Fool Me Twice by Lizzie Morton
Four
Becket 18 months later
Hobbling towards the locker room, there’s only one thing on my mind: escaping the heat. It’s as relentless as the practices that break me each day. It’s all part of the job. We turn up, give it our all, fall apart, then put ourselves back together again. It’s the part no one sees. What we do during games is a performance; no one cares about the rehearsals.
Once showered and feeling more human, I make my way to Coach’s office and knock on the door. My heart pounds. The last time I was here alone, talking about something unrelated to my performance on the field, was when I decided to dance on the wild side for one night only. It took months to lock that shit down. The NFL have been riding my ass since. The only thing that’s helped to weather the storm is that luck is on my side. I have raw talent, the kind you don’t often find, the kind that can’t be taught. It’s a gem and they know better than to let me go, even with my now not so gleaming record.
“Come in,” Coach bellows.
I take a deep breath before opening the door and stepping inside.
“Take a seat, Son.” When I pause, he chuckles from where he’s sitting behind his desk. “If I remember rightly, you’re the one who asked for this meeting. So why are you acting like I ordered you in here for an ass whooping?”
“Old habit,” I shrug, then slowly lower myself into the seat opposite him, trying not to flinch at the pain searing through my muscles.
He looks me straight in the eye. “What can I do for you?”
I give it to him straight. “I want to do the article.”
He leans back in his chair and clasps his hands together, looking for a sign that I might be joking. It’s been months of us going back and forth, him trying to convince me it would benefit my career and me refusing. I don’t think he ever imagined I would change my mind. The idea was presented to him by Shauna, my PR rep. The pair of them helped save me when it felt like my world was falling apart. They said the article was a chance to put the final nail in the coffin from that night. The night I met Britney and she tied me into a media circus. It might help to make me look pretty and less like a prick to the world, but there’s so much more lurking in the shadows. It doesn’t matter how deep you bury secrets, if someone digs far enough, there will always be bones to find.
Coach’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re sure? You know it’s her magazine running it.”
“Exactly. That’s the point.”
I’m agreeing to do it, but not for the reasons he would like. This isn’t about me, it’s about her. He most likely knows I have a hidden agenda. Nothing gets by him and he means it when he calls me son. He’s the closest thing I’ve got to a family besides the team. Sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself.
“It will be great publicity,” his words don’t fit the frown on his face. “They’re a national magazine and if you play your cards right and let people get to know the real you, the article could help put the past where it belongs. The board will love it.”
I hold up a hand stopping him in his tracks. He knows better than anyone why I don’t want the world knowing who I really am. He’s the only one who knows the truth. Well, him and Shauna. They had to know what they were dealing with, so they could manage it appropriately, also known as burying shit six feet under.
“Let’s not go that far. My private life is just that. Mine. Maybe I can be on my best behavior, put on a bit of a show?”
He doesn’t back down. “The article is named The real Michael Becket. That means if you’re going to do this and follow it through, then you will have to show the world who you really are.”
I nod my agreement, to pacify him, he might know me well, but he doesn’t know the true inner workings of my mind. “Fine,” I reply.
The twinkle in his eye lets me know he’s bought it and is happy with my response. Not for long, however, because if we’re doing this, we’re doing it on my terms. “On one condition …”
He sighs. “Go on.”
“I want her to do it.”
“Who?”
We both know who I’m talking about. “Do you really need to ask that question?”
“What if she won’t?” he asks, as if I haven’t already thought it through.
I’m not an idiot. I know being in the same state as me would be pushing it, let alone the same room. But I know what I need to do to get her here. “We force her hand.”
He rubs a hand over his face, suddenly looking tired. “This could all go very wrong.”
“Or it could all go very right. There’s only one way we will find out …”
***
Britney
It’s true what they say, New York is a city that never sleeps. My skin glistens orange, as the morning light rolls through the windows of my apartment gym. My feet pound against the treadmill as I take in the sights of the city. The road is a checkerboard of yellow and black vehicles, all fighting to get somewhere fast, but getting nowhere at all. People hustle down the sidewalks, half of them already starting their workday with their heads buried in their phones. The city is as awake as I am, and it’s only six AM. The gym became my passion when everything else felt very much out of my control and the endorphins became my tool to chase away the demons.
