The Game Changer(69)
Once inside the safety and security of our apartment building, I allowed myself to crumple.
“Are you OK, Miss Andrews?” the doorman asked, his big bushy moustache bouncing as he spoke.
“Sorry, Antonio. I’m just a little freaked out by all the online posts and stuff. They can’t come in here, right?”
“No, ma’am. They can’t come in here.” He straightened his back. “I won’t let them.”
“Thank you,” I muttered, averting my gaze outside, thankful that no one stood gawking or staring.
Insisting that my every step was tracked, I’d become paranoid. The press, the fans, the pictures; it never seemed to stop. There was little reprieve. Little sanctuary. I tried to pretend it didn’t matter, but the constant pressure was getting to me. Pieces of me were being chipped away at daily. Why was I up for public consumption? I wasn’t even the celebrity in the relationship.
I called Melissa from the elevator as soon as the doors closed. “Are you OK?” she answered instead of saying hello.
“No. I’m freaking out. How the hell does this whole town know who I am? And more importantly, why do they care?”
“Because you’re Jack’s girlfriend. And he’s the number one pitcher for the team right now. You know how people get with stuff like this. They’re obsessed with celebrities’ personal lives.”
I exhaled, unlocking my apartment door and walking inside. “But I can’t even get dinner without someone posting it online. Even you know I’m not that interesting.” I tried to laugh.
“But they don’t know that. All they see is the girl who has the hot and awesome Jack Carter’s heart. They don’t know what you guys have been through.”
“But they act like they do.” I sprawled across the couch. “They post all sorts of shit claiming to know everything about us.”
Melissa laughed. “Yeah, and we both know how accurate those postings are. They’re almost as good as the ones on that hot wives website.”
My heart beat in double time. “What hot wives website?”
“Shit.” She paused. “I’m sorry, Cass. It’s just a stupid website.”
“What’s on it?” I asked, before sitting up to grab my laptop from the coffee table.
She hesitated and I knew she was keeping something from me. “Pictures.”
“What else? Tell me,” I demanded.
“No really. It’s just pictures mostly, but they rate you.”
“Rate me how.”
“Based on hotness.”
I typed a description into the search engine as hundreds of disgustingly named websites turned up. I added “athlete” into my search and bingo. I clicked on the first link listed and my name appeared, along with four recent pictures of me. There was a description that stated Jack and I met back in college but broke up for a brief time before getting back together after he was traded. A paragraph described what I did for work, but didn’t mention where.
Thank God.
A rating scale of one to ten stars waited at the end of the post to be voted on. Underneath the star rating, mine currently sat at six, by the way, was a comment section.
“I found the website,” I breathed into the phone.
“Oh God. No. Cass. Don’t,” she pleaded through the phone.
I clicked on the Comment link as my stomach turned.
“I heard she cheats on Jack every time he’s out of town with that Matteo guy. Maybe someone needs to help Jack get back at her. I volunteer.”
“I saw her making out with that guy who’s always with her at the games. I would have taken a picture, but I didn’t have my phone with me. Next time.”
“My friend went to school with her in California and said she was a bitch to everyone there and no one liked her.”
“I thought baseball players were supposed to have hot girlfriends. Where’d he find this one—she’s disgusting. And she should probably go on a diet.”
“Hello? Cassie?”
“I’m here.” I sniffed.
“Do we have to go through these one by one? Obviously you don’t cheat on Jack when he’s away. You were not making out with your super-hot driver, but if you’d let me I totally would. You were not a bitch to anyone who didn’t deserve it in college, and you’re not fat or ugly. These are all jealous girls who all think they want what you have.”
My eyes filled with tears as I asked my best friend, “What do I do?”
“You’ve got to stop reading it. Right now,” she insisted, and I clicked the small red X at the top of the screen, closing the page. “And I’ll stop telling you anything anyone is saying. None of it matters anyway, and it’s tearing you apart.”