Chapter 1

Rita

He is everywhere. I’m not even on social media anymore and still, his face looms at me from other people’s screens. I try not to notice Brodie Kent, but it’s hard not to when he is, literally, everywhere. It is maddening. Even today, at The Half Moon Café, where I help out, Brodie Kent, star Boston Bullets quarterback bad boy, grins at me from my friend’s phone.

“He’s so handsome, isn’t he?” Kate says in an annoying swoony way, sighing audibly, as she scrolls through the latest updates on his so-called private life.

There’s nothing private about it. Every moment is snapped, tweeted, and commented on across all channels. There’s Brodie with some actress at an award ceremony in Hollywood. There he is again scoring a touchdown at some high-profile tournament final. And again, at an orphanage, playing football with the children, who are obviously loving it, judging by the expressions on their faces. The next photo is at a club in Manhattan, a gorgeous woman on each arm. Who will be hunky Brodie’s lucky lady? the caption reads.

Just seeing him is exhausting but I am compelled to look.

“I suppose,” I say, doing my best to sound bored. “If you like that sort of sports jock kind of thing.” Then I try to distract my love-shmuck bestie. “But if you want to see something really cute and adorable, I’ll send you some pics of Bambi.” Kate is still scrolling but I go on regardless. “His leg is healing really well, and my dad said that he should be as good as new in a few days. Then he can return to his herd.” I’m not even sure Kate is listening. “That’s great. Isn’t it?”

“Sure is,” Kate says, still intent on the flickering images of the super-star football player.

I force myself to turn away, even though I am as transfixed by Brodie Kent’s handsome image as Kate: his stupid cute side-ways smile; his floppy blond hair that falls casually across his forehead; the expressive eyebrows that tweak upwards giving him a boyish cheekiness, and a sexy infectious charm. So incredibly irritating.

The camera loves him. As I attempt to tear myself away from Kate’s phone, I’m aware as she scrolls, that there isn’t a bad picture. He looks drop-dead gorgeous in each and every one: every single angle. And it’s not just the camera that loves Brodie Kent. He is adorable. Everyone loves him. Especially women.

I pick up a cloth and vigorously wipe down the counter that doesn’t need wiping down. It is positively gleaming. I check, again, the arrangement of delicious cakes, slices, mini-pies, quiches, and tarts in the refrigerated counter display cabinet to distract myself from the hot football hero.

Thankfully, some people come into the café. A welcome distraction. They approach the counter and I greet them with a cheery good morning, ready to take their order or show them to a table.

“What can I get you guys?” I ask with almost too much enthusiasm.

The group of two women and three men beam at me.

Then, one of the guys says, “Ah, no thanks. We were just wanting directions.” He holds up his phone showing a map of Oak River.

“Sure, okay. Where do you need to go?”

The young man shares side-ways glances with his friends who nod their encouragement to continue.

“We heard that Brodie Kent grew up around here, so we’re hoping to visit the house where he lived.” My heart sinks but I keep a professional friendly smile on my face. “Do you know it?”

This is not the first time I’ve had this request. It’s an occurrence that seems to be happening with an increased annoying frequency. I should start charging for this info. Maybe be a tour guide for Brodie Kent’s Oak River – Where the Legend Began. The idea causes a derisive snort which I turn into a pretty little cough in front of the café’s non-customers.

“Sure thing.” I smile with gritted teeth and indicate on the phone’s screen the café and Brodie’s former family home. “It’s not that far. Are you walking?”

“Yes,” the young man says.

“It’s no more than fifteen minutes.” The Brodie Kent fan club smiles back at me and nods their thanks before they turn to leave. I call after them, “Perhaps you’d like a coffee or juice? We’re still serving breakfast.”

“Ah, no thanks,” says one of the guys. “Maybe later?”

Then one of the women stops and says, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Did you, or maybe you know someone here in town, who knew Brodie Kent, you know, before he was famous?”

I freeze and look at the floor as I form my lie, but then I say over-brightly, “The carrot cake is very good. Fresh this morning. Or perhaps I can get you…”

“Weren’t you two dating?” Kate cuts me off mid-sentence. “In high school or something?”

“No,” I say emphatically fixing her with a withering stare.

“Oh.” Kate ignores my withering stare. “Was that just a rumor?”