When I first moved to New York, I thought I’d found the answer to all my problems. It was a chance for a fresh start. People come here to remake themselves. What they don’t tell people is what that change entails. The City provides the same deceitful mask it wears itself—merely hiding who you really are.
The treadmill bleeps and the belt slows, my signal to move on to the weights area. Hopping off, I pick up my towel and wipe the sweat from my face, my muscles already starting to ache with exhaustion. I don’t normally fit so much into my sessions, but today I have the urge to chase those extra endorphins.
When the session ends, I leave and make my way up a floor, back to my apartment where I go about my normal morning routine. It still feels alien, being here, knowing that I’ve moved on with my life and put the shit of the past eighteen months behind me, but as people say, these things take time.
Walking into Allure Magazine, there’s a spring in my step. Something feels different. It’s not just the change in temperature as we come out of another brutal New York winter, the kind that makes you want to hide away and hibernate until it’s done. It’s something else. The sky is lighter and more inviting. It makes me feel hopeful. Change is coming.
I pray that it’s the good kind.
Settling down at my desk, I hum while waiting for my laptop to fire up. My inbox is full of updates on celebrities, the sports world, the latest make-up craze, DIY tips, home reno. You name it, my inbox is full of it, because the national magazine I now work for covers basically everything. It’s nothing like the gossip magazine I worked for when I first moved to New York for which I was made to set up Becket.
“You’re spritely today,” Jess says in a sing-song, pausing at my desk, before heading to her office—the giant corner office with one of the most amazing views of Manhattan.
I smile to myself. “I have a good feeling about today.”
“Careful, you don’t want to jinx it,” she warns with a wink.
“Right,” I chuckle.
When she throws her poker-straight, jet-black hair over one shoulder and continues walking, I focus my attention back on the mammoth amounts of work I have waiting.
The morning passes quickly, as most do. It isn’t until I receive an email, from Jess, close to lunchtime, that anything feels out of the ordinary. We tend to catch up on anything work-related in casual meetings over lunch or dinner. The rest of the time she drops by my desk. Naturally, this feels off. She rarely gives a scheduled time for a meeting and never schedules them in her office. Not with me that is.
I reply, agreeing to the time and finish up as many tasks as possible. The current article I’m working on is a piece about the band Six Seconds to Barcelona and the release of their latest album. We have exclusive coverage, so it needs to be perfect. It’s hard to focus when my mind keeps wandering, going over all the possibilities of why Jess would want me in an ‘official’ meeting.
When it’s time, I make my way into her office. It’s a dream: Sleek, white and organized to perfection—a stark contrast to her actual character. The only part that screams Jess is the chaos of Manhattan, seen through the floor-to-ceiling windows. At work she’s a vulture, like so many in her position, but outside her life is in shambles. Maybe that’s why she works all hours, to maintain control of something in her life.
I sit down opposite her at the huge desk, notepad in hand, ready to jot down anything needed. Her face is full of excitement, which is unusual. Most of the time she sports a poker face, claiming it makes the world take her more seriously. Whatever news she’s about to give, it’s big. Big enough to have her visibly buzzing.
Straight away, she confirms my thoughts. “I have something big …”
“I gathered by the way you’re fidgeting in your seat.”
“It’s like really, really big.” She shuffles again.
I’ve never seen her this unsettled by something work-related. In fact, not by anything. She’s always so cool and collected. Some call her the Ice Queen, especially the guys she dates.
I mock her a little, knowing she can take it. “Like super big?”
“You do know I can fire you right?” She points at herself dramatically. “Boss, remember?”
I reply sweetly, “But you wouldn’t do that. Who would help with all the jobs you hate if you got rid of me?”
“True …”
I look around for any sign of why I’m here. I come up with nothing. Unable to hide my impatience I ask, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or keep me waiting?”
