Screw this.
I storm away, leaving Austin to his clichés.
24
Austin
“You left early.”
An hour after Natalie stormed off, I step into the player’s parking garage to see her leaning against my car, glaring at her phone. She looks up briefly, her eyes narrowing at me.
“Sure did,” she mumbles, glancing back at her phone.
I clear my throat. “Do I get indication of why?”
“Why what,” she say evenly, pointedly not looking up.
“Why you left.”
She does look up then, clearly trying to look emotionless, even if its written all over her face. “Not my scene.”
I frown. “I mean, you hang out, drink champagne, and chat with the other wives. Jesus, they’re not that bad,”
The door to the parking garage behind us bangs open, and the giggling sound of cheerleaders pours across the parking lot.
“Byyyee Austin! Call me!”
I cringe, ignoring them as I turn back.
To a furious looking Natalie.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, that.” I grin. “That’s why you stormed off?”
“Can you please open the car so we can go home now?”
“Nat, it’s all just part of the show, you know.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a show I don’t need to watch.”
Her face is heated, eyes furious and wild, and I grin. “So, jealous then?”
She shoots me a look. “No, I just have pride and respect and self-worth, ass.”
“You know, that is exactly why I married y-”
“Stop.” The word comes sharply out of her lips as she shakes her head. “Look, just stop, okay?”
I stop short as Natalie takes a deep breath, looking away before finally whirling back at me. “Look, this job is whatever it is, but I just don’t need to watch that, alright?”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not real, Nat.”
She shrugs. “Hey, you’re the one paying half a million dollars to clean up his image. I figured shamelessly flirting and making out with cheerleaders while your wife is twenty feet away might not go over so well with that whole thing.”
“Just looking out for me, huh?”
She rolls her eyes and turns away. “Sure, fine.”
I pull my keys out and unlock the car.
“I wasn’t making out-”
“Don’t split hairs.”
We get into the car, shutting the doors and letting the silence settle over us.
“Okay, look, I get it,” I say quietly after a second.
“Thank you.”
“You’re jealous, and feeling insecure, and-”
Natalie groans loudly, pushing her fingers through her hair and shaking her head. “God, are you arrogant.”
I frown. “Look, it’s the role, okay?”
“Spare me.”
I whirl at her, my temper flashing. “Okay, princess, you want to get real? Fine. It’s your job to stand there and wave at me at practice, okay? It is literally what I’m paying you to do. If it’s not your fucking scene, by all means, go back to your mother or your trust fund.”
The car goes silent.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running my hand through my hair, still damp from the showers. “Nat, I’m sor-”
“Just take me home.” She spits out before turning to press her cheek against the passenger side window. “I’ll stay at your fucking practice next time.”
I rev the car into gear and peel out of the lot.
We drive in silence through the LA traffic on the way home, Natalie pointedly ignoring me and staring out the window.
I glare at the back of her head. She’s acting ridiculous. None of the shit with those cheer girls back there means anything, and I’d have thought that’d be perfectly fucking clear by now. It’s all just part of the “star” status.
I mean I’m the starting quarterback for a fucking PRO team. I need to be the biggest swinging dick in the room every fucking time I walk onto that field. I need to own the respect of those guys out there, and if part of that is the image that I’m banging my way through the cheer squad, then that’s what it takes.
Except she’s also got a point, even if I’m mostly sure she’s just jealous. I am going to fuck up this new image thing if I don’t change a single thing about my act. Getting a wife was part one, acting the part of the husband is the other, and on that note, I’m failing.
“David Beckham,” Derek had said the other day when I touched base with him. “Just try and channel Beckham”
“David Beckham married a Spice Girl.”
“And now he’s selling Fruit of the Loom to soccer moms.”
I frown into the LA traffic in front of me.
Well David Beckham never had to go toe-to-toe with Natalie fucking Ames, or he’d be whistling a different goddamn tune.