Chapter 6
Melody
“What do we do if this turns into a winning streak?” Lindsey reclines in her chair, headphones around her neck, grinning at me. “Are you going to start complimenting him?”
My brows lower as I consider this new twist. “Nobody’s perfect.”
I’ve been live-covering the season opener in Glendale, and our fans are blowing up the site with their comments—largely in agreement with me.
The first play of the game was pure gold, and I thought for a moment it was over. Knox Bradford had taken my notes and found some discipline. He was moving quickly, looking for an opening, completing passes.
Two new receivers have joined the team, seemingly hand-picked by our favorite foot-chewer. Even better, they actually know what to do when the ball lands in their hands (i.e., Dodge the tackle and run it into the endzone.).
They replaced last year’s defensive coordinator with someone who understands the fundamental tenet of football: You can’t win games without a strong defense.
I’d been all ready to proclaim my work here done… Then the wheels fell off.
The Cardinals linebacker finally got his wish and broke through the line to sack K-Brad. The next few plays kept going up the middle, until even I was shouting at the screen for them to Stop doing that!
Sadly, their tried and true I-formation fell apart. Bradford had a great passing game, but he had no strategy. In the end, they lost the season opener, and after that first incredible, fifty-yard touchdown, it was especially bitter.
Looks like I don’t have to worry about Lindsey’s very important question just yet.
“Gordon Ramsey called,” I say to conclude the show. “He’s giving K-Brad the Kitchen Disaster Award for hyping us up for a great meal, then burning the wings and dropping the pizza.”
Lindsey leans forward in her chair, snorting. “Perfection!”
The corner of my mouth pulls with more of a cringe than a smile. Standing, I take the headset off my head, exhaling heavily as we switch off the equipment.
“Despite popular belief, this doesn’t make me happy,” I tell her. “I mean, sure, at first it was fun to punch up, but I’m a Saints fan. I’m pissed. We should’ve won that game.”
“At least you helped the medicine go down with a good old-fashioned Sour Patch Kid.”
“I’ve never been much for sugar. That’s Coco’s area.”
Our third bestie is following in her mother’s footsteps as a high-end baker.
Lindsey stands, wrapping her arm around my neck. “Let’s go out and drink. Maybe even dance. Or we can hit the piano bar at Pat O’s and sing along at the top of our lungs.”
There are so many options in the Quarter. My insides are tense, and I do want to release this pressure.
“Let’s do it.”
I dash into my bedroom and quickly toss my leggings and Saints tee onto the bed in exchange for a fun, flouncy red dress with eyelet cutouts.
My roommate seems to have the same idea in mind. When we meet up in the den, she’s wearing a black and gold sequined top and shorts.
“Okay, Saintsation,” I tease.
“I don’t care if we lost,” she argues. “I’m still representing.”
We high-five and head out to the streetcar that’s going downtown. “Let’s do this!”
* * *
“What are you having?” I call to Lindsey as the live band charges into “Play That Funky Music.”
We’re at one of the five Tropical Isle bars on Bourbon Street, and I’m having a traditional hand grenade. I know from experience, one of these is all you need to forget your troubles… Or worrisome football players who are infuriatingly handsome and undisciplined.
I lay my credit card on the shiny wood, and my friend points to a neon green alligator cup.
“Horny Gator!” she shouts over the music. “Guaranteed to make you a better lover!”
The bartender mixes up our drinks, and we start dancing. The dress I’m wearing has thin spaghetti straps, and my golden-brown hair swishes around my shoulders. Lindsey’s crazy curls are up on her head, and I can feel a set of eyes watching us.
I’m not interested in hooking up with anybody tonight, but it’s nice to be noticed.
My friend leaves me to collect her drink, and I sway side to side, sipping my long-necked beverage as the band slides into a New Orleans standard.
“Come here often?” a tall guy in a black polo with a gold fleur de lis on the chest asks.
“Not really,” I reply, subtracting a few points for lack of creativity.
A cute grin breaks across his face, and he leans closer. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”
“Oh, no!” I groan, holding up a hand. “You were doing so well.”
“Was I?” He squints, and I confess, his personality is cute.
I shake my head, taking another pull from my straw as Lindsey dances up to where I’m standing.
She takes a big drink, shoving her hand into the crook of my arm. “I’m feeling hornaaay!”
My eyes widen, and I almost snort hand grenade through my nose. Waving my hand, I do a quick introduction.
“Meet my best friend and producer, Lindsey.”
“Producer?” The guy asks. “Are you on TV?”
“Mm…” I swallow my sip. “Podcaster.”
“No shit! Which one? I’ll give you a listen.”
Narrowing my eyes, I consider revealing my identity. This guy’s shirt is clearly official Saints gear, but that doesn’t mean he has any affiliation with the team. Every other person in this bar is wearing Saints gear, even if they’re all bitter about tonight’s loss.
“Girl’s Got Game,” Lindsey answers before I can. “You’re talking to the Quarterback Princess herself.”
Clearly that Horny Gator is kicking in, and I think our first order of business on Monday should be a discussion of how much I want the public to know about who I really am.
“No way!” The guy steps back pointing at me. “You’re Girl’s Got Game? I don’t believe it.”
“You’d better believe it!” I reply loudly. Whose side am I on?
