5. Nica
5
NICA
“Not gonna lie to you, sweetheart. The numbers are slipping.” Bruce did an impersonation of a sympathetic frown. It made him look like he was holding in a fart.
Arms crossed, chin high, I refused to flinch. “My wedding videos were a huge hit.”
“Mm, yeah, but that was the biggest spike you’ve had in weeks. And the season opener was rocky. Face it. The schtick is getting old.”
No joke. Two years of showing the world how in love I was with someone I barely knew had more than worn thin. Working for myself, however, did not get old. I never wanted to go back to slinging drinks in a casino and answering to a dickhead boss again.
But as I stared at my ex-boyfriend-slash-manager, I wondered if I’d traded one ball and chain for another. Bruce and I had been dating for about a month when I created the profile. He was the one who had suggested I monetize my brand and had done a lot to show me how. I wouldn’t have been this successful without him, but our personal relationship had only lasted a few months before I called out how obviously incompatible we were.
Bruce had the kind of ego that let him rationalize our breakup as my flighty personality. No way was any fault his. He indulged me and kept the door open for whenever I, little bird that I was, might want to return. Hearing him call me baby or sweetheart at our meetings barely registered anymore. He talked business but had never quite let go of the idea that I would come running back to him one day.
Probably because I had come running back to him before. More than once.
Damn fits of loneliness. Damn a persona based on lusting after someone. Damn me for all the times I asked myself, who else would even want you?
And damn him for the subtle, constant suggestion that the answer was, not a single soul .
I dropped my arms to my sides and shrugged. “I’m ready to do something different. It’s weird going on about him all the time. How do I get out of it and make a new profile?”
Bruce rubbed his beard. “I can’t guarantee you’ll be as successful on a second profile, but I can scout some ideas for you. If I do that, if we launch a new brand—I’m gonna want a bigger cut.”
My fist hit the table. “Are you joking?”
Bruce looked at me like I’d spoken backward. “Why would I be? If I’m doing market research, I think I’m entitled to?—”
“You already get forty percent of everything I earn!”
“So fifty would be reasonable.”
I blinked twice.
“You’re the face. I’m the brains. Half and half, yeah?”
“I… I’m going to have to think about this.”
He shrugged. “I’ll do some preliminary research and draft an amendment to our contract. You let me know when you’re ready. In the meantime, good luck with the metrics.”
I stood to leave. As I walked past, Bruce clasped my wrist. “And, uh, I don’t have plans next weekend. Just FYI.”
He winked, and I had to force down my gag reflex. “Later, Bruce.”
In my car, I cranked up the stereo to drown out my primal scream. My fists pummeled the seat on either side of my hips as tears spilled down my cheeks. When my lungs were empty, I put my forehead on the steering wheel.
Your only hope for not crawling back to your old job is a lizard who wants half of all your paychecks.
A lizard who knows what you look like naked but couldn’t find your pleasure spots to save his life.
A lizard who could at least keep you from waiting tables in a casino until you’re a grandma.
A grandma to baby lizards. Oh, god, I’m fucked.
I groaned again.
If only sleeping in my car to save money was a low point. Far from it. All I could see were dead-end streets no matter which way I turned. Just when I thought I’d gotten my big break, I was back in a corner.
I need something new, and I need it yesterday.
A month into the season, the Commodores were off to a mixed start, and my followers dwindled daily. The team lost three games back-to-back, one at home and two on the road. Quentin grew more rattled with each puck that flew past him.
Even so, I let out a gasp when Coach Delgato announced that Ryan Molloy would start on the road against Cincinnati.
Molloy games were nothing. He usually played when we faced low-ranking teams where the win was nearly guaranteed. He was decent, but he wasn’t Quentin. And Cincinnati had become a serious rival since the Commodores acquired their former player, Ethan Rivera, last year.
Time to make a statement.
I pulled on my Commodores Jersey—with PARIS 26 on the back, of course—and got camera-ready. No one wanted to see plain old Nica. And plain old Nica didn’t want to be seen.
Glamorous and full of energy, I hopped in my car and drove out to Seacrest. Technically, Seacrest was a remote suburb of Hartford, but I always thought a 45-minute drive made the word suburb a stretch. Why they put the state’s hockey team out in the sticks instead of downtown, I never understood. It would be so much easier to get to games if I could take the bus or walk. But no.
While I drove, I called my brother. “I’m coming to Seacrest to watch this game at The Pub. You practically live at that bar. Come watch with me?”
Vinny groaned. “I wasn’t planning on it tonight. We were slammed at the garage today… fine. I’ll meet you there.”
