Chapter 27 Andy
Chapter 27
Andy
“You need to calm down. They broke up five months ago. Some people move on after five days.”
Is Harlow in the bathroom talking about me?
I press my ear to the door, guilt plaguing my gut. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, and I hadn’t planned on listening, but her friends’ voices carried through the door, and curiosity got the best of me, and here I am ...
Listening.
“Can you get over an ex in that amount of time?” Harlow’s distinct voice asks.
“You are not competing with that. They are not together,” another voice chimes in loudly. She must be on speakerphone with her friends. “Get off the goddamn internet, and put your phone down, and go back out there.”
Sage advice.
I like this friend of hers already.
“And don’t you dare go back in that room and say anything about her. Do not say her name, do you hear me? You’ll sound insecure.”
Her?
Yeah. They’re definitely talking about Paisley.
“But I am insecure!” Harlow squeaks.
“No, you’re not. You’re freaking out! This whole situation has messed with your head.”
“And no one blames you,” a male voice consoles. “No one. Let’s not worry about the picture of you that’s circulating the internet. It’s great PR for Kissmet, honey.”
Kevin looks up at me from his spot next to me on the floor, and I can tell by his shifty gaze that he’s desperate to get my attention—but now is not the time for his doe eyes or his begging. I do not have time to play.
“I would never use this story as PR for the app,” I hear Harlow hiss. “I’m the idiot for thinking I could go on a date with a football player in a football town and have it go unnoticed. I’m such a moron.”
I can’t take it anymore. I knock on the door—and get met with silence.
“Babe. Everything all right?” I love saying that word: babe . I could babe her all day long and never get sick of it. I can’t keep that word out of my mouth.
I hear hushed whispering before she ekes out a quiet “Um. Yeah?”
My body relaxes.
Good. Nothing terrible has happened. She hasn’t fallen and can’t get up; she hasn’t fainted.
She’s trying so desperately to sound normal.
“I’m comin’ in.” Testing out the doorknob by turning it, I’m mildly surprised when it turns, half expecting it to be locked.
I inch it open a crack, not knowing what I’m going to lock eyes on when I look inside. Stick my face through the gap.
My eyes do a quick scan of the room, taking note of the white shower curtain, the white rug spread on the floor, the white tile floor, and the white towels. It’s bright and simple and classic—the windows have frosted glass for privacy from the neighbors.
Harlow is in front of the mirror, cell phone on the countertop.
I almost audibly sigh with relief. “I thought maybe you climbed out the window to escape me,” I tease, eyes scanning the bathroom for an open gap in the window. The coast is clear. “Or fell in the tub or something. Or hit your head.”
“Ha. No.” When she moves, it’s to open the door all the way, inviting me to step inside the room. She doesn’t look me in the eye; instead, she wraps her arms around me in a hug.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask the top of her head, giving her hair a sniff for good measure.
“Did you see it?” Her voice is muffled, buried in my chest.
“See what?”
“The picture of us at that stupid restaurant—right before we started holding hands across the table.” She feigns a gagging sound that I could take offense at.
I mean, if people were taking photographs and posting them on the internet, that’s nothing new. Happens all the time. I can’t take a shit or wear a bad outfit without it being uploaded to social media so everyone can give their opinion on my travel bag or the pants I wear on the team bus.
They comment if I’m not friendly enough. Or in a bad mood. Or if I don’t tip the bartender enough when I’m out. Servers have the damn nerve to post receipts on social media.
It’s a strange, fucked-up world, and now she’s about to be wrapped up in it.
“It doesn’t surprise me at all that someone posted about us. Does that bother you?”
Harlow’s shoulders move up and down in a noncommittal shrug.
“It does and it doesn’t. Mostly I’m shocked. I know people care what you’re doing, but I didn’t think anyone would care what I was doing.” Her sigh is heavy. “I’ve been getting random texts from people I haven’t spoken to in months or years.”
I nod empathetically. “That tracks.”
Sounds typical. I had family come out of the woodwork when my contract started paying the big bucks; cousins I never knew I had suddenly wanted to be best friends.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her quietly. “That’s what happens when ... you know. You’re in the spotlight.”
“I’m not in the spotlight,” she argues against my chest, cheek now pressed into the cotton of my T-shirt.
Well, you’re about to be, I want to tell her, but now is not the time. I mean, if she already has randos from her past hitting her up, she’s about to have more.
The train has left the station and is already in motion.
People get curious—even those who are in my circle of trust. Take my mom, for example; she was one of the first people to call when that photo emerged to make sure I was doing okay.
And of course Dex texted me to tell me the mustache looks stupid and to say: Hey, dipshit, saw your ugly face all over the news. Can’t believe you Actually went to Applebee’s ? I thought that was a fucking joke.
What a gem.
