study him. He thinks I’m flustered because of him. Ha! I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing I know who he is. Or being in any way, shape, or form affected by his good looks.
“I’m fine. My car, however…”
I follow his gaze. There’s a big ol’ dent above the front tire. I turn my attention to my car. The paint is scratched, but otherwise my nine-year-old convertible Toyota Solara—a sixteenth birthday present from my dad—appears undamaged.
“I had a green light,” I say, not sure if Finn is implying this is my fault.
“I had a green arrow,” he counters.
I frown.
He nods toward the intersection. “You also had a ‘no U-turn’ sign.” He says this lightly. He’s not mad in the least, which is reassuring, yet in this moment I’d rather he be anything but nice. I’m in the mood for a fight.
Not only does the sign spell out “NO U TURN” it also has a picture of the black U-turn arrow with a red circle and line through it. Obviously I wasn’t paying attention. Not so obvious (I hope) is that I’ve been crying and I’m not thinking clearly.
“You should still watch where you’re going,” I tell him.
His eyebrows arch. Playfully. Jeez, he’s charming, even under these circumstances. “You do realize you hit me, right?”
“I think we hit each other.”
“Through no fault of my own.”
�
�Should you even be driving with that?” I point to his sling. The question isn’t nice. It’s meant to get a rise out of him because…because he’s the guy standing in front of me right now and my feelings are hurt beyond reason. Plus, it’s the best I can do—I really have no experience fighting. I hate confrontation, and will do most anything to avoid it.
“I’d say it’s safer than you driving.”
Some sort of huffy sound comes from the back of my throat. “I’m a great driver.” Besides my last minor accident and this one.
“I’m not so sure about that. Have you been drinking?”
“What? No.”
“Your eyes are bloodshot.”
I blink like that will clear the redness.
“Allergies?”
“Yes,” I quickly answer. From now on I’m allergic to single men. Unless they’re gay. Or already a friend. “That’s exactly it.” I sniffle for good measure. I am allergic to shellfish so I’m not totally lying. Although that allergy is life-threatening not heartbreaking.
Finn stares at me. I shiver. Because it’s chilly out, not because his fixed look feels like he can see I’m fibbing. It’s just his magnetic personality doing its thing.
Which also seems to bring out the responsible side of my personality because I next say, “I guess we should exchange information.”
I reach into my car for my purse, pull out my wallet, and slide my insurance card out from behind my driver’s license. Finn has his phone in his hand when I turn around.
“I’ll just take a picture of your card,” he says. My hope that he’ll say, Hey, accidents happen, don’t worry about this, I’ve got it, have a good night, dies a painful death in the middle of my chest.
I hand it to him. He struggles to hold on to it with one hand while taking a picture with the other, the sling making it difficult. He also winces, and that’s all it takes for me to offer my assistance.
“How about I hold it for you? Or take the picture?”
“Thanks.” He gives me back my card, but still battles with the phone.