I squealed and hung up. When I pulled into the pub’s gravel driveway, his F-150 was already in a spot. I hurried inside and spied him at the bar right away. Same black hair and blue eyes as me, just like Momma. He’d saved me a seat, so I climbed on and turned to him.
“Can you believe they’re putting Molloy in against Cincy?” I asked in greeting.
He laughed. “Yes, actually. Paris needs a break. He’s in his head.”
I hummed. “I still think he’s amazing, but the fangirl thing is old. Bruce says I need a new schtick.”
Vinny scowled. “You’re still hanging out with that douchebag?”
“He’s my manager, Vin. Not my boyfriend.”
“Not much better. Are you thinking of quitting the profile?”
I gestured to my face. “Not tonight, obviously. But I don’t know. I’d have to find something good as a replacement. Speaking of, one moment, please.”
I opened my video app and made sure the filters were set just like I wanted. Even with the makeup, I had to have my trademark look. I angled the camera to catch the crowd behind me and pursed my lips.
“What is going on in Connecticut? How dare they bench my husband? Are you as pissed as I am that Molloy is in net tonight? Comment below. Let’s tell them we want Quentin!”
Vinny took a pull on his Budweiser and laughed at me. “Sis is pissed. Watch out, Ryan Molloy.”
I wiggled my shoulders in agreement. Meanwhile, I could feel my phone vibrating with notifications. People had something to say about that video. Yes! My smile grew wider as I ordered a beer.
Before I could lift it to my lips, Vinny tapped his bottle against mine. “Here’s to more than twenty years of Commodores games together.”
A lump formed in my throat. “Cheers to that.”
We traded a secret smile. Just as quickly, though, my tough-as-nails brother cleared his throat and redirected. “So, you doubt Delgato’s decision, even though Paris is clearly having a rough start.”
“I mean, do you really think we stand a chance tonight without him?”
He gestured toward the screen. “Let’s find out.”
We turned our attention to the opening puck drop. I grabbed my phone and made a bunch of short clips and pics of myself making faces and flashing a thumbs-down. By the time I had posted a little collage, we were almost through the first period.
And we were up 1-0.
I sipped the beer and focused on the game. Cincinnati stole the puck and raced into our zone. Molloy batted away a shot. It rolled into the corner, where Yuri Ivanov, our star defenseman, tried to take possession. The puck squirted out straight to an Ohio forward waiting at the net. He flipped it up and over Molloy’s shoulder.
The light went red, the crowd on the TV went wild, and the bar let out a collective groan. Molloy dropped to his knees in a classic defeated posture while the Cincinnati players celebrated. But just as quickly, play continued. The clock wound down, and our boys went to the locker room.
“Paris would’ve had that save,” I said with a smug smirk.
Vinny laughed. “Probably, yeah. Even with how he’s been lately.”
“Molloy sucks.”
“Hey. Hang on, sis. Molloy is good. Bro has to warm the bench for so many games on end. Give him some credit. He made three saves that period.”
It wasn’t that I hated Ryan Molloy or anything. I really didn’t know anything about him. And I wanted us to win, of course. But my whole brand was built on Paris. Based on the traffic these posts were generating, my followers agreed. I had tons of comments supporting my pro-Paris stance. But a lot of other haters and trolls were calling me names and saying I didn’t know what I was talking about.
Controversy was even better than agreement on social media. I didn’t care what they called me. All I cared about was that they were talking.
“Look him up,” Vinny said while I replied to a few top comments. “His stats are strong. Molloy plays a smart game.”
“Blah, blah, blah.” I poked my tongue at him just to make him groan. Little sister privileges.
Vinny opened his phone. A moment later, I had an AirDrop alert that opened to Molloy’s team page. “What the hell is this profile pic? An evil leprechaun?” I exclaimed while I examined the little icon where his photo should’ve been.
My brother laughed as he thumbed his phone’s screen. “Halloween’s this weekend. Looks like a little publicity stunt. All the players have some kind of monster or ghost as their avatar.”
“Audrey doing her thing yet again.” I shook my head in admiration. She really was a queen of marketing. She could probably teach you a lot. Not that she has any reason to, stalker that I am. She’s already been cool enough. Can’t press that luck.
“But to my point, I told you his stats were good.”
“Mm, yeah, yeah. That’s not what I need, though.” I flipped away from Molloy’s page and tried to find some images of him that I could repost. The only shots I could find were of him in net, full facemask and gear on. If candid photos of this guy existed, they weren’t on social media. I gave up and went back to the TV for the next period.
