91. I’m Fucking Lost #2
Fear claws at me. Nothing can happen to Kyle.
He’s not a therapy dog, but he’s my therapist. He’s my rock, my good boy.
He’s mine to protect and mine to love. And if I were to fail him…
I heave again, but there’s nothing left in my stomach.
He’s never left me or been anything other than my savior. He deserves the same from me.
I’ve stripped my bed by the time my best friend returns to the room, which is to say, way too darn long for my taste. Kyle looks at me, head aloft, and turns in a circle, sitting sentry in front of me, blocking my view of my best friend.
I lean around him, looking up at her as her fingers fly over her phone. Her brow furrows, and she looks at me before dropping her eyes back to her screen. When her gaze hits mine again, she folds to sit in my doorway and extends a hand as if to say stop.
Kyle assumes his down command, and with nothing between us but my prone dog, she starts. “It’s not good. I don’t know how not good because it’s happening too fast.”
I raise my eyebrows and open my mouth to speak, but before I can, she continues.
“Pictures from last night at the club. One of you with your back to Layton, him rubbing your arms. The police report. An official team statement.” Her head pops up.
“How did they get a statement in the last—” She looks at her watch.
“What, five hours maybe? They’ve got this playing out like a lover’s triangle. You, Layton, and the douche.”
“What? How?” Those are stupid questions. The how is every cell phone in the place. The why is because famous people were there. The other reason is that these sites are in the business of selling stories to keep advertising revenue rolling in, so the truth doesn’t matter when lies sell.
I rub Kyle’s flanks, calming myself, until I drop my face into my palms and groan.
“What?”
“The pictures… I’m sure I look like a stripper or a freaking escort. No wonder they’re climbing the fence to get my picture.” I fling my hand in the general direction of the door.
“Yeah. It’s not the best presentation. The upside is you look fit as fuck. Florida agrees with you, my friend, but this isn’t the shot you want on your LinkedIn as a profile pic.”
“Shit. My job. My career. What the heck have I done?” It’s a rhetorical question. There’s no answer from Sabine.
I fold over Kyle, connected as much as I can to his warm, solid body, taking strength from him. When I do, he shuffles one paw and lays his head down on it, finally at rest.
When I can breathe deeply again, I ask for her phone, which she declines with a shake of her head and sorrow in her eyes.
“I need to call my boss.” It’s quiet and firm. I’ve mitigated the panic just enough. She stands, allowing me to keep my position with Kyle. Of all people, she knows what he means to me and does for me.
Upon seeing my phone, her face briefly registers horror.
She quickly rearranges her features, swipes, and hands it to me.
The red notification alert is on every app on my phone.
From the native ones to the social ones, the numbers keep flipping higher and higher and the notification bar just keeps dropping, covering what I need.
I finally get my phone app open and place a call to the team’s lead physician.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, Dr. Silverberg. It’s Livy.”
“Good morning, Livy. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He’s always so formal. It’s as if he were born in another century. He actually was in another century. Then again, so was I.
“If you haven’t heard already, I was in an incident last night.” I explain everything as he listens patiently, never interrupting my story.
When I finish recounting everything up until the last several minutes, he hums thoughtfully on the other end of the line.
“You’re a smart woman with a great head on her shoulders. What can I do for you?”
That surprises me. I expected a reprimand. “Well, mostly, I wanted you to know… And I wanted you to hear it from me, not read about it online.”
“Thank you, Olivia. If you need anything from me or Georgia, please let me know. If the press gets to be too much, we have a little place farther down the coast that you’re welcome to hide away in.”
“That’s very kind. I hope I never need it, but I promise to ask if I do.”
“Please do. And, I hate to say this, but because I must… Please remember the nonfraternization clause in your contract. You’re too—”
I cut him off, insulted at the insinuation. “Dr. Silverberg, I’m not dating a player. Any player. It was a complete surprise that they were at the same place my friend and I went to dance. You won’t have to warn me again.”
A huge sigh comes through the line. “That’s good to hear. You’re a gifted PT with an exceptional career ahead of you.”
“Thank you, Dr. Silverberg. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Have a good weekend. Please let me know if you need anything.”
He disconnects. Relief wars with indignation.
“Well, that sucked,” I say to Sabine. “You think in his professional life, he’s ever warned his male staffers not to mess with players?”
Anger rises, and I continue my musings. “You think he has to remind them about not fraternizing with players? Come on! I’m a woman, so I need to remember not to screw someone? What does he think of me?”
I stand, grabbing my sheets and taking them to the washer, and begin the load.
I pace to my kitchen and start the kettle. “Coffee or tea, Bean?”
Kyle skids around the corner. “I never said the word. Not that I ever deny you, but I didn’t say it.” I pass him a treat and rub between his ears.
Sabine’s voice hits me before she enters the open kitchen area. “Coffee. Tea is for the afternoon.”
“Tea is for any time,” I throw back. I turn to set out a couple of mugs, prep the French press, and line out the sweeteners.
I’m cutting a melon when she speaks again. “Liv, your phone is blowing up, and the news just keeps coming. What are you going to do?”
“What was in the team’s statement? You said they released something?”
She reads it to me.
“Well, that makes it easy. No comment. This will die down with no comment. Monday will come, and I’ll be old news. Done.” I brush my hands as if I’m dusting flour from them and continue with the melon.
“Think we can escape here and get some beach time?” she asks as she fills the French press with hot water and adds the rest to my cup, dropping in a tea bag.
“We’ll find a way. I’d hate for you to come all this way in a Delaware winter and not go home with at least a little sun. At the risk of sounding like a diva, do you mind taking Kyle around the block after breakfast? He’ll go stir-crazy without burning off some energy.”
“I can do that. Should I wear your pink wig and stick it to the people camped out in front of your house?”
“They need to see me as less crazy, not more. But I have another idea.”
“What’s that?”
I head to my bedroom, rummage through my dresser to the back of the bottom drawer, and retrieve a rarely worn tee. When I come back and show her, she throws her head back and laughs.
It’s sunshine yellow and reads “Kiss My Sass.”
When Sabine leaves with Kyle, I head to my room and grab my dreaded phone.
There are hundreds of messages, emails, and phone alerts.
I open my texts and sort to only known senders.
Two new. One from my sister. One from the team’s lead PR person.
I ignore both, find Layton’s number, and tap out a message.
Me: Thank you for last night.
Me: That came out wrong. Thank you for rescuing me and standing up for me. I’m not used to that, and it means a lot.
Me: I’m sorry for the mess. Hope your day is better than last night.
He never responds.