“I can’t tell you yet. We’re waiting on someone.” She looks over my shoulder, into the office. “They’re running late, but let me tell you, this is going to be one of our biggest pieces this year. It’s been in the making a while because we couldn’t get him to agree.”
My ears prick at the word him. It’s not often our main articles are male orientated. Our focus tends to be centered around women empowering women. “Are you sure you can’t give me a clue while we’re waiting?”
“No need.” She nods at the door and stands, brushing imaginary crumbs off her skirt. “He’s here.”
“He?” My stomach lurches as I turn in my seat to face where Jess is looking.
An older man walks into her office. He’s the old kind of handsome. How I’d imagine George Clooney to be if I ever got to meet him. I clock him in his early fifties, the lines of grey in his buzz cut a telltale sign. One thing he’s got that Clooney doesn’t: he’s stacked. The kind of stacked only someone in sports can achieve. He has a physique built for performance not just for show. His eyes crinkle at the sides when he smiles at us. I’m too focused on the fact this guy isn’t from New York to return it. No resident of New York has a tan like his at this time of year. Who the hell is this guy?
Still standing, Jess walks around her desk, holding out a hand, ready to shake his. She smiles like she’s known him for years. I’ve seen her pull this trick before. She uses it with all the important stories, which means whatever this guy is here for, it’s big. “Hank, it’s so great to see you. I’m glad you could make it all the way here.” Pulling out the big guns she throws in a couple of air kisses, then they both look in my direction.
I have to keep up appearances, so I stand from my seat to shake Hank’s hand, even though there’s a little voice in my head telling me to be on guard.
Jess continues the introduction, “Britney, this is Hank Langford.”
She doesn’t expand further and I’m still none the wiser to who he actually is—his name means nothing to me.
Trying to shake off the feelings of unease, I plaster on the best fake smile I can and say, “It’s great to meet you.” Sitting back down, I wait for the two of them to do the same, wondering when Jess is going to confirm who Hank is.
“So, Britney. This is Hank Langford.”
I look at him and smile again, trying to hide my irritation that Jess is taking so long to cut to the chase.
“Hank, this is Britney Shaw.”
Is she actually being serious? I can’t stand this.
Finally, Hank speaks, “It’s great to meet you, Britney. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
My mouth parts and my palms begin to sweat. How does he know me? Jess seems totally unphased, so I tell myself to chill out. If she’s not concerned there’s no reason I should be.
The moment of calm passes when Jess expands, “Hank is the coach of the Jacksonville Jaguars.”
Fuck. My mind begins racing at a million miles an hour. It could be a coincidence but deep down I know it’s not. This isn’t down to chance, he’s here for a reason.
“Wow.” I beam, trying to feign confidence. “What an honor. They’re like a big deal in the footballing world?” I want to get up and run, but I can’t. Nobody here knows the connection I have to Becket. I doubt that’s the case for Hank Langford.
He nods. “I like to think so.” His overall expression is warm, but his eyes are not, as he stares at me, unblinking. He wants me to cower.
I do the next best thing and divert my eyes away, looking back to Jess, waiting for her to move the conversation forward. I hope I’m wrong. I hope he’s not here for the reason I think he is.
The giant blond mistake in my past.
Jess clears her throat. “I’ll cut to the chase. We’re running an article on Michael Becket.”
Damn it! She’s confirmed exactly what I feared. All I can do now is pray it doesn’t get worse.
“Hank’s here to provide more information, so I’ll hand things over to him.” She sits back in her chair looking elated, completely unaware I’m about to be well and truly fucked over. I can feel it.
Nothing good can come from anything linked to Becket because I did nothing good to him.
With a glint in his eye, Coach Langford says, “As Jess mentioned, your magazine is running an article on my player, Becket.”
“R—right,” I stammer.
“There has been some reluctance on our end. Basically, he didn’t want to do it.”
Oh, thank God. Relief floods through me and it’s all I can do to stop myself from jumping for joy. “That’s a shame,” I reply. “It would have been great to have him featured.”
He smirks. “Didn’t. Past tense. He’s finally agreed to do the article, but he has some terms.”
