Chapter Seven
On Love Shack, it’s not just sink or swim. It’s sink, swim, or stab in the back.
—Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack
“Is she dead?”
Someone pinches my eye open, and I slap their hand away, scrambling to sit up. My cheek is throbbing where the ball made contact.
Monica jumps back, looking scared. “Are you okay?”
The whole court is deadly silent, and then Norbert, holding a defibrillator, bursts through the gate and skids to his knees in front of me.
“STAND CLEAR! ON THREE,” he bellows, brandishing the paddles like a shield. “ONE, TWO—”
“I’m okay!” I wheeze. “I don’t need that!”
Norbert looks skeptically at me, then shuts off the defibrillator. “If you say so, lass. But I’m keeping it at the ready just in case.”
The other producers flock in like birds, and Lainey directs the cameraman to get a close-up of my sweaty face. I grimace and push the camera away, but it just looms closer, so I flop back, trying to play dead.
“Nina,” Lainey says. “Help her up. Someone get her a towel!” She snaps her fingers and as Nina helps me to my feet, a towel is thrust into my shaking hands.
“You okay?” Nina asks quietly. We both know why they wanted her to pick me up. She’s The Mom of the group after all. But her question is genuine.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just a bit dizzy.” I try to laugh it off but start coughing instead.
“Let’s go again,” Lainey yells. “Everyone back into positions. Georgia, get back on the ground. I want to get a good shot of you and Roland.”
“What do you—” I stop myself. Of course. They need another shot of me literally eating grass. Feeling incredibly silly, I lie back down and put my arm over my head in a near-dead sort of way.
“Action!” Lainey barks, and Roland rushes over to me.
“Georgia, are you okay?” He drops to the ground and pulls me into his arms. “Are you hurt?”
“Fine, fine, yeah,” I mutter.
He lifts me to my feet—those biceps aren’t just for show—and I brush myself off.
Lainey is eyeing us carefully, so I really commit to the bit, leaning into Roland’s side, pressing my cheek to his chest. I wish he smelled like sunshine and daisies or something sexy and masculine, but he smells like sweat and a body spray I thought people stopped wearing in middle school.
I’ve become the Damsel in Distress, letting Roland pick me up like a knight in shining armor. Not the worst look, but not what I was going for.
He rubs my back, murmuring something unintelligible into my hair. When this is on TV, I wonder what viewers will think he’s saying. Will there be a made-up subtitle? Something like: Georgia, my love, are you hurt? Will this affect your ability to bear my children?
“Roland,” Lainey says, “Why don’t we do a quick interview while Georgia catches her breath.”
Nervously eyeing Norbert and his defibrillator, I shuffle off to the side and grab an ice pack for my face from a PA.
“Tell us how you felt when Georgia fainted,” Lainey prompts. I gape at her. Fainted? Is that what we’re calling intentional sabotage by tennis ball? My eyes stray to Addison, but she’s too busy inspecting her cuticles to care.
Roland nods, psyching himself up for an emotional moment. “When Georgia fainted, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. It was like time stopped. I needed to make sure she was okay.”
I stare at him in disbelief, the ice pack numbing my face. On the side of the court, someone snorts. I look over to see Olie rolling her eyes. She winks at me and puts a hand over her heart.
“Okay, now you,” Lainey says, fixing me with her hawk-like gaze.
A camera man waddles over to me and points the lens directly at my face.
Norbert inches forward with the defibrillator.
I wouldn’t put it past him to zap me even while I’m fully conscious.
I drop the ice pack to the bench beside me and try to look more alert.
“What were you thinking about when you fainted?” Lainey asks.
I weigh my options, since clearly we aren’t going to play up the Georgia-was-attacked-by-Addison angle.
I shrug. “I wasn’t really thinking about anything, it just happened.”
“That’s it?” Lainey says.
“Um,” I mumble, eyeing the defibrillator. I don’t know what she wants from me. If she wants me to accuse Addison, then why would she say I fainted?
“Norbert,” Lainey snaps. “Get out of here with that thing. You’re making her nervous.”
Chastened, Norbert retreats to the sidelines.
“Right,” Lainey says. “Let’s try that again, okay? Tell us how you felt when you fainted.”
I take a breath and nod. “Honestly, my mind went totally blank. I don’t really remember it happening, just a sort of whoosh and then …
nothing.” I run my hand through my hair, acting more affected than I feel.
