Page 16 of Infinite

“You don’t know what I could give you,” Mr. Singleton told me, his breath wreaking of old expensive scotch.

“And you don’t know how close you are to losing your balls,” I fired back, shoving him away and causing him to stumble. “How dare you put your hands on me?”

“A hellcat. I like it,” he said, unbuttoning his jacket and marching forward.

“No, a smart woman,” I clarified. I reached for my phone and played back our conversation. He froze, his eyes widening. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Singleton. You hired me to make you look good and I will do that job to the best of my ability. I’ll promise to take the lowly Cougars everyone has given up on and make them into the golden boys the NFL never saw coming. Under my leadership, they won’t share the spotlight with the greats of football, they’ll seize it.”

He frowned, insulted and likely nervous. But he was listening. I pushed away from the wall and straightened my suit, my hand holding tight to my phone to remind him it was there. “Just so we’re clear, if you ever put your hands on me or make assumptions that aren’t there, the software attached to this recording will distribute our conversation to every major newspaper and online journalist in the Deep South and beyond.”

Mr. Singleton knows little about technology and often grumbles about mobile applications. But he knows enough to believe my threat is possible. Thanks to brilliant engineers like Landon Summers, technology like this does exist.

To his credit, Mr. Singleton didn’t try anything with me after that. Well, at least not physically. More times than not, Mr. Singleton hinted about the oh-so glamorous life I could have being one of his mistresses—even at events where his devoted wife of forty years stood graciously smiling mere feet away.

Every now and then, Mr. Singleton invites me out for a “business” meeting at one of the premier hotels in town. Every time, I’ve shot him down. Now, he mostly ogles my breasts and ass when he thinks I’m not looking. On a good day, I think he respects me. On a bad day, he thinks I’m a bitch. It doesn’t matter. I’m the one he came to when Denver’s drink and drug induced antics with a prostitute (at the very hotel his father had invited me to) made headline news.

“Did you love him, Becca?” Twain asks me from the front.

“Who?”

“The boss’s son.”

Twain should know better. He was there for all the smoke and mirrors from the word go and polished said mirrors when they threatened to crack. “I loved Denver as much as I was supposed to,” I respond.

My, isn’t that the truth?

I “loved” Denver long enough to spruce up his reputation. I spun his hot mess, cleaned up the multiple indiscretions as best I could, and reshaped him from screw-up to a hurt young man, living in his father’s shadow and unable to live up to his heroic persona—no matter how hard he tried. I even had him crying real tears on Good Morning America.

I’m good at my job. So good, I’m willing to play the fake fiancé who stands diligently and lovingly by her man, pretending I don’t sleep alone with my thoughts on nothing but work.

Well, almost nothing.

Twain drops the conversation almost as fast as he flicks on the turn signal. Maybe he’s hurt that I don’t come clean with him. Maybe he considers me a friend and would tell me as much if I’d only open up. I hope not. I only spill my soul to one person and she’s not here. I wish she was. Trin’s always my sunshine when the dark clouds roll in. And for someone like me, who speaks to close to thousands of people on a weekly basis, I’m lonelier than I should be.

I think I reply to three emails and two texts by the time Twain rolls to a stop in front of Fernando’s, an exclusive club for professional athletes and their guests. Sometimes it includes their wives, but most of the time it includes whoever they’re sleeping with that week.

I fluff my hair more out of habit. The way Lizzie, my makeup artist and stylist, hooked me up before the press conference, I don’t have to touch this hair for days.

Twain opens my door. “How long you going to be?” he asks, waving off the attendant who rushes to greet me.

I shimmy to the edge of the seat and rise slowly, putting on a dazzling smile and speaking through my teeth. “You know me. Just long enough to appear social.” I give a wave to a TMZ rep who calls to me. “Or maybe sooner.”

Twain mutters something I don’t quite hear. He doesn’t strike me as someone afraid to tell me what he thinks, more like a man who chooses his battles. He wants to give me advice, shake a reprimanding finger at me, or perhaps tell me what I should do instead of what I am doing. Here’s the thing about me. I’ve always attracted men for one of three reasons: to control me, to bed me, or to protect me, and during the worst of times, to do all three. At thirty-two, I’m not sure which I hate more.

I strut toward the club as if I have all the time in the world. Four of our newest cheerleaders light up when they see me. They’re stunning women, one of the many requirements of joining the team that makes me roll my eyes. This time, however, their looks aren’t helping. Like many of the fans and wannabee baby mamas waiting behind the velvet ropes, they’re not being allowed in.

“Becca!”

“Becca!”

“Miss Shields!”

The cheerleaders call to me and so does everyone else. The majority of the crowd is unfamiliar to me. I imagine they know me from watching me on T.V. They stretch their hands, pressing their bodies against the velvet rope hard enough to tip the stand, all for a chance to mingle with the best of the best.

“Sorry,” I offer to the row of blonds I pass. “Team members and guests only.”

The women swipe at their teary eyes. My smile falters. I wonder which player has already gone back on his word to call, or his promise to leave his wife. I hope none of them are pregnant. I’ve worked hard to fill this team with good people, but power has a way of smashing souls and filling egos.

I motion to the cheerleaders as I reach the bouncer. “They’re new on the team,” I tell him. “Let them through, John.”

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