I glance at the long-necked drink I’m holding, and I think it might be a good idea to step outside and have a Lucky Dog.
“I can prove it.” Lindsey steps closer, taking out her phone and holding it up for him.
It’s a video she made of me recording the show last week. She says all the podcasts are broadcasting on YouTube as well, so I guess it’s okay if we spill the beans.
“Tonight’s award for What Was He Thinking? goes to our very own K-Brad for throwing into triple coverage as though his receiver has magical powers.” Lindsey holds her tongue between her teeth as she nods her head, waggling her eyebrows. “I loved that one!”
“Wow.” The guy nods slowly, a shocked grin curling his lips. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
“I didn’t say that on the air!” I reply quickly, putting my hand over her phone and lowering it. “I wouldn’t do that. I only point out the ones that were really bad. The ones he could’ve done better…”
Why am I protecting him?
“But you believe me now? It’s her!” Lindsey finishes her drink, and I catch her arm.
“Well, it was nice meeting you… ahh…” I hold out my hand, waiting for him to fill in his name.
“Devin Banks.” He catches my hand and gives it a shake. “It was very nice meeting you, Princess.”
I don’t like how he says my nickname. I don’t like the knowing gleam in his eye. I suddenly feel very exposed, like everyone is looking at me and shaking their heads.
They all know I’m not that person. I’m a nice girl pretending to be mean, trying to prove I’m someone I’m not because my old partner walked out and took everything with her.
We stumble out onto the uneven flagstone, and I pull Lindsey to my side. The neon-green, long-necked plastic cup is still in my hand, and I consider another sip before tossing it into a nearby trash can.
“I think hand grenades make me paranoid.”
“Why did you pull us out?” Lindsey grouses. “Devin was cute, and I think he was kind of into me.”
“He gave me the creeps.” I pull her closer as we make our way down the street toward the Cat’s Meow. “I got the distinct feeling he was the one with the secret.”
We step out into the road, and Lindsey squeals, pulling me back. “Horses!”
Frowning, I look all around to see mounted police quietly observing the crowd on Bourbon Street in the space behind the courthouse.
“They’re all the way over there!” I pull her arm. “Come on, I want to dance.”
House music pours through the French doors of the historic club, and we dance through them holding our arms over our heads and plunging into the throng of sweaty bodies moving to the beat.
A few hip twists, a few minutes of jumping in time to the song, surrounded by laughing, partying bodies, and my tension finally starts to melt.
I’m part of this city. Life’s a party, and my cares are forgotten.
* * *
“If we’re going to tell people who I am, we should at least rent a studio space.” I’m standing in Vrikshasana or tree pose in front of my laptop, leaning forward as I scroll through the comments on our last show.
The live coverage on the first game against the Cardinals went viral again, and the comments section is unreal. Most of them support me, get my jokes, and agree, but several do not. A few are downright rude.
“We have everything we need here,” Lindsey complains. “Why waste money on a studio?”
“So people like this ‘babewatcher_29’ who says I’m a loud-mouthed whore who shouldn’t be allowed to speak in public can’t show up and do God knows what to us.”
“Somebody called you a loud-mouthed whore?” Lindsey walks over to look at my laptop screen. “Damn, touch grass, Babe Watcher.”
“I think if your username is ‘Babe Watcher,’ touching grass is not the core issue.”
Lindsey ducks forward with a laugh. “You’re so crazy.”
“I mean, it is the Internet, and we are putting critiques out there.”
“Still, would he say that to you in person? If you met him in the Tropical Isle, would he say that to you?”
“I don’t want to find out,” I mutter under my breath as I change legs.
“Don’t forget we’re registered as a corporation with a P.O. box.” She takes out her phone. “But I can try to find us a cheap space if it makes you feel better. We don’t have a lot of extra money lying around.”
Chewing my fingernail, I continue scrolling through the comments. “How easy is it for people to doxx us?”
“I expect if they’re determined…” Her voice trails off. “This place looks interesting. They’re asking for a credit card to hold it.”
“That’s weird.” I straighten, walking over to retrieve my card from my wallet. “They want my credit card just to look at it?”
Searching my wallet, my chest tightens. I drop my purse and dig through every pocket in the small, snap-front leather pouch. Tossing it on the table, I jog quickly through our apartment to my bedroom.
When I get there, I drop to my knees, feeling in all the pockets of every pair of pants I’ve worn in the past week.
“I can’t find my credit card!” My eyes are wide, and I run back to the front room where Lindsey is still waiting, concern lining her brow.
“When’s the last time you used it?”
“I don’t know…” My voice drops to a whisper, and I turn my entire purse upside down, shaking everything out onto the rug.
Then I drop to my knees, raking my fingers through the assorted lipsticks, fingernail file, tampon, condom, key fob. “It’s not here.”
I sit back on my heels. My shoulders drop, and I let out a broken sigh.
“Don’t panic.” Lindsey puts her hands on my shoulders. “Just call and cancel it.”
“I need it for gas!” A firm knock on the door pulls me to my feet, and I walk to the door, looking back at Lindsey as I answer it. “Think I can go in and get a replacement card on the spot?”
“Are you Melody Dunne?” The familiar male voice steals the breath from my lungs.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, turning so fast I almost lose my balance.
My eyes rise up… up… up… to meet the sapphire blue ones of Knox Bradford.
Oh, shit.