Matteo pulled up outside the Will Call booth again, and I averted my eyes from the hint of a tattoo that crept up from underneath his white dress shirt. I wondered what it was, but I was too embarrassed to ask. I caught sight of his blue eyes watching me in the rearview mirror and smiled. He turned to exit the car when I stopped him.
“You don’t have to open the door for me. I got it. Thank you, though. I’ll see you later.” I scooted out of the backseat, shutting the car door behind me. Matteo waved before driving off.
I approached the booth window. “Hi. I’m Cassie Andrews, Jack Carter’s girlfriend. He said I needed to pick up an ID card?”
The young girl smiled. “See that building over there?” She pointed to my right, and I nodded. “Just go inside and they’ll take your picture and print your card for you.”
“Thanks.” Confused and unsure, I asked, “Do I still need a ticket to get in?”
“Yes, you do. The ID card is so you can get down to the locker rooms at away stadiums.” She handed me an envelope with one ticket inside.
“Ah. That makes sense. Thanks so much.” I turned to leave, walking toward the other building.
My freshly printed ID card in hand, I made my way to my assigned seat. It wasn’t the same seat from last night’s game, but it was still in the same section. Tension galloped through my body like a racehorse as I neared the seats filled with the mean girls.
“Try not to yell at your boyfriend tonight, Cassie!” A manly voice mocked me from behind and I stopped midstep.
“Bitch,” another voice mumbled within earshot.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Resisting the urge to look over my shoulder and confront the hecklers, I straightened my shoulders and continued toward my appointed row, my heart pounding out beats in double time against my flesh.
“If poor Jack gets cussed out when he wins, imagine what she does to him when he loses!” another voice bellowed, barely louder than the pounding that echoed in my ears.
Suddenly feeling vulnerable, I quickened my pace down the concrete steps. I shuffled into my seat, recognizing the meanest wife, Kymber, right away as she watched the situation unfolding. She laughed and whispered something into the ear of the wife sitting next to her. Both women glanced at me before directing their attention elsewhere.
So, it’s really going to be like this. Awesome.
My phone vibrated, and I pulled it from my pocket. Thankful to see Melissa’s name on the screen, I clicked the text message button.
Put that shit-eating grin on, babe!
That was all she wrote, followed by a picture of me walking in the stadium, an uncomfortable look plastered all over my face.
I shoved my phone into my purse, feeling nervous and extremely exposed. It was one thing to be in a stadium filled with people when no one knew who you were, but it was quite another when you were recognized. I’d become completely identifiable to the thousands of people around me, all of whom knew—thanks to the pictures popping up online and in the press—I was Jack Carter’s girlfriend.
These fans had already formed their own opinions about the picture printed in the newspaper this morning. They assumed they knew me, or knew the kind of person I was. They made judgment calls about my character based on nothing but a simple photo taken completely out of context, which, as a photographer, really pissed me off. I strived to maintain my integrity when I was shooting, making sure that my photographs and edits always captured what was truly going on in the scene. I never attempted to create a false illusion with my pictures. Apparently it was too much to ask others to do the same.
If people wanted to take pictures of me without my knowledge, they absolutely could… and they would. If they wanted to approach me, there was nothing to stop them. I lacked any sort of self-protection, and it worried me. If the other wives weren’t such raging bitches, I would have asked them how they got through it. It amazed me that none of them offered to help, or asked if I was OK. I looked around for Trina, but she was nowhere to be found. And since Jack pitched last night, he wouldn’t be pitching at all tonight.
I toyed with the idea of calling Matteo and going back home, but the potential fallout cemented my ass right to my seat. I imagined pictures of me leaving the game early followed by distasteful and untrue headlines.
Nope. I wasn’t moving. My pride refused to let me.
My phone vibrated again and I considered not grabbing it. One reminder pulse later, I reached into my purse, pulling it out. Another text from Melissa. Did I want to see this? Resigned to whatever fate was throwing at me tonight, I clicked the Read button.
Remember: LEMONS! In. Their. Faces.