I make a mental note to text him back but not just yet; not when I have Harlow pressed against me with something bothering her, namely that she’s suddenly a household name and more importantly? She discovered the identity of my ex-girlfriend.
It hadn’t occurred to me that Paisley’s career could be an issue in my new relationship.
This is what you get for eavesdropping, you asshole.
Critics are harsh, and I have no doubt Harlow is going to be broken down and chewed up—keyboard warriors and sports fans are ruthless. Then again, she’s “the girl next door,” and I have a feeling that a small-town girl will fare better against public scrutiny than the Paisleys of the world do.
“America is going to love you” is the only thing I can think to say in the moment, mumbling into her hair, pulling her in closer.
Harlow groans miserably. “No, they won’t.”
“Are you moaning?”
“No.”
“Liar.” I smile at the top of her head.
I pull back to get a look at her face, raising her chin with my fingers. “Hey. Let’s talk about this.”
Harlow shakes her head. “I don’t want to.”
“Well.” I’m at a loss for words and don’t know what to say, except, “You’re kind of gonna have to.”
I’m usually too chickenshit to make demands of her, because I don’t want to push her away, but the reality is, this new problem, that she is going to have less privacy, isn’t going anywhere. In fact, it’ll only get worse.
“But.” Her eyes are wide. “This is your fault.”
“How is this my fault?” I sound affronted because I am.
“Um, for one—you showed up unannounced. For two—I had no idea who you were, I thought you were just your average guy. And you drop this huge bomb.” She hesitates for dramatic effect. “It’s literally an atomic bomb.”
“That’s why we need to talk about this. Tell you what, instead of hiding in here and commiserating with your friends, why don’t you come back into the living room and save me from Kevin. He has angry stares.”
As much as she’s trying to mask it, she smiles. “Don’t make me laugh.”
I give her a gentle tug, dragging her out of the bathroom—a.k.a., her safe space—flip off the light, and lead her through the bedroom to the living room, where little Kevin sits waiting.
He’s back where he was before.
“Sup, dude,” I say to him.
“Did you call my dog dude?”
“Yeah. It’s so he doesn’t want to eat me.”
“He’s not going to eat you.”
“Look at the way he’s looking at me. He doesn’t trust me.”
“He was all over you like a cheap suit when he first saw you. Now he’s just pouting because you’re not giving him enough attention. He’s playing hard to get.”
Dammit.
When we seat ourselves on the couch next to each other, I try to hold her hand, but Harlow isn’t interested. Instead, she scoots away a few inches to put some distance between us, facing me so we can have a serious talk.
She pulls a pillow onto her lap before she begins. “As you might have figured, I was on a call with my friends—I had to give them an update.” She ducks her head, blushing. “I’m embarrassed to admit that I was trying to spill the tea when in reality I hadn’t had to. Portia sent a picture to our group chat—the picture of us eating—and all hell broke loose.”
“Why did all hell break loose?”
She nods. “Because, until this video chat they weren’t aware who I was, uh—dating?” She plays with a button affixed to the pillow. “I was giving them an update. That’s what I snuck away to tell them. As far as they knew, you were a one-night stand.”
How could they have known who I was when Harlow hadn’t even known? Makes sense that they’re just finding out—and through the media, no less.
No big shock there.
“You considered it a one-night stand?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know what I considered it, but yes, mostly I thought this was a one-night stand. I didn’t think it would go any further—you’re between gigs, so I thought someone pinching pennies couldn’t possibly afford to fly back and forth to date me, and I knew I couldn’t afford to fly to see you.”
“ Pinching pennies ,” I repeat. “You’re so adorable.”
I haven’t pinched pennies since, well—never.
“Thanks.” She laughs.
My brows go up. “You didn’t think I would fly out to see you?”
Harlow lets out a frustrated sigh. “The wanting to fly out and see me wasn’t the problem; it was the lack of ability I had stuck in my brain.” She taps on her forehead as if pointing to her brain.
“Because of the cost?”
She nods.
“Cost isn’t an issue.” Obviously.
I’m loaded, not that I have to tell her that. A quick search on the internet will tell her my net worth and the fact that at one point in my career, I was douchey enough to have driven a Rolls-Royce Phantom.
“All I know is that it just isn’t in my realm of possibility to go jet-setting all over the continental US for a man. That’s where my head was at, period, point blank.”
Ahh. “The good news is, that’s not a problem.” I grin widely, flashing the teeth that cost me thousands upon thousands of dollars to make pretty.
“First of all. We’re very different,” she begins.
“Are we?” I tilt my head. “How so?”
Her mouth drops open a fraction, damned if it doesn’t. “Uh, are you being serious? I haven’t worked out in like six months. I consider cardio getting up from the couch to walk to the fridge—or, like, parking my car in a spot that’s farther from the grocery store so I can get some steps in.” She motions toward me with one of her hands. “You live on a football field and in the gym.”
