Chapter 3 Jesse
THREE
JESSE
Naz lets himself in without knocking, the way he always has, keys clinking into the bowl by the door. “You look like shit,” he announces, then flops next to me on the couch and tries to peek at my screen.
“Thanks,” I mutter, angling the laptop away.
“You’ve barely answered my texts the last two days,” he says. “You wanna talk about whatever that was at the party, or do I need to start worrying?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.” He bumps my knee with his. “Come on. I know you.”
To be fair, someone wouldn’t have to know me to recognize that I’m spiraling.
I’ve been in what can only be described as a state of dissociation since Luc Martín popped up on the television screen.
Despite not being a sports fan, I watched every moment of that game with rapt attention, waiting for them to show his face again so I could be sure.
During commercial breaks, I scrolled through whatever information I could find on my phone.
Luc.
I want to say his name out loud, to wrap my tongue around the simple syllable and draw out the sound, taste it. I haven’t let myself yet.
The man on the screen is a little different from how I remember him, but he’s a few years older.
His jawline is sharper, hair cropped shorter on the sides, and his body has bulked out in ways that only time and the intense training of a professional athlete could accomplish.
But in one of my first image searches, I found a picture of him exactly as I remember him.
When I clicked on the image to open the article, I realized it was taken only a week after the night we’d been together.
It was from that year’s NFL draft night.
On our way home from the party, I didn’t talk much. Naz asked about it, but I was still too dumbstruck to articulate what was on my mind.
As soon as I got home, I did a deep dive, searching for anything and everything I could find about Luc Martín, and I haven’t come up for air since.
I’ve devoured every article I could find.
There isn’t much outside of stats, game highlights, and mentions here and there.
Despite being one of the best defensive players in the league, he doesn’t get much press.
He seems to keep his head down, hasn’t been involved in any scandals that I can find, nor is there any gossip about his personal life.
At all. He doesn’t even have social media.
Seriously, what kind of celebrity doesn’t have social media these days?
Even if they don’t manage it themselves, like our PR team does for us.
Even though I know his name now, the lack of a trail makes him feel more intangible than ever. Maybe that’s why I keep scrolling, clicking on every mere mention of his name. Hope is more addictive than the strongest drug.
Naz nudges me and then gestures for me to hand him my laptop. The NFL draft article is on the screen, because it’s the one I keep coming back to again and again.
“This the guy you saw last night?”
“Yeah. I’ve met him before.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “There has to be more to it than that.”
Naz waits me out, quiet for once. I sigh, trying to think of a way to explain myself.
“Do you remember that Spring Break showcase we played in the Outer Banks, the one where we first met that producer?”
“How could I forget? That was the day everything changed,” he smiles.
I nod. “The night before we got that call, I’d gone for a walk on the beach and I kind of stumbled on a small party.”
Naz snorts. “Sounds like something you’d do. Let me guess, you met this guy there?” He taps the screen next to Luc’s face.
The air leaves my chest in a pained huff and I can only nod to answer his question. He waits patiently, but expectantly, for me to say more. Clearly there’s more to it if I’m acting so erratically.
My voice comes out rough. “We talked a lot and, well… more. I spent the night with him, and then the next morning is when you texted that we’d gotten the call. I left while he was still sleeping, and I didn’t get his name.”
Naz studies me, waiting, but I don’t say more.
I don’t offer up any explanation for this being the one exception to every other hookup I’ve walked away from without another thought.
Nor do I say that the reason I didn’t wake him or leave a note was because the rawness of what had happened between us scared the hell out of me.
Lying there, watching him sleep, it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff so high I could only see clouds below. And I was suddenly afraid of heights.
“Everything happened so fast after that, I thought it was probably for the best. We left for New York the next day.”
Naz’s mouth softens. “Jesse…” He swallows whatever he was about to say and shifts closer, shoulder to shoulder. Then he freezes. “Wait. This can’t be… Is this who Remember My Name was about?”
I stare at my hands and nod.