My glimmer of hope slips away as quickly as it appeared.
“He wants you to write it.”
I think I’m going to puke. Clutching at straws, I say, “Great. So, what will it be? A telephone interview? Email? Video call—”
“No,” Jess cuts me off. “Michael has just been shortlisted for a huge award with Sports Elite Magazine, for Sports Personality of The Year. This isn’t a little article, it’s big.” There she goes again with her favorite word of the day, big. “We’re going to title it, The real Michael Becket. We want to capture the side of him no one sees. Gain some insight into his life, besides being a football player.”
“Ok.” I try to swallow down the lump in my throat, knowing she’s not done.
“We want you to spend a few weeks with him, so you can really get to know him as a player.”
“Surely that’s not necessary? What about all my other projects?” I have one shot to convince them we don’t need to spend any more time together than needed and this is it. “I can get to know him just as easily by phone or email.”
“Don’t worry about your other projects,” says Jess. “Thanks to good old technology you can work from anywhere.” She’s humoring me, but the look on her face, is telling me to back down and shut up.
Coach Langford watches us in amusement, then chips in, “He wants you. Only you.”
“What? He personally requested me?” I know I’m stating the obvious, but my brain has turned to mush.
“He did. He won’t do the article without you. Which is why I’m here. To get you to agree. He needs this.” For the first time since stepping into Jess’ office, he looks at me earnestly, genuinely needing my help.
Even though I know the answer, better than the two people in front of me could ever imagine, I ask, “Why me?”
Coach Langford narrows his eyes and the brief glimmer of solidarity between us disappears. “You know why.”
That’s the thing about team sports, they’re a team, a family. If I agree to this, I’ll be walking into one seriously pissed-off family. I hurt one of their own and they’re going to make me pay.
Jess looks bewildered. “Is there something going on here I don’t know about? Coach?”
“Britney and Becket have … shall we call it history?” Coach Langford smiles.
I nod, unable to do much else.
“What sort of history?” asks Jess, looking even more confused.
She’s trying to figure out why I wouldn’t tell her I have a connection to one of the most famous NFL players in the world. Famous for all the wrong reasons, all because of me.
“I’ll let Britney answer that one.”
I’d rather the ground swallowed me up than answer. Unfortunately, I’m an adult who has to face up to the consequences of the decisions I made. There was only so long I could run away from what I did and pretend like I didn’t have a part to play. I shake my head, letting Jess know that now isn’t the time to go into details. “I’ll tell you later.” Letting out a resigned sigh, I look back to Coach Langford. “If I do this, when do I start?”
“We were thinking the first week of April,” answers Jess, even though it wasn’t her I was asking.
My eyes widen in shock. I thought I would have more time to prepare. “But that’s only a week away?”
Coach Langford jumps in, “We want the article to run before next season, the sooner the better. This is a big deal for Becket. Plus, I’ve no doubt this whole process will be rocky to begin with.”
Jess doesn’t say a word. She may be responsible for me and running the show in the magazine, but she knows who’s calling the shots in this crazy situation we’ve found ourselves in.
“Fine,” I try to hold back the bite in my tone. “Are we done here?” I don’t need to know the minor details, that’s Jess’ job. I’ve got a lot of work to wrap up, especially if I’m going to Florida for who knows how long.
Jess nods that it’s fine for me to leave and I refuse to say anything to either of them as I stand up and start to walk away. I don’t care what impression I’m giving Coach Langford. He already knows my worst.
I’m almost at the door when he clears his throat. “Britney …”
I pause but don’t look back. “Yes?”
“I don’t know what happened, or why, but I’m a firm believer that everyone deserves a second chance. Don’t see this as a job, see it as a chance to make amends.”
I go to leave but hesitate, deciding to make one last attempt to back out. “What if I don’t want to make amends? What if I refuse to do it?”
“Then Becket will sue you for defamation.”
I hear Jess gasp and my shoulders slump in defeat as I quietly leave her office. Trying to make amends is only as good as the other person wanting to forgive and I’m almost certain Becket is going to be anything but forgiving.
