Chapter 5
BECCA
"You're doing what?"
Grace's voice was so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear or risk serious damage.
"I'm having dinner with him. Relax, it's just work." I pressed the speaker icon and set the phone down beside the sink. From an almost full bag, I grabbed a makeup remover wipe and swiped it across my eyelids.
"Even after he cottoned on to what you were trying to do?" Grace asked.
"Yeah." I wiped the other eyelid. "I guess that was kinda dumb." Why I thought he'd fall for that act, I don't know. It seemed like a great idea at the time. And I had to admit, it was a bit of fun to be someone else for a while. I wouldn't win any awards for my investigative work or acting though.
Why did this expensive makeup take so much effort to remove? Mascara clung to my eyelashes like a toddler to their mother’s leg, refusing to let go.
"You did get his attention," Grace pointed out. "Maybe he's interested after all."
"That’s highly doubtful." I tossed the wipe in the bin and grabbed a clean one for the rest of my face. The more I wiped, the redder my face became, and the more freckles I saw in the mirror.
Wiping away the fake me to reveal the real me. I preferred this version of myself. From now on, I'd be myself and no one else around Hawk Florence.
My reflection grimaced back at me as soon as I let that thought free. From now on? As far as I was concerned, this dinner was a one time thing. Then we'd go back to being strangers and trying to forget the other person existed.
"Don't sell yourself short," Grace said sternly.
I pictured her expression, eyes narrowed, chin tilted to one side.
"Are you shaking your finger at me?" I asked. "Because I can't see it if you are."
A brief silence was followed by, "I might be. But what I said stands. You're always underestimating yourself. You're cute, smart and successful. You deserve to have guys falling at your feet."
"Maybe I should get a puppy," I said. "They're always underfoot." And ready to chew all my shoes, if they didn't pee in them first.
Grace laughed. "I meant human guys. Every time one looks at you, or asks you out, you always run and hide."
"I don't run," I argued. Hide, maybe. Who doesn't love a good blanket fort, or evening in the bath with a good book? "Anyway, I'm not running and hiding tonight, am I?"
"Are you wearing that slinky black dress I helped you pick out?" she asked.
"I don't think that's quite the right outfit for Gianna's." I was glad I stepped away from the sink, because Grace squealed.
"That place is so good!"
"So I've heard," I said as if I didn't care. Honestly, I was excited to dine out. I was lucky to eat at the local burger place more than a couple of times a year. The microwave was my third best friend, after Grace and my vibrator.
"And you think he doesn't like you," Grace said.
"A guy like him probably has Gianna herself on speed dial.
" It was difficult to reconcile the guy I used to know with the one he became.
He was probably rolling in money. I knew he had a house overlooking the ocean, which cost about a bajillion dollars.
Maybe I should ask if I could do one of those articles featuring his home.
'Lifestyles of the stinking rich, that the average Joe couldn't hope to afford. '
That was unfair, I supposed. He worked hard to get where he was.
Why shouldn't he spend his money on nice things? It was probably quite the change from his parents’ small house in the 'burbs, with the tired furniture and crayon marks on the wall.
Did his parents still live there, or had he bought them something somewhere nicer?
"At least you have me on speed dial," Grace said, a grin in her voice.
I smiled toward the phone. "Yeah, I do. I'm glad for that. You're a great friend."
"Don't forget me when you're living it up," she said. "Rubbing elbows with the elite and all that."
I snorted. "Remember when I said it's a one time thing? I meant that."
"Send me photos of the inside of Gianna's?" Grace asked.
"That would be classy," I said sarcastically. "They probably don't even allow phones inside." At least not out of bags and pockets.
"The bathrooms then," she said. "I bet even those are incredible. Just think how many people have fuc—"
I interrupted her with, "I'm not taking photos of the bathrooms." I certainly didn't want to think about how many people had been intimate in them. Ick.
"Spoilsport," Grace said cheerfully. "You'll have to give me all the details afterward then. How else am I to live vicariously through you?"
"I'll tell you everything," I promised. "But it's not healthy to live through someone else."
"That's what my therapist says," Grace said. "She thinks I should spend more time with other people, not just my cats. I'm starting to think her qualifications are bogus. I mean, cats are the best company. After you, I mean."
"Sure." I drew the word out. Her cats were pretty great company, fur and all. "You're one more cat away from not being able to remember my name."
Grace laughed. "That's not true. I forgot that when I got the last cat."
I laughed too. "Gee, thanks. Now tell me, what should I wear to Gianna's?"
"Your best bra and panties," Grace replied immediately. "Just in case."
"There will be no 'just in case' tonight," I assured her. Still, it wouldn't hurt to wear nice underwear to make myself feel good.
"What do I wear over that?" I wished I could get away with jeans and a t-shirt, but I should dress like I was working.
"That chocolate skirt that falls just above your knee and the champagne blouse you got last time we went shopping," she said.
"Have you catalogued my wardrobe?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied with a laugh. "And leave your hair down. But don't forget lipstick."