“But when I came to, Roland was the first thing I saw.” As I slide my eyes to Roland, then back to the camera, I feel the silence around me, the producers and other women hanging onto every word of my lie—or rather, this new TV truth.
“He was the first person I thought of when my brain turned back on. And when I opened my eyes, he was right there.”
Lainey bugs her eyes at me, nodding for me to continue. I grit my teeth as I lay it on even thicker. “I probably seem silly”—I bat my eyelashes in an extremely silly fashion—“but I felt like a damsel in distress, and Roland was my knight in shining armor.”
“Cut,” Lainey calls. I hope this footage never sees the light of day, but the grin on Lainey’s face tells me I won’t be so lucky. “Excellent, Georgia, excellent. Let’s get everybody back on the court!”
Norbert scuttles around, arranging us by the net opposite Roland, who’s currently toweling his sweaty hair with far too much gusto.
“Where’s Rhett?” Lainey snaps at Norbert, who mutters into his headset.
Seconds later, like he’s been conjured, Rhett reappears at Lainey’s side, looking sulky.
My stomach flip-flops, which must be because of the tennis ball smacking into my face.
Besides, if Rhett’s going to act like a greeting card, telling me he’s here if I “need” him, then shouldn’t he be the one rushing to my side when I’m attacked during organized sports?
“Quiet!” Lainey shouts. “Rolling!”
The word is like an On button. Immediately Rhett’s face lights up.
“Ladies,” he says. “I hope y’all had a good time playing tennis with the master, five-time Wimbledon champion Roland Marchetti.
” As if we—or anyone watching at home—would forget his name.
“You served up your best shots, and we’re impressed.
” Rhett deserves an award for the way he delivers the line, no sarcasm, all seemingly genuine sparkle. But I know better.
“Roland, how was the date?” he asks.
“It was great, Rhett. I really connected with the girls on a deeper level.”
I swear he shoots me a look, a feeling confirmed when a camera swings heavily to my face. I try to manufacture a blush, but it’s possible I look more seasick than charmed.
“And since the game had to end a little early, there wasn’t a winner,” Rhett explains. Beside me, Monica looks ready to cry. If it weren’t for Addison’s sabotage—I mean, my “accident”—Monica would have won. “So, Roland, it’s your choice—who will be joining you for some romantic one-on-one time?”
“I really enjoyed spending time with everyone,” Roland says. “But there’s one girl who really went above and beyond today, and I’d like to spend a little extra time with her. Georgia?”
He holds out his hand, smiling as wide as can be.
My mouth drops open. Is this really happening?
I thought I’d ruined my chances by dropping to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
I attempt my best squeal of pleasure. This is what I wanted, right?
A chance to get closer to Lainey? If only I didn’t have to cuddle with Roland in order to do it.
Around me, the other women pretend to be excited, but I distinctly hear someone mutter, “‘Above and beyond?’ All she did was get knocked out.” Can’t help but agree.
Someone else says, “I bet she did it on purpose.”
I open my mouth, about to retort—how could I possibly have gotten hit by a tennis ball on purpose?—then shut it. Better not to get too involved in the drama since viewers are like rabid dogs when it comes to women’s flaws.
Ignoring the others, I let Roland wrap his arms around me and plant a kiss on my sweaty forehead.
As Roland’s lips meet my skin, I meet Rhett’s gaze.
His face is impassive, drained of all that camera sparkle.
His lips part like he’s about to speak, but of course he doesn’t.
We’re surrounded by dozens of people and unlike the night we met, they’re tuned in to our every move.
“Rhett, go,” Lainey says.
Rhett tears his eyes from mine, hooking his mouth up into a grin for the cameras. “Georgia, are you excited for your one-on-one time with Roland?”
“So excited,” I say, patting Roland’s chest. My hand comes away slick with sweat, and I try to subtly wipe it off as I continue. “He’s such a sweet guy and I can’t wait to learn more about him. Not to mention those biceps.” I wink at the camera. “I’m certainly hoping our date involves a hot tub.”
Roland plants another sloppy kiss on my forehead, and when he finally removes his lips, the cameras cut.
I fidget with the waistband of my shorts, stealing another look at Rhett. He’s standing with his arms crossed, watching the footage back on a monitor. His brow is creased, mouth pulled into a tight frown.
Is he watching me? Replaying Roland’s lip-attack on my face?
Either way, he doesn’t seem happy.