By the end of the game, Molloy had blocked twelve shots, and Gene Valentine had managed to nab us a goal. I put my cheek in my hand and turned on the camera. “We won. Go Commodores! But can we please bring back my boo for the next game? K, thanks, bye!” I blew a kiss and ended the video.
Vinny laughed. “You and your hustle.”
“You know how it is.”
“I do. Speaking of, I gotta get going. Work starts early tomorrow.” He arched his brows. “But tomorrow’s also a home game. Think I could get you to grace a barstool again?”
I tapped my finger on my chin. “I feel pretty good about that.”
Vinny grinned. “I’d love it.”
We walked out together and hugged goodbye. Back at my apartment, my phone glowed with notifications. I did a little dance. Best night in a while, that was for sure.
Even better was when Coach Delgato confirmed that Quentin would start the next game. I geared up for another night in Seacrest. Vinny waved to me from the same spot as yesterday. There were no free chairs, but he stood up and let me take his seat. I accepted, ordered a beer, and settled in. The team warmed up on screen while I filmed a Let’s-Go-Quentin video.
Unfortunately, the notifications didn’t roll in. I had a few, but nothing like last night. While I gazed at the stats, a text came through.
Bruce: Bash Molloy again. It gets people talking.
I made a face but had to admit he was probably right. Quickly, I created a side-by-side image of the two goalies in their full gear and used it as my background. “Even with the masks on, it’s clear that there is one true BAE here. Quentin Paris, you are our goalie no matter what. Ryan Molloy, thank you for your service. Now, get back to the bench, baby. Buh-bye.” I blew a kiss and changed the photo to one of my favorites of Quentin before closing out.
And cue the reaction. My phone lit up within seconds. Again I had haters calling me a fool and lauding Molloy’s skills. Even better.
Halfway through the second period, I checked my phone. Some dude had stitched my video to explain how dim I was. He recited stats from both goalies while his comments blew up. Some defended me, and some agreed with him. Either way, I had gained 100 new followers since I walked into the bar. And I had an email from an athleisure company wanting to do a sponsorship. I cackled at the screen.
All around me, a collective gasp rang out.
My head snapped up.
Onscreen, Paris lay on his stomach. His legs were sprawled out in a weird, twisted position that looked anything but natural. One knee bent around the goal post, but his body was mostly behind the net. A Nashville player was climbing off of him from a dogpile.
My hands flew to my mouth. Our goalie didn’t move.
Gene Valentine stood close by while the goalie coach and a medic ran out onto the ice. “Turn up the volume, Tony!” Vinny shouted at the bartender.
The commentator’s voice blared through the speaker in the hushed bar. “Trying to discern whether this is… yeah, no, I think this might be serious. Let’s go to the replay…”
We watched in slo-mo as two Nashville players flew toward the net. One of our guys came in hot behind them and reached for the puck. The blade end of his stick tangled in the Nashville player’s skates, causing him to launch forward into Paris, who’d come out to defend. Paris went flying backward as the Nashville player crashed down on him.
“Fuck, that’s bad.”
I wasn’t sure who said what we were all thinking, but they were right.
The TV went back to live feed after about five replays of the crash. Quentin had sat up while they examined him. He put one knee to the ice to stand, but when he planted his right skate under him, his leg gave out. I joined in the groans as he tried—and failed—to stand again.
“Oh, this is bad, Bob…”
“I know, Al. Quentin Paris is indomitable, but it seems like the giant might have fallen tonight…”
The commentators rambled on and on while Valentine and the team doctor lifted Quentin to his feet. On one skate, he glided to the hallway off the ice while the arena cheered for him. Even with his helmet still on, it was clear how much pain he was in.
“Fuck,” Vince whispered. “I hope he’s okay.”
“Me, too,” I said with my hands still at my mouth.
I did, and it had nothing to do with business. Despite attending his wedding, I didn’t know Quentin Paris, not really. But the last thing I wanted was for someone to be hurt. I loved the Commodores and had cheered for them since I was a little girl. Players gave their all for the team. This was bad.
My phone vibrated.
Bruce: Here comes Molloy. Now’s a good moment to post.
I dumped the phone in my purse. He might’ve been right, but I wasn’t going to be that person. I watched along with the rest of the bar while Ryan Molloy warmed up in front of the net. Finally, the whistle blew for play to resume.
Only after the game, which we lost in a shootout, did I open my phone again. I started a video and glared at the screen.
“Ryan Molloy, you better pray our Quentin is back tomorrow night. Because you, buddy, are no substitute.”