Not true. “I don’t live in the gym. I work out on a schedule and have a strict dietary plan during the season, but only because I have to. The gym is not my hobby—it keeps me employed.”
She glares. “You know what I mean. You have zero body fat.”
Also not true. “Of course I have body fat.”
This conversation will go nowhere if she’s only going to focus on physical differences.
“How else are we different?” My knee bounces.
“We come from two different worlds.”
“Not so,” I say. “I’m from Ohio, remember? In fact, I came from there this morning.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” I give her another toothy grin to let her know I’m unfazed by the list she’s determined to make. She is being so stubborn. “Harlow, what is this about? You don’t want to date an athlete? You’d rather date someone safe that won’t be work?”
Harlow laughs, though, so I consider that a win. “I’m not afraid to put in the work.”
“Could have fooled me. It sounds like you’re using my job as an excuse not to see me anymore.”
“No,” she counters. “I’m simply pointing out the fact that yesterday my life was boring, and today it’s upside down.”
I scoff at that, trying to hear her but finding it difficult to see her point of view.
I’m a guy who wants love and a family too. Who cares if I play football and am on television every so often? Does that make me less lovable?
“I’ll have you know, the entire United States thinks I’m quite a catch. I was named one of People ’s most eligible bachelors last year.”
She stares at me so hard and long that my dick shrivels a bit.
“Wrong thing to say?”
Harlow nods.
I cringe. “Sorry. I just don’t understand how any of this is a bad thing.”
Her nostrils flare. “Do you think it’s a benefit to date a man who women are constantly chasing because he was named one of People ’s most eligible bachelors last year? How many women slide into your direct messages?”
“I don’t know—I’m not on social media.”
Her eyes get wide, and she laughs. “You are so full of shit.”
I flail my arms. “I have social media, but I personally am not on it. I have a social media manager who handles all that shit for me. If people slide into my messages—and I’m sure they do—I wouldn’t know about it.”
Her shoulders relax. “Oh.”
“The last thing I give one fuck about is the internet.” Jesus, seriously.
Zero fucks given.
“I’m not a twenty-year-old idiot scamming on chicks online. And I’m not a twenty-nine-year-old dude scamming on chicks either. I was raised in the Midwest, and my mother raised me right.” I let out a frustrated puff of air. “I have a job to do, and social media is part of it. I cannot help that.” Feeling my brow furrowing again, I try to school my expression so it’s passive. “The same way I have to do commercials. Or interviews in the locker room after a game we just lost—which sucks.” Which begs the question. “Do you honestly think we want to talk to the press after getting our asses handed to us? No. Do I have to? Yes.”
“Why do you have to? Can’t you just say no?”
Most people simply do not get it, but I’m happy to explain it.
“No. I cannot say no. It’s part of my contract.”
“Interviews are in your con tract?”
“Yes.” I’m enjoying explaining this. “That’s why I have to stand there dripping in sweat with my dick in my hand, telling some reporter all the ways we could have played better.” My eyes roll. “It’s so much fun.”
Those reporters ask the dumbest fucking questions.
After a game, I want to shower and change in the locker room, so I can get the fuck out of the stadium. But instead, we’re obligated to do interviews, attend team meetings, and occasionally meet in the pressroom for press conferences.
Tired, beat down, hungry, injured.
We play in rain, snow, and freezing-cold temperatures.
Heat.
Regardless of how we feel, we do it , or face the consequences.
“I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Most people don’t think about it. They expect it.”
As well they should. We get paid a fuckton of money—football is entertainment as much as it is an athletic sport, and the franchise makes billions of dollars.
“Are those the only things bothering you? The distance and the fact I have a fan club?”
“You have a fan club?” She sounds appalled.
“Not literally.” Or maybe I do, who knows. There are fanatics everywhere, and I don’t doubt at least one person out there has started a Landon Burke fan club.
“I never thought I would have a long-distance relationship.”
“Had you considered that you might meet someone while you were trotting around New York taking meetings?”
She nods. “Sure, I considered it. But I didn’t actually want to date a man from there. Too far.”
“I’m willing to travel if you’re willing to put up with my shit. You can work remotely, and I’ll spend as much time with you as I can. During the season it won’t be easy, but we can make it work.”
“What about all the other stuff?” she asks hesitantly, giving her head a little shake.
“Does the paparazzi bother you?” She needs to be clearer so I can follow along, now that I’m aware of the multitude of things in the back of her mind. “There really are none here. Green Bay is so low key and in the middle of nowhere, it’s fucking awesome.”
I love it.
“No, the other stuff.” Harlow pauses. “The Paisley stuff.”
Ah.
Right.
I brace myself, ready for whatever curveballs she wants to throw at me.