And it’s bad. Silas is right. The shot was taken just after we got out of the car in front of my apartment building. Right after I’d scooped Heidi up off the pavement where she’d tripped.
That should be no problem. The caption I’d have given this moment of my life is: Dude lifts woman who’s trying to nap on the ground. And images don’t lie, right?
Well, this one misleads. I guess it’s the violent expression on my face—I’ve seen it before in photos where I’m lunging for the puck. In this photo, I’m frowning like a grumpy beast while holding Heidi in my arms, and she looks blotto. The overall effect is somehow menacing. And the blogger writes, Bruisers are aggressive on and off the ice.
A sick feeling rolls through me. “That is so wrong.”
“Just call Tommy,” Silas suggests. “But do it from the road, or else we’ll be late.”
Fuck! Showing up late will only add to my difficulties. So I tap the control panel to open both the driver’s and the passenger’s doors. They lift like wings to let us out. “You drive.”
Silas makes a little noise of glee and climbs out of the car. We pass each other in front of the hood. “Hell, I’d have taken that picture myself if I knew it meant I could drive.”
“Not. Funny.” I glance at the picture one more time, hoping it won’t seem as bad the second time I see it. But, fuck. It does. “Christ almighty. Hulk hauls blond princess back to his lair. I’m so screwed.”
“She does look awfully helpless,” Silas concedes.
“She was helpless. And I helped her.” But we both know that some people will assume that I also helped myself to the goods.
Silas’s forehead wrinkles as he fastens his seatbelt. “The picture isn’t that bad, dude. It’s just a moment’s worth of gossip. The tricky part is that the commissioner is probably on the guest list for this shindig tonight. I’ll bet that’s what Tommy wants to tell you.”
“Fuck my life!” That hadn’t even occurred to me, although the commissioner had been at the event last year. Last fall was my first season as a full-fledged team member. I spent the two prior years getting bounced back and forth between Brooklyn and the minor-league team in Hartford.
Last year I was as happy as can be to play in the golf tournament and be one of the boys. I had a great season. All my dreams were coming true. Until a certain shot didn’t find the net during game seven.
And now this bullshit.
I press the button to return Tommy’s call. Might as well take my licking now, or else I’ll have to endure it in a crowded changing room later.
“Jason,” Tommy says when he picks up. “What the hell is that picture?”
So I guess we’re skipping the small talk. I don’t know this new publicist at all, but already I don’t like him. “That photo was taken by a ride-share driver with a death wish. He’s getting a one-star review for sure,” I tell him. That’s the only possible explanation, unless there had been somebody else lurking across the street. “Heidi got toasted and fell down outside the cab. I picked her up.”
He’s quiet for a second. “The photo has multiple interpretations.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too, because I have eyes.” I leave off the end of that sentence which is, you dumbass. Because I’m nice like that.
“Hey—I’m on your side, here. Are you and Heidi Jo a couple?”
“No. And not that it’s anyone’s business, but Miss Pepper and I have never had, uh, an intimate encounter. Not last night, and not ever.”
I’m making that point awfully loudly. But now I have my hackles up. This is one of those situations where I can’t help but wonder if the publicist would ask different questions if it wasn’t the team’s only brown guy in that shot.
Am I paranoid about this? Maybe.
He sighs. “So that photo is just the office intern getting some assistance from a team member.”
“Right.”
“She’s the office intern, but she’s also drunk and underage.”
“Under…what?” I feel ill.
“She doesn’t turn twenty-one until next month.”
“Oh.” Phew. For a second there I thought he was saying she’s a minor. That would have stunned me, but I’ve been stunned before. “A twenty-year-old in a bar is not exactly a national scandal, Tommy. Girl gets drunk a month before her birthday. Film at eleven.”
“It doesn’t help to be flip,” the publicist growls. “Did you buy her the drinks?”
Well, fuck. “I bought a bottle of very good tequila and served it to everyone who was there last night. Don’t make my generosity into a plot point.”
“You’re the only two in the photo.”
“You think it would look so much better if there were seven guys hauling her drunk little butt off the pavement?”
Tommy actually laughs, giving me some hope that his sense of humor hasn’t been surgically amputated. “So you helped her off the pavement, and then what?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I am, you—” He doesn’t finish that thought. “Tell me, so I can help you craft your message.”
“There is no message. Hot Pepper didn’t want to go home to Manhattan and wouldn’t tell me her address. I took her up to our place, where she puked in our bathroom. Then I tucked her in and let her sleep it off.” I edit out the part where we shared a bed. “When I woke up she was gone. Probably embarrassed. Haven’t heard from her since.” A little prickle of worry hits me as I say those words. “She’s okay, right?”
“She’s fine. She’s on the bus with the team. It’s you I’m worried about. I don’t think the commissioner is going to like his baby’s picture on the blogs…”
...getting manhandled by a league player. He doesn’t even have to finish the sentence. I can hear how it ends.
“So what do I do?” I ask him. “I mean, I didn’t do anything wrong. So I can’t apologize.”
“No,” he agrees swiftly. “You can’t. It’s not that kind of situation. I just have to be ready to answer any questions that media outlets might ask. I’ve already got one newspaper guy asking me if she’s okay, and what does her father have to say about the photo.”
Ugh. I’m sorry I ever poured that girl a drink. I don’t need this headache. And neither does she. Hers is probably an actual headache, too. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” I grunt. “But I think staying the hell away from her is the best course of action.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself. No drinking with the ladies this weekend, okay? This party is going to be all nosy socialites and season ticket holders.”
“No kidding.” His little warning irritates me. “I was there last year.” Unlike you. “I’ll be a good boy.”
“Sounds like a plan. See you after practice for the team photos.”
I say goodbye and hang up the phone. We’re flying down the L.I.E. toward the Hamptons. “You having fun at least?” I grunt at Silas.
“You know it. Was Tommy pissed at you?”
“Not sure. I didn’t do a thing wrong.”
“I know that.” He casts a glance in my direction. “Then there’s nothing to worry about. Except for her dad making a scene.”
“That’s when I leave the party through the kitchen.”
“I’ll follow you out,” Silas says. “We’ll go for another joy ride.” Then—with obvious glee—he floors it.
5
Heidi
The bus ride from the team headquarters in Brooklyn to the golf resort is unending. I have a white-knuckle grip on the armrests of the luxury coach as we speed toward East Hampton. It’s three hours of torture. My head aches, and my stomach is foamy and hot. Little waves of nausea pass through me every few minutes, worsening each time the bus makes a turn.
I chose a seat near the back of the bus, just in case I needed to sprint toward the coach’s little bathroom. But now I realize this was a mistake. I feel claustrophobic back here where I can’t see the road. When I was a little girl who got carsick, Daddy always told me to look at the horizon to steady myself.