He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”
If anything, he must understand how much of an impression Luc made on me back then. Everyone, including him, has always remarked how that song had to have come from somewhere deep. And considering it was deep enough that I never spoke about it to anyone, not even my best friend…
Naz looks back down at the article, then leans in. His eyebrows shoot up, and he touches the scroll pad to read more. “New York,” he says. “Dude. He was in New York at the same time we were. We were only two blocks away from Radio City Music Hall that night,” he says, pointing to the article.
My mind reels. As many times as I’d read this article, and scoured every detail I could find about him, I didn’t pick up on that.
A laugh breaks out of me, too sharp. “What a small fucking world.”
Naz looks at me for a long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is careful. “So, what now?”
My pulse kicks. “I have to find a way to see him again.”
I spend most of the day still reeling. We have a video meeting with our manager and the other guys to discuss our schedule for the next few months.
I’m barely present. I’m there physically, sitting next to Naz in front of the camera.
Blake has given up asking me any direct questions.
He seems to think I’ve checked out because he brought up the Super Bowl again, but all my attention is focused on figuring out how to meet up with Luc.
My first thoughts were the easier ideas.
I have connections and strings I could pull to get in contact with someone who could get me his number or set up a meeting.
Then I think, what if he doesn’t remember me?
Or what if he does, but isn’t interested?
My face is in the news, tabloids, and on billboards across the country.
I’m really fucking famous. There’s a good chance he knows who I am and made the choice not to get in touch with me.
Which means he’s probably not interested.
What if that night wasn’t as memorable for him as it was for me?
Luc.
No. I can’t chance having a meetup be rejected.
There needs to be a way I can run into him somehow, or otherwise physically be in his presence.
After all this time, I’d almost convinced myself he wasn’t real or that my memory of him was distorted.
I need to know. I need to see him in front of me, with my own eyes, close enough to touch him and know he’s real.
Wait…What if I went to a football game? I know plenty of celebrities who are self-important enough to bully their way backstage to meet me.
Maybe I can get backstage for one of his games, or whatever it’s called for sports arenas.
Maybe the team would want to meet me, and then I could walk around shaking hands in the locker room after the game or something.
A visual stabs through my brain like an ice pick. Me making my way through the room. Him half-stripped after the game, wearing nothing but a pair of those tight football pants.…
Damn.
Yes, that’s it!
“Where’s my phone? I need my phone!” I shove back from the table so suddenly my chair squeals across the floor. Naz jumps in surprise.
“Jesse?” Blake snaps. “Is he okay?”
Naz says my name questioningly.
I don’t answer. I’m already grabbing my phone off the counter, scrolling with frantic thumbs, searching for the Shreveport Cyclones’ schedule. Cities and dates blur as I flick through. They play in Philadelphia this weekend, and then…
Yes. Holy shit. They play in Buffalo the same weekend as our headliner in NYC! It’s perfect.
“Earth to Jesse,” Blake’s voice cuts in again, exasperated. “What’s going on?” Will and Ari are chattering, asking Naz the same thing. He shrugs into the camera.
“I have an idea,” I tell Naz.
I walk back around to the front of the computer screen, adrenaline fizzing under my skin. “Blake, I need a favor.”
Everyone shuts up at once. Blake’s face looks pinched and wary. Will and Ari look mildly curious. Naz leans back, arms crossed, smirk tugging at his mouth because he knows I’m about to blow something up.
“A favor?” Blake repeats.
“Our New York show.” I lick my lips. “Could we… make room for some special guests?”
Blake blinks. “Jesse, that show sold out in less than an hour. There’s already going to be a mob outside just hoping to get a glimpse of the back of one of your heads. This isn’t the kind of night where we slip people in.”
“But if I wanted to invite someone,” I press, leaning forward, “we could make it happen, right?”
He sighs, already defeated. “I can probably swing a couple. How many are we talking?”
My phone screen glows back at me, the Cyclones’ roster page still open. A grin creeps up before I can stop it.
“How many guys are on a football team?”