Chapter 24 Luc
TWENTY-FOUR
LUC
“You’re a goddamn idiot is what you are,” Shawna says, standing with her arms crossed in my kitchen.
“Don’t you think I know that?! Who invited you here again?”
“I’m your best friend. I don’t need an invitation. I have a fucking key,” she says, holding it up and sticking her tongue out at me.
I can’t help but huff out an exasperated laugh. “What’s it going to take to get you to go home?”
“You getting your head out of your ass,” she says, dropping her duffle bag on the floor. “I expect I’ll be here a while.”
Shawna and I have been at odds about what to do about the Jesse Moore situation. When I went home alone for Thanksgiving, she laid next to me and let me cry it out. She let me mope around for a couple days, making excuses for my odd behavior to my family.
My sisters still managed to figure it out.
Unlike my dad, who pretty much exclusively watches the Weather Channel, my sisters are as keyed into the latest celebrity scandal as most teenagers, especially as fans of Lest Is Moore.
The two of them came to me my second night home and told me that they know I’m Jesse Moore’s lover.
If I have ever felt sicker in my life, I can’t name the day.
I’ve had food poisoning that didn’t tear me up as much as finding out that my little sisters saw my sex tapes.
Thank God Georgia let me know that neither of them had seen the actual videos, only the blurred-out screenshots shared on the mainstream news sources.
My smart, sensitive sisters informed me that, under no circumstances would they look at anyone’s private photos or videos that had been leaked without their permission.
“Looking at them would be like violating that person physically. Do unto others, and all that,” she said.
They’d seen a few of the gossip rags mention my name as a possible love interest before, and had “Maybe been a tiny bit hopeful that those rumors were true,” Talia said, blushing.
When I asked why, Georgia said, “First of all, he’s hot. Second of all, he was so cute cheering for you and wearing your jersey, and third of all, he’s hot.” Talia added, “Oh, and you’ve never had a person. We figured it was time.”
All of that, combined with my surly attitude and moping around during my two-day break, made them feel strongly that I am the lover Jesse Moore is hiding.
I didn’t even correct them, or bother asking them to stop repeating the word lover, because it sounds weird when they say it. “I was going to bring him home for Thanksgiving,” I said. Seeing as I’ve rarely ever shared anything other than a strong front to my sisters, it was a breaking point for me.
I tried starting a conversation with my father but lost the words. Too much of a coward to let my dad find out that there were videos like that of me, splashed all over the news and internet.
Enter Shawna, who is bound and determined to get me back in Jesse’s good graces.
Not only am I unsure I can handle the pressure, but I don’t deserve his forgiveness.
I shut down. He called and poured his heart out to me, took all the blame for something that wasn’t his fault, and begged me not to leave him. And I shut down.
I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t my intention to hang up on him and leave it like that.
I was standing in the locker room, listening to him tell me how his phone was hacked, and that the photos and videos we’d shared with each other were out there.
The video of him fucking me. The video I made of me breeding and plugging him over and over.
A multitude of pictures of our dicks, recordings of ourselves jerking off together. All of that out in the world.
I froze. Then my phone fell from my hand onto the tile. When I pulled myself together and stopped panicking, which admittedly took a while, I bought a new phone. By the time I was able to call Jesse back, it was too late. He didn’t answer.
When I saw the report about Jesse being taken to the hospital by ambulance, all the speculation that he’d overdosed, I felt responsible.
If he’d spiraled and hurt himself, it was my fault.
I didn’t say anything to him. I didn’t ask him how he was doing, the one who was actively being torn apart by the media.
My name has been mentioned here and there in speculation, and a few reporters have tried to question me about it, but Jesse is facing worldwide scrutiny and I’ve said nothing.
I finally got in touch with Mr. Holland, who assured me Jesse hadn’t overdosed, and offered me legal counsel should the truth be revealed. He advised me to not talk to the press and to be vigilant about my security. If I had anything saved to the cloud, now would be a good time to delete it.
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“He’s still in the hospital under observation. He’s stable. It’s the safest place for him to be right now.”
I wanted to ask Mr. Holland if I could talk to Jesse, but I didn’t.
I wanted to go there and be with him, but I stayed put.
I wanted to go on a rampage and shout from the rooftops that these stupid talking heads needed to get Jesse’s name out of their mouths and move on to real news, but I just watched, numbly, as the rhetoric got worse and worse.
I’ve been stuck in an endless cycle of worry, shame, and self-hatred for being a coward. And Shawna is here to make sure I’m reminded of my cowardly behavior until I crack.
“I’ve tried calling,” I tell her. “He’s not calling me back. Mr. Holland told me he was discharged from the hospital yesterday and that he has access to his phone. He doesn’t want to speak to me.”
