Chapter 5FRAN
CHAPTER 5
FRAN
W hen I first moved to New York, there was no way I could afford to live on my own, but I was terrified of moving in with a stranger. What if they left toenail clippings in the sink or, worse, never emptied the dishwasher? Thankfully, I lucked out, finding a studio apartment in the Lower East Side.
My apartment is on the third floor of an old five story red brick building with a rusted external fire escape, faded graffiti covering most of the ground floor fa?ade, and an elevator that’s out of order more than it’s not because the building super will happily accept our rent but refuse to fix anything in a timely manner.
By the time I trudge up the three flights of stairs and into my tiny shoebox apartment, it’s close to midnight, and I can’t decide if I’m tired or hungry. Aside from the handful of olives I snacked on at the bar, I haven’t eaten anything since the cream cheese bagel I practically inhaled after my morning meeting. But before anything, I’m in dire need of a shower, not only because I’ve been working all day and night, but Robbie Mason’s indecent proposal is lingering like a bad smell.
After a long shower, I change into an old college t-shirt and some sweats, and I settle on my bed with my laptop and a steaming cup of ramen, which is precisely when the MacBook chimes, startling me. My stomach knots when I see a new message pop-up from unknown . I quickly update the contact so that I can at least screen his calls if I need to.
Asshat: Times ticking…
I glare at his taunting threat, but then curiosity gets the better of me.
Clicking on a new webpage, I enter Robbie Mason into the search engine, my brows immediately knitting together at the page that appears, full of links to news articles with unflattering headlines. Placing my noodles on the nightstand, I decide to get comfortable.When Robbie mentioned his reputation was in trouble, I just assumed he was being a drama queen; I certainly didn’t think it was this serious.
Most Valuable Player to Most Despised Man in the League
At just twenty-five, Robbie Mason already has two Hart Trophies, three Stanley Cup wins, and sponsorship deals with some of the biggest brands in the world. Yet, in the wake of the news that St. Paul has released their star defenseman only two games into the pre-season, the hockey world has been left in shock, wondering where it all went wrong for the game’s most valuable player?
Fans first began to express their concern for Mason following the Lions’ Stanley Cup win in June when, during the break, he was often spotted looking disheveled, stumbling out of nightclubs in Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and Miami, photographed partying with Hollywood celebrities amidst his rumored relationship with controversial influencer, Lola Grey.
When photos appeared of Mason asleep on a couch, shirtless, with a suspicious looking bag of white powder sitting in his lap, concern increased for the athlete. When asked about the photo at a press conference, Mason declined to respond before unplugging and abruptly exiting the media room.
Following the Lions’ pre-season opener loss against the Bears, it appeared that the once unbeatable team had lost momentum on the ice. A few days later, as the Lions faced off against the Miners at home, fans were forced to watch on as their beloved team fell apart right in front of them. Fights are aren’t uncommon in the sport of ice hockey, but this was the first time in NHL history that a brutal, bloody, mid-game brawl had broken out between players on the same team, and it sent shockwaves throughout the sporting community.
The question that remains on everyone’s lips is what on earth could possibly have caused Robbie Mason to drop mitts and launch at his own teammate, Ben Harris?
There’s been no mention of the incident, no explanation, no apology from the club, the league, or the man himself, and fans are understandably reeling.
The New York Thunder are rumored to have been in contact with the now free agent, but Mason’s future lies in the hands of David Ferris and the league's Player Safety Board, who will ultimately decide whether he is cleared to continue playing, or whether his professional hockey career has come to a sudden and unexpected end.
More to come on this breaking story.
I puff air from my cheeks, shocked by what I’ve just read. I’m the first to admit I know nothing about sports, but even I can tell this is big. In fact, the whole thing screams messy.Robbie’s gone from being the best player on the number one team in the league, to a team that has come last two years in a row. I’m no expert, but I imagine that’s not something anyone would willingly volunteer to do during the height of his career.
I pinch my bottom lip between my thumb and forefinger, staring at the screen, at the photograph accompanying the story: a shot of Robbie walking out of the Newark arrivals terminal, chin dipped low, a hoodie pulled over a ball cap, and sunglasses at dusk. He looks broken. Granted, I don’t really know the man in the photo. Hell, I barely even knew him in high school. He was just that guy. The guy who chose to, for some reason, make my life a living hell. And no, it wasn’t some secret harbored crush he was trying to hide; Robbie Mason despised me. And, in return, I despised him right back. But after graduation we went our separate ways, mutually happy to see the back of one another. But now he’s here, and it looks like a lot has happened in the time that’s passed, and I don’t know if it’s something I’m ready to be dealing with right now.
Sure, I need to sell Allora, and in two days no less, but is it worth making a deal with the man these articles are written about?
On the flip side, if I don’t sell the apartment, then Tadd wins.
I click on my messages, staring at Robbie’s last text.
Asshat: Time’s ticking…
With a deep breath, I type a response.
Me: What exactly does “pretending to be your girlfriend” actually entail?
Sending my reply, I stare at the screen, chewing on my thumbnail. I cannot for the life of me believe I’m actually considering this. Maybe I’ve finally lost my mind. My great aunt had a mental breakdown; maybe it’s hereditary.
Asshat: Coming to my games, wearing my jersey, waiting for me outside the locker room at the end of the night. Looking at me like you can’t get enough of me. That sort of thing. I just need my coaches and the higher-ups in the league to see that I have a serious girlfriend. That I’ve changed.
I cringe at the thought. Having to spend my free time with the likes of Robbie Mason is punishment enough, but then to have to act like I don’t want to slap him in his stupid smug face is the stuff of nightmares.
A follow-up appears in the message window before I can even reply.
Asshat: We can practice on Friday. See what works best.
Me: Friday? As in two days from now?
Asshat: No, Friday, March 16. Next year.
I roll my eyes.
Me: What’s happening Friday?
Asshat: Oh, no big deal or anything. Just my first official game with the Thunder.
Me: And what if I already have plans?
Asshat: Not my problem.
I balk. The nerve of this guy.
Me: And if I say yes to this farce, what’s the deal with PDA.
Asshat: You really want me that bad huh, Keller?
Me: Dream on, loser. I swear, if you so much as even touch me, I will claw your face off.
Asshat: I need to see some return on my investment.
Me: You’re getting a whole ass Chelsea apartment!
Asshat: You’re gonna have to at least hold my hand. Maybe even kiss me on my cheek.
Me: I think I just threw up in my mouth.
Asshat: Ok, so imagine I’m walking out of the locker room after the game on Friday, and you’re hanging around in the tunnel, waiting for me. What are you gonna do when I come out to meet you? High five me?
I heave a sigh. This is all too much. Maybe losing Allora, and my job, and not being able to afford to stay in New York, and having to go home to live the rest of my life working as assistant manager at Keller’s Drug Store won’t be so bad after all. I can live in the loft above my parents’ garage, rent-free. At least I wouldn’t have to see stupid Tadd every day.
But with the thought of Tadd taking my listing, the one I worked my ass off to secure, and the image of his stupid face filling my mind, I’m almost on autopilot as I send my response.
Me: Okay. Whatever. I’ll do it.