I grab my cellphone as I drag myself to the kitchen, and I smile as I notice that Danny already texted me a few minutes ago. Good morning, babe, his text reads, heading to the gym now. I fire back a quick text, feeling like a complete teenager, and then sit at the kitchen table.
"Jesus, someone's cheery today," Becca says, and I almost jump out of my seat. I didn't even notice her when I walked in. She's in her pajamas, her hair a disheveled mess, eating cereal so slowly she looks like she's still asleep.
"I am cheery," I reply, probably sounding happier than I should. Becca has been complaining these past few weeks about how she can't find a real man, and I guess that the fact that I'm dating Danny Manning isn't really helping. Still, she's my friend, and she's happy for me all the same.
"Well, spill it out, happy-face," she says, sitting down at the table by my side and leaning into me with narrowed eyes, looking like a cop ready for a deposition. "Where did you do it?"
"The locker room," I confess, biting on my lower lip as I wait for her predictable reaction.
"The Nailers' locker room?" Her eyes widen at that and, when she processes what I've just told her, she lets out a bright clear laugh. "He nailed you in the Nailers' locker room."
"Yeah, yeah … That's funny," I protest her bad joke, but I join her laugh all the same. It's been months since I've woken up in such a good mood.
"You want to know what's funny?" she asks me, a mischievous grin on her face.
"What?" I ask as she gets up and walks to the counter, grabbing the folded newspaper she was reading when I got here.
"This is funny," she laughs, throwing the New York Daily Journal right in front of me. In bold black letters there are only two words, FAIR CATCH, and down below there's a blurred photograph of Danny and I leaving the Nailers' stadium in his Aston Martin. "Oh my God."
"That's right, babe. You're a star now."
Still barely believing it that I'm the NY Daily Journal's cover, I turn the pages until I find the article. I read it in one sitting, and then I reread it for good measure.
"They're treating you like a princess," Becca states with a chuckle, and it's the truth. They refer to me as the woman behind Manning's recent success and as the mysterious (and charmingly beautiful) woman that snagged the city's most eligible bachelor.
"Oh, God. Is this really happening? Please tell me that this isn't a dream."
"It isn't a dream," she says flatly, placing a plate full of toast right in front of me. "Eat up, princess. Or else you'll be the mysterious woman that lost her internship at Price Coopers."
"Right," I nod, stuffing a piece of toast inside my mouth as I reread the article for the third time in a row. I finish breakfast as fast as I can, and then I take a quick shower before putting on a black professional dress and discrete make-up.
"See you later, babe," I wave at Becca, getting out of the door in a hurry. I'm not late-yet-but I always like getting to the office a few minutes early to set up everything for the day. I'm the newest intern at Price Cooper, but I think I'm dazzling the upper management; there have even been a few hints that they might hire me as soon as I have my Law diploma. Yup, life has never been this good.
As I make my way to the subway, I can't help but stop in front of a newsstand. That headline, FAIR CATCH, jumps at me from everywhere, and it seems like every single person in New York is carrying a copy of that paper.
"Look, isn't she … ?" I hear someone say to my left, a woman pointing at me and whispering at her boyfriend. I show her an easy smile, and she seems taken back, her smile showing on her lips with a delay. It's almost as if she's star struck.
"Make sure he keeps playing like that!" Her boyfriend, a guy with an overturned Nailers' cap on his head, tells me excitedly.
"Will do," I tell them, still smiling, and then I keep on my way. I've never really been the kind of person that pays any attention to her surroundings, but now I feel like a sonar, pinging everything around me. Men turn their heads to watch me pass by, narrowing their eyes as if they recognize me from somewhere, and women whisper between themselves as I walk past them.
Everyone who recognizes me throws me a smile and a nod, and it doesn't take long for me to feel like I'm living inside a musical. Soon enough birds will be perched on my shoulders, and people will stop working to bust some moves. And I'll sing, I'll sing like the happiest girl in the world because that's exactly how I feel right now.
Ah, life's good!
135
Danny
"Oh, God, this is so good," Fiona cries out, cleaning out another dish. For a girl as small as she is, she sure likes food. Which is fine, since we're eating at the Blue Hill, and our dinner consists of a procession of a dozen different dishes. I'm more of a beer and burger kind of guy, but I don't mind all this fancy stuff, especially if it makes her happy. I know she'd be just as happy sitting at home eating something home cooked by yours truly (I know my way around a kitchen, don't judge a book by its cover), but I wanted to treat her.
Of course, it didn't take long for me to regret getting out of the house. The moment word got out that we were dining at the Blue Hill, a host of paparazzi, journalists, and TV stations quickly amassed in front of the restaurant's entrance. I'm paying for extra security out of my own pocket, mind you, just to stop them from storming the place and taking Fiona and I as their hostages.
"Don't they ever get tired?" I sigh, looking at the entrance. The moment I turn my head there are a dozen bright flashes as the photographers try to take a picture of me. This is madness.
"Just ignore them," Fiona says happily, taking another piece of venison into her mouth. I don't know how she does it, but she took to her role as New York's darling like a true natural. Forget about Audrey Hepburn, soon enough young girls will be sharing photos of Fiona in their Instagram accounts, motivational citations and all.
"How can I ignore them when they hound us like this?" I protest, but she just waves her hand casually.
"People want to read about us."
"Yeah … But just remember that these people out there don't care about you or me. They care about selling newspapers, nothing more."
"If the worst happens, they'll leave us alone," she just shrugs.
"Oh, you have no idea what they're capable of. They'll squeeze every last penny out of you, even if that means dragging you through the mud wearing a rucksack."
"They can try," she smiles, and that worries me. She really has no idea about how the media treats people.
"Fiona --" I start, but she cuts me short by placing the tip of her heel right behind my legs. The tablecloth is long enough for what happens under the table to remain out of sight, though, thank God for that.
"Now, cheer up," she grins, softly pressing the tip of her foot over my crotch. My heart picks up the pace in a hurry, making my cock harden before you can even spell my name.
"That helps," I grin back at her, already imagining all the dirty things I'll do to her once we get back to my place. Fuck, if she keeps teasing me like this we might not even get home; I'll just get a room across the street and fuck her silly until we both collapse from exhaustion.
"What do you say we get out of here?" I whisper, throwing caution to the wind and wanting to turn my thoughts from just now into a reality.
"I'd say that's a great idea," she whispers right back at me, pressing harder against my aching cock before finally taking her foot off from between my legs. I leave some money on the table, large tip and all, and then start walking across the restaurant dining-room floor before remembering what's waiting for us at the door-all these soulless journalists.
"Maybe we should ask about using a service door," I tell Fiona.
"Nonsense," she replies in a heartbeat, taking my arm in hers and strutting out of the restaurant with her chin held high. I narrow my eyes into slits as the bright flash of the cameras explodes around us, the cool air of New York cutting through my shirt.
"Danny--"
"Fiona--"
"How's your night?"
"Enjoyed dinner?"
"Marriage?"
"Baby?"
Jesus fucking Christ, what's wrong with these people? Take a fucking chill pill, everyone, I almost feel like saying.
"Thank you, everyone," Fiona chirps merrily, beaming a smile at the journalists as they surround us like a pack of blood hungry wolves. Fuck, I just want to get out of here. "We're enjoying our night, yes, and --"
"Fiona, how's it like to be credited for Manning's success as a quarterback?" A gangly guy with greasy hair and horn-rimmed glasses asks her, raising his voice above all others and shoving a recorder close to her face.