Fool Me Twice by Lizzie Morton
Nine
Becket
I can’t take my eyes off Britney and I hate myself for it. The moment I bumped into her on the sidewalk and clocked her in that red dress, I was a goner. All I can do is stare when she’s looking elsewhere, despite having Lola sitting next to me, who was supposed to be a distraction for my mind among other things.
“What are you playing at?” hisses Lola in my ear.
I barely hear her, mesmerized by the woman on the other side of me, whose beauty is striking in the dim candlelight, even hidden behind her red mask. I grind my teeth back and forth, my nostrils flare, and my eyes skim over her cleavage. Why did I think it was a good idea? Trying to act complacent, I reply, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean, Michael.”
Britney looks at us briefly and her eyes narrow. She’s not an idiot, she’s going to remember who Lola is. Of course she is, after all, she’s the one who made our paths cross. Trying to block out Lola, I focus solely on Britney, my expression blank, watching the cogs turn in her brain as she tries to figure out what’s going on.
“Why am I really here?” asks Lola quietly.
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t. This isn’t why I came tonight.”
An older man makes his way over to our table with perfect timing, mask firmly in place. It doesn’t matter that we can’t see his face, we all know who it is, and jump up to our feet when he pulls out his chair to sit down.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I hope you’re not all standing for me.”
The whole table laughs lightly, otherwise known as being awkward as fuck. Nobody knows how to act because he’s one of the big dogs. We follow and sit when he does, then go quiet. In the background, the speech continues. These things are always painfully drawn out and the rest of the room look bored out of their minds. Thankfully, I’ve got my own entertainment about to unfold. Lola was the starter, now for the main course.
“Sorry I’m late everyone,” says the new masked figure at our table, “I was stuck at The Bank.” He looks around, trying to figure out who we all are, the masks make it difficult, but he knows his players. When his eyes find Brad, he gives a nod of recognition. His face lights up like a Christmas tree when they settle on me. Even with our history, I’m still his favorite player. Moving on, his eyes look between Britney and Lola.
It’s showtime.
I clear my throat and Britney flinches. It’s a small movement, but it’s there. After the Lola bombshell, she’s on edge.
“Stan, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
The table stills and Stan waits for me to continue. You could cut the tension at the table with a knife. Britney probably feels out of her depth, not knowing what to expect next. I know the feeling well, remember it like it was yesterday, feeling completely out of control after she drugged me. I take a deep breath and gesture towards the stunning blonde at my side, in the red dress. The devil in disguise.
“Britney, this is Stan.”
Britney, the acting professional she is, plasters on her most jaw-dropping smile. “Sorry, Stan … Football isn’t my strong point, I’m afraid. I’m not familiar with who you are.”
Don’t worry Brit, you will be.
“It’s nice to meet you, Britney.” Stan smiles politely then looks back at me confused.
I beam, turn to Britney and loudly, say, “I’ve been looking forward to you both meeting. You set me up and filmed me with his daughter.”
Of course, the speech stops at that exact moment. I couldn’t have got my timing better if I tried. A few people in the room gasp, letting me know everyone heard and the whole room is staring at us wide-eyed, like they’re watching a live episode of The Kardashians.
Brad begins choking awkwardly on his drink. Coach shakes his head in despair, and Lola picks up her glass of wine and takes a large gulp. I focus my attention on Stan, who’s looking rather red in the face. I should probably apologize to him later for making him part of my game. Britney looks paler than normal if that’s possible and I wait for her to say something, anything. The seconds tick by. It feels like an eternity passes before she looks at me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She shakes her head, then without saying another word, stands, picking up her purse in the process. She walks out of the room with her head down. Every set of eyes follow as she leaves and my stomach tugs with guilt. I tell myself to ignore it. This is nothing worse than how she made me feel in front of the world: humiliated.
Stan stands awkwardly and says, “I’m just going to speak with some of the other Board Members.” For a big guy, he moves fast as he walks away.
It crosses my mind that this whole charade isn’t the best idea, but it’s a fleeting thought. There’s something about Britney Shaw that brings out the worst in me.
“Becket!” barks Coach. “Terrace, now.” He stands with such force his chair falls backwards to the floor. He ignores it and stalks out of the room without looking back to see if I’m following. He knows I will. I have to.
The whole room watches as I stand, shoulders squared back, and then follow Coach’s footsteps.
Screw them and screw all this. They have no idea who I am, what I’ve been through. They smile sweetly, suck up to the MVP, the flavor of the week, but it’s all for show. I know how they laughed and gossiped behind my back when everything happened. They showed their true colors, proved every person in here, apart from my teammates, is here for their own gain. It’s bullshit. Most of the people in here couldn’t have cared less about what the implications were for me. They didn’t care whether Britney’s actions affected anyone else. But they did. Her actions affected them.
When I step out onto the terrace, Coach is standing with his back to me. His shoulders rise and fall dramatically, the way they do when he’s about to lose his temper.
“C—coach.” Now we’re away from beady eyes, my mask can come off.
Coach and Shauna are the only ones who know the real reason I have walls built stronger than Fort Knox, keeping everyone out. When it comes down to the nitty gritty, Coach is the only person who really knows me, which is why he didn’t lose his shit back there. He knows why I did it, even if he doesn’t necessarily agree with my actions. I expect his face to be contorted with anger when he turns around, like it would be with any other player. I wish it was, because instead what I see, I can barely stomach: Pity.
“What are you doing, son?” he asks, his mouth turned downwards.
I look away. It’s like I’m eight years old again, being scorned by my mother for drawing all over Josie’s bedroom walls when I realized hers was the bigger room. There’s a pang in my chest and I rub, trying to soothe the ache. I need to stop thinking about them. Holding my chin up high, I reply, “It’s nothing she doesn’t deserve.”
