Page 60 of Bae

The I “heart” Romeo fan club.

Groupies.

Malibu Football Barbies.

I walked along in front of the bottom row of seats. The railing was at my side, and I stayed with it, keeping my eyes locked on the women.

I started hearing my name murmured; people started pointing. I glanced out over the crowd and waved and smiling.

Act like this is entirely planned.Like you aren’t partly dying inside and your smile is more real than those bitches’ boobs.

Fans waved back. That part was kinda nice.

By the time I reached the section the women were in, I’d drawn a crowd and a harem of people following along behind me. From above, a camera crew appeared. They had the great big cameras and headsets strapped on their faces and started down the stairs in my direction.

I waved at them, posing a little right there with the field as my backdrop.

Then I turned to the wannabes.

They were all giving me dirty looks. You know the kind of look you see on the movieMean Girls. The kind every other woman who isn’t your friend gives you when you go out in public. Judgement. They were measuring me, trying to decide how hard I’d be to get rid of and wondering what it was Romeo saw in me. They snickered at my clothes, my glasses, and the lack of makeup masking my face.

I strode up some steps and stopped beside their row. They were all openly staring now.

“You’re embarrassing yourselves,” I said loud enough for the sections nearby to hear.

“The only embarrassment I see right now is your wardrobe.” The woman closest to me snickered.

So original.

I gave them my bestMean Girlssmirk, pinching the fabric of the Knights hoodie between my fingers. “Oh? You mean this old thing? It’s a team hoodie. It has myhusband’sname on the back.”

“Quit trying to hold on.” One of the girls stood and faced me. “A man like that doesn’t want half a woman.”

Okay.Ouch.

Sometimes the worst insults are the ones that prey on our deepest fears. Even though I tried not to let the fear haunt me, tried to reason it away… I was deeply afraid I’d never get pregnant again and it would make me less than.

I didn’t even openly acknowledge the comment. Instead, I angled toward the one with the sign. “Put it down,” I growled.

Yep, I growled.

Go me!

She laughed.

I lunged forward, past a couple fangirls (who, my God, used WAY too much perfume), and grabbed the sign to yank it away.

The woman was ready and kept her hand on the corner. We ended up getting in a tug-of-war over a stupid sign right there in the middle of the row.

Not my finest moment, but how much disrespect could a girl take?

“Get off her!” a girl behind me screeched. I felt her talons dig into my shoulders.

Talons = acrylic nails that were frighteningly long.

I lost the grip I had on the sign and stumbled backward. I knocked into the girl yanking me, and we both fell into her seat, with me directly in her lap. I scrambled up, making sure I stomped extra hard on her stiletto-clad foot.

She howled, and I felt sick satisfaction as I righted the glasses on my face.

---