CHAPTER NINE
C al
I stare at Jason’s newly darkened patio. That was him.
I wasn’t sure the taxi was following him to the right place, and then I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find his room. Well, villa, because of course this is a five-star place. Did he pick a hotel by sorting by most expensive?
The important thing is that I found him.
If Jason doesn’t grant me the interview, I can report on what he’s doing. He’s probably going to do everything except reflect on his behavior. The resort promises massages and jet skiing and dinner where natives in grass skirts come to dance and sing.
Guests sport designer sunglasses and beach bags. Most of them have Australian accents. We really are on the other side of the world. Was Jason so desperate to leave Boston?
Something bubbles in my esophagus again. Something I would call guilt, but that has to be wrong. I pace the beach.
The five-star hotel is immaculate. Expansive greens stretch toward the power of the Pacific, dotted with sleek palm trees, bursts of flowers, and modern villas too cool for proper roofs.
Bright white blocks, the pride of some pricey architect firm, are set against the brighter blue sky.
Thick stone walls adorned with pink and purple bougainvillea guard the resort from prying eyes and anything on the other side that might be deemed non-paradisal.
The blinds of Jason’s boxy villa remain shut.
He clearly doesn’t want to speak with me.
God, we got along so well together a decade ago.
Guilt moves through me again, and I remind myself that Jason isn’t a nice guy. He’s homophobic. He deserves to be exposed. Gay and bisexual and pansexual athletes deserve to not be fearful during their work.
But the only one who seems fearful is Jason. Am I causing this?
Children giggle happily, bouncing over the spongy grass. Couples stroll hand-in-hand, no doubt recounting elaborate proposals. The few men strolling on their own are probably working on their romantic monologues and practicing their kneels.
Everything here is romance and joy, things that have eluded me in life.
My sports obsession puzzled my short list of boyfriends, as has my devotion to a not particularly lucrative career.
My bulky figure seldom compels strangers to ask me out, and I don’t have the patience and low expectations essential for an active dating app life.
It’s fine. My career is on the rise. My sacrifices were worth it. I don’t need to be some romance hero. That’s for people with high cheekbones and tenor voices. Not everyone is good with sports facts. Win some, lose some.
I ignore the ever-growing voice that I might lose everything if I don’t get the interview with Jason, if I followed him across the world and have nothing to show for it except tanner skin, the sort that will make my colleagues huff and whisper and question.
At dinner I go to the fanciest restaurant, because that’s where Jason will be.
He isn’t.
I go to the slightly less fancy restaurant.
He’s not there either.
The sky darkens as I leave the restaurant, streaks of tangerine and violet fading into deep indigo. By the time I reach my room—the cheapest one on the property, the beach is alive with flickering torchlight.
Drums echo through the resort in sharp, staccato bursts.
I go to his villa. Should I knock on his door?
But Jason seemed unhappy, not like a man seething with anger at being forced to play with gay teammates or something. Maybe he needs to relax some more. Maybe he’ll be bored or talkative tomorrow.
I walk to the other side of his villa, to see if he’s on his patio, but it’s empty, and his shades are still down, even though lots of other guests are watching the stars over the ocean.
Tomorrow morning. I’ll find him then. I’ll get the quotes, go back to Boston, and prove to Rex that he made a good hire.
The resort is beautiful, but I’m here to work. I open my laptop. I hesitate briefly, then google Jason Larvik.
The screen fills with articles and pictures.
The man is impossibly good-looking.
Pictures flood my Google images tab: gorgeous women draped on his arm. Cheerful blondes and sultry brunettes beam at him in crowded sports bars. They slink their slender fingers into the crook of his arm during red-carpet events.
There are pictures of them making out.
Pictures of Jason with glazed, alcohol-influenced eyes with captions that say: “bad boy” and “player.”
My stomach gurgles. I don’t want to look at them. I might be gay, but I can recognize a beautiful woman. Clearly Jason has known many in the Biblical sense.
I keep on scrolling. Because I don’t actually see someone referenced to as a girlfriend. Though maybe Jason’s the girl in every city type, like he’s pretending to be a World War II sailor.
I should click away. Close my computer.
But I didn’t come here to vacation. I can do research here just as well as in Boston.
Finally, I come to another article: List of 10 Worst Celebrity Lays.
Why is that article being presented to me? Maybe another Jason, another Larvik is being talked about. My fingers tremble, guilt once again moving through my body.
I click on the article.
Apparently, Jason is on a list of 10 Worst Celebrity Lays.
A whole paragraph is devoted to him.
A woman named Sienna claims Jason only kissed her in public and only wanted to have sex when his teammates were in the next room and could overhear. Once they were in private, he wanted to watch hockey.
My brows knit together. I jot down her name. Maybe I can interview her.
Another woman said he insisted she get on top during sex, then afterwards gave her a spare toothpaste and went to sleep in the guest room while she was alone in his king bed.
The women are catty. Probably some perturbed hookups.
I keep on clicking through the internet. Jason’s reputation isn’t great.
There’s no sign of a long-term girlfriend, ever.
Jason is not who I expected. His unhappy eyes fill my mind.
He’s a self-made millionaire playing the sport he loved when he was younger. He should be thrilled.
All the evidence says he isn’t.