“From what I’ve seen so far, she’s not quite the menace you’ve made her out to be. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not her biggest fan, but could you have gotten it wrong? Maybe there’s more to the story.”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again. He was the one who helped me find the CCTV footage from that night when I was trying to figure out what really happened. He sat beside me and watched it all. He saw her there. “You saw it!” I say, throwing my hands up in the air.
“I’m not questioning what I saw, but perhaps it didn’t all play out how you think.”
“It’s too late, the damage is already done.” I look away and stare at some of the foliage decorating the terrace. “I can’t believe you’re taking her side.”
“Son, I’m not taking anyone’s side—this isn’t high school—but what happened in there was wrong. This path you’re going down, is as bad as what you think she did. Be the bigger person, show her who you really are.” He sighs and walks past me in the direction of the ballroom. Before he does, he pauses at the door. “You need to apologize to her before she leaves. For good. While you’re at it, prepare to do some sucking up. Stan is also on your list of apologies, unless you want to find yourself out of the NFL.”
I wait a while, contemplating Coach’s words. What he’s saying makes sense. If I keep acting the way I am, she’s going to be on a plane to New York before the week is out, and then what will I have achieved? It’s time to throw in an unexpected play. There’s a reason they say, ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ It’s time for me and Britney to get so close, she forgets why she’s even here.
***
Britney
I’m about to click book, on a flight back to New York when a knock at the door stops me in my tracks. Coming here was a huge mistake. I knew Becket was an asshole, but what he did at the ball … I thought there was more to him than this. He’s intimidating me into feeling guilty about what I did to him. I should tell him there’s no need; I’ve been plagued with guilt ever since that night. I don’t need his help. As far as I’m aware, only two people know where I’m staying: Jess and Coach Langford. I glance at the lilies resting in a glass on my dresser. Wrong. One other person knows.
Becket.
Thankfully, there’s a peep hole on the door so I can double check. Even standing on my tiptoes, I only just manage to see through. Small people problems. When I do manage, I can’t take my eyes away. There he is, looking as gorgeous as he did earlier at the ball, only now his top button is open and his bow tie hangs casually around his neck.
“I know you’re staring at me. I’d say take a picture, it’ll last longer, but yo—” he stops whatever he was about to say, and I watch him rub a hand over his face. “Open the door, Brit.”
I take a deep breath before opening it, preparing myself for an onslaught of insults as soon as we’re face to face. A part of me wants to run back to New York so I can lick my wounds in peace, but another part refuses to go down without a fight. He doesn’t know what really happened, the choices I made. It’s that knowledge alone which has me opening the door.
His hair sticks up in all directions, like he’s been tugging his hands through it over and over. My eyes drink him in. Why can’t my mind and body forget how good it felt being in his arms? It would make him and his actions easier to hate. Emerald-green eyes stare intensely into my icy-blue ones. I don’t blink, simply step away from the door, leaving it open as an invitation.
When he doesn’t move, I say, “Well, are you going to come in?”
He shrugs with his hands in his pant pockets. “I was waiting for an invite.”
“The way you’ve been going around demanding everything, it comes as a surprise that you’re actually asking,” I snipe.
He smiles, stepping into the room, then walks around, taking in his surroundings. “You’ve moved up in the world from the woman I met in economy.” He looks over at my dresser and frowns. “Nice flowers.”
I narrow my eyes. “Rehashing the past is getting kind of boring don’t you think?” When he doesn’t reply, I ask, “What do you want from me?” I hold my breath, scared of the answer.
“I’m not sure I know myself,” he answers honestly.
His comment throws me off. He’s at odds with his feelings, something we seem to have in common. It becomes even more apparent when he reaches up and pushes a strand of loose hair away from my face, then rests his hand gently against my cheek. Instinctively, I raise my own to hold him in place, but it’s the wrong move as the contact startles him and breaks the moment. He steps back abruptly. Michael is gone, Becket is back. The glimmer of the man I met on the plane, the one who told me his secrets, has disappeared. But what else did I expect?
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing or what I’m apologizing for.
Becket seems to understand the situation better than me, and replies, “You have a lot to be sorry for, Brit. But that was all me.”
I look away and focus my attention out the window, on the view of Jacksonville below. The lights from the buildings twinkle in the night, giving the room a magical glow. It’s out of place—there is nothing magical about the two of us together.
Clearing his throat awkwardly, Becket breaks the silence that has settled around us. “I should get going. I just came to check on you.”
“Check what?” I ask, confused.
“That you were ok, after earlier.”
That, I wasn’t expecting. For now, this is as close to an apology as I’m going to get. But I’ll take it. What else can I do? He’s forced us into this ridiculous scenario, and now we need to navigate our way out of it.
I stare him straight in the eyes, speaking firmly when I reply, “I’m not ok. Just so you know. What you did back there was wrong, no matter what the reasoning behind it was. But for the record … I appreciate you coming here to check on me.”
“Ok.” He shoves his hands back into his pockets. “Where do we go from here?”
It’s all I can do to stop my mouth dropping open. The guy who stepped in my hotel room is not the same one from earlier at the ball. I wonder to myself whether he underwent a personality transplant on the journey over. Refusing to miss the opportunity, I say, “Help me with the article. Let me see the real you. I know this”—I wave my hand up and down at him—“isn’t it. When we met on that plane ride, there was something else there. I know it wasn’t an act.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t do that, I’m sorry. But I promise to show you what I do day-to-day, and be on my best behavior.”
It’s not a win, but it will do. For now. “Fine,” I reply. “When do we begin?”