Shawna stays for another week. I only get away from her when the team travels to play Washington, but the pressure of knowing she’s right and still being too chickenshit to do anything about it still follows me.
There’s gossip on the plane about Jesse disappearing, and the likelihood that he was in rehab again after overdosing.
I couldn’t even bring myself to correct them.
I just sat there and swallowed back bile.
I don’t deserve him.
The game against Washington is long, drawn out, and hard fought. We barely manage to eke out the win in overtime. The win clenches our place in the playoffs, but I’m not in the mood to celebrate anything. All I want to do is shower and get on the bus back to the hotel so I can wallow some more.
AJ is thumbing through social media on his phone when I get out of the shower.
“Oh, shit,” he says, sounding worried. “Did y’all see this? Our boy Jesse Moore is losing it.”
“What? What happened?” I demand, pushing through the guys and snatching his phone, even though I could have just looked it up on my own.
EXCLUSIVE VIDEO: Jesse Moore Loses It On-Air
Afraid of what I’m about to see, especially with half a dozen guys surrounding me, I push play.
At first, it’s a pretty normal interview.
Jesse, looking thin and haggard with dark circles under his eyes, talks about struggling with his mental health after his privacy was violated.
He’s decided to be more open about his past struggles with addiction and how rehab and the support of his friends and family have kept him alive.
The host is annoying right off the bat, grilling Jesse about whether or not his recent hospital stay was related to an overdose, as was reported.
“I did not overdose. I had a panic attack and legitimately felt like I was dying. My chest seized up, and I couldn’t breathe–”
“Is it true you went on an alcohol-fueled rage and trashed the penthouse suite of the hotel you were staying in? Reports from the scene noted severe damage to the premises.”
“I broke the TV,” Jesse admits. “But I wasn’t drinking. It was an accident. I’ve paid for the damages and decided not to sue the hotel for one or more of their employees breaking the ironclad NDA it has with their clients, and releasing over-exaggerated details to the tabloids.”
The host, who is known for being an aggressive troll, either doesn’t believe Jesse, or is baiting him.
Unfortunately, it works. He digs and digs and digs at Jesse, who is attempting to set the record straight and be open about his struggles with addiction and mental illness, but this guy won’t stop pushing about the sex videos and who the other man is.
He asks if Jesse has a sex addiction in addition to drugs and alcohol, and starts naming names, mine included, as to who the “lucky man” could be.
He asks what kind of future Jesse sees for himself, if the recent exposure of his personal escapades were, in fact, orchestrated by Jesse himself for attention. He asks if Jesse is ashamed of himself.
I feel myself flush with anger. I’m not a violent person, but there’s no possibility I wouldn’t lay that man out if he were in front of me now.
That’s when Jesse snaps. He stands up, tears the headphones off and points at the host.
“You’re the one who should be ashamed. I am a person–a fucking human being–who is being repeatedly violated by people like you.
You use my pain and mental anguish to boost your ratings while perpetuating misinformation for entertainment value.
That makes you no better than the criminals who stole and published my personal moments.
You want a quote for your show. Here’s one–”
He leans into the microphone, anger burning in his green eyes.
“Fuck you. Fuck you and your criminal invasion of people’s lives. Fuck you for making a mockery of someone’s mental health and history of addiction. And fuck you for ruining the one real thing I had in this life. Fuck you for chasing away the only person I’ve ever loved.”
Jesse starts to walk away, but the interviewer, calculated as ever, says, “So this guy just walks away from you and lets you take all the pressure for what you both were clearly part of, doesn’t that piss you off? Shouldn’t he take the heat just as much as you?”
Chest heaving, Jesse steps forward and upends the table between him and the talk show host. The mic stand clatters and papers fly everywhere. The host flinches back, but Jesse does nothing more than give him a cold look and storms out of the room.
Shit.
“When was this? When did it happen?” I scroll up to find more information. The story broke earlier today, but the actual incident happened early Friday morning.
Still dripping wet from the shower, I pull on the easiest clothes I can and leave the locker room in search of Coach.
I explain to him that I was just informed of a family emergency, and I need a few days off.
Coach, clearly seeing my panic, tells me to be back in time to fly out for the Atlanta game.
I nod, and leave the stadium, finding an uber to take me to the airport.
On the way there, I call Mr. Holland and Jesse repeatedly. Neither of them answers.
Just as I make it to the airport, I get a call from an unfamiliar number that has the same area code as Jesse’s number. I answer it straightaway.
“Jesse?” I ask hopefully.
“No. It’s Naz.”
“Is he okay?”
“Not really, man.”
“What can I do? I’ve been trying to call him, but he won’t answer.”
“He’s been trying to fix it so he’d be worthy of you or some shit. Though, to be honest, you fucked up, too, man.”
“I know I did. Let me make it better. Please. Naz, tell me where he is.”