"Yes, Mother," I replied. She was right though, the outfit was perfect and I needed to make a bigger effort than just a touch of lipgloss.
I washed my face properly and turned on my hair straightener. To my surprise, it still worked. When was the last time I used it? I shrugged at my reflection and started to work on my hair.
"This is a lot of effort for work," I said.
"Don't think of it as work," Grace said. "Even if Florence is a lost cause, you might meet someone at Gianna's who will sweep you off your feet."
"Yeah, they might have a cute server or two," I said.
"Or better yet, the chef." Grace sounded much more enthusiastic about that. "Just think, you'd never have to have another microwave soup for one again."
"I'm not sure that's how that works," I said. Weren't chefs notorious for not cooking at home? "I'm not going there to meet someone."
"Make sure you get a doggie bag," she said. "I'll be over for lunch. Unless you're, um, busy."
I shook my head at her, even though she couldn't see it. "I'll save you some leftovers for lunch."
"It's a date," she said. "Laters." The line went dead.
"Yeah, later," I said to the phone. I set the straightener down to cool and got dressed.
I debated wearing heels, but went for flats instead. I didn't want to look too fancy for just a work dinner.
While I slipped my feet into my shoes, I mulled over the press conference. I didn't know much about the new coach apart from his name, but he seemed to know what he was talking about.
I caught Hawk watching him through narrowed eyes at one point and wondered if they had bad blood.
The moment he noticed me looking, his expression returned to a careful neutral.
That lasted until Coach Franks spoke about his wife, Lori and her condition.
Then, I thought everyone, especially the attending team members, might cry.
It was an insight into how close they all were.
They worked together shoulder to shoulder, through long, gruelling days.
They were more like family than workmates.
When one of them was hurting, they all were.
Then the former coach left and the air of big, tough, superhero football gods was back. I could almost smell the testosterone and sweat in the air. Like they had to turn it up to eleven after showing even a hint of emotion.
The press conference lasted barely fifteen minutes, including questions, most of which had nothing to do with Lori Franks.
Several journalists asked about the coming season and another asked about some gossip they heard regarding Ollie Tucker and Tasha Magnusson, a pop star who sometimes sang the national anthem at sports games.
The player in question wasn't present, but would likely have found the question as inappropriate as I did.
New Head Coach Wayne Quinn had laughed it off and ended the conference on that note.
Too bad no one asked me. I could’ve told them the rumour was fake.
I peered over the heads of the other journalists, trying to see who had asked the question, and what their reaction was to Quinn.
Harvey Danbury was the likely culprit. He looked as smug as he always did, as if he was handed a juicy headline, in spite of Quinn's evasion.
He saw me looking and gave me that slimy grin of his.
He took a few steps in my direction, but I ducked my head and hurried out of the room.
The last thing I wanted was to have a conversation with him.
I'd have to wash my…well, everything, afterward.
Even my soul. I knew it was intentional on his part.
He wanted people to be uncomfortable. He looked for slip-ups, not exclusive interviews.
Trust didn't factor into anything he did.
Ick.
I bet he spent a lot of time searching through dumpsters and following people around for the right moment to snap and share online.
He was the kind of guy who gave the rest of us a bad name.
He wouldn't even be at the press conference if he didn't smell something he could use.
Only a total sleazebag would dare to try and turn a dying woman into a scandal.
Dragging my thoughts back to the present, I wiggled my toes in my shoes.
I stood to look at myself in the mirror.
I turned this way and that, appraising how the skirt sat at just the right place on my legs to make them appear longer.
The blouse complimented my skin tone and brought out the hint of green in my eyes.
A hint of mascara and a touch of pale pink on my lips finished off the outfit.
I looked like me, but a cuter, more put-together version than usual.
I should take Grace's advice more often.
I liked the way I looked, but more importantly, I liked the way I felt.
"All right, Rebecca Anderson, are you ready to take on the world?" I asked myself.
I grimaced. Maybe not the world, but one dinner, to get the exclusive story from one of the masters of the universe. No pressure.
Old acquaintance or not, he might give me the story of the year.
A greater insight into the inner workings of the Lowball Bay Humpbacks, and how they operated as a cohesive unit.
Readers loved stories like that. They liked to see their heroes as people.
People who worked hard, played hard and had each other's backs.
It was like the Avengers, but with less technology and slightly fewer gods.
At least that was the perception I wanted to give in my story.
The ultimate feel-good. Let people like Danbury dig for dirt.
I wouldn't join the relentless race to the bottom, no matter what happened.
I'd rather give up my job than write that kind of crap.
I wanted to have integrity. Most of all, I wanted to sleep at night knowing I hadn't shattered anyone's world into ugly little pieces.
No one deserved that. Okay, mostly no one.
I still wanted to get my own back on Hawk Florence, but not to that extent.
I was determined to walk away with my dignity intact.
I grabbed my bag, phone and keys and headed out the door.