Fool Me Twice by Lizzie Morton
Six
Britney
Since the day I met Becket, I’ve avoided airplanes at all costs. A near-death experience will do that to you. Now, here I am, about to make the same trip, retracing my footsteps from that day. This time, Becket won’t be beside me if anything goes wrong.
Standing in line, I bounce from one foot to the other, staring at the plane through the windows. It’s not just a fear of flying. It’s a fear of him. Fear of facing up to the poor choices I made that night. I seriously doubt Becket is going to be happy to see me again, but he’s the one forcing my hand and making it impossible for me not to go.
“Miss?” The flight attendant standing at the boarding desk catches my attention and I realize it’s my turn to show my ticket.
Awkward and blushing, I throw an apologetic glance over my shoulder to the passengers waiting in line behind me. “Sorry,” I say quietly, then show the e-ticket on my cell before boarding the plane.
Looking at the empty seat beside me, I can’t decide how I feel that it won’t be Becket sitting next to me. My mind wanders, full of unanswered questions: does he still hate New York as much as he said he did that day? I’ll be lucky if I get any answers after what I did to him. Hell, I’ll be lucky if he gives me enough information to come up with an article.
A couple of minutes later, a businesswoman bustles down the center aisle. She throws her bag in the locker overhead, completely ignoring me when I smile at her as she sits down. Typical of someone from the city, she sits typing furiously on her cellphone, totally unaware of everyone and everything around her.
My palms turn clammy when the flight attendants start their safety checks, and an overwhelming urge to bolt off the plane hits me. Trying to get rid of some of the nervous energy building, I wriggle in my seat and in doing so, accidentally knock the elbow of the woman sitting next to me. I cringe. “Sorry, I’m a nervous flyer.”
All I get in return is a dirty look before she turns her attention back to her cell. Her focus remains on the object in her hand until it becomes mandatory to switch it off. The engine rumbles to life and the plane moves slowly towards the runway. There’s no backing out now.
Attempting to escape reality, I close my eyes. Rather than being provided with a sense of relief, I’m faced with images of Becket … as always.
***
I make it through the flight with my sanity intact, although it was hit and miss when we went through a patch of turbulence. The “whoop” I gave when the plane touched down had Miss Serious next to me cracking out her best sour face, probably wondering how she wound up next to a crazy person. I should give her Becket’s number; they’d have a lot in common.
The irony is, after spending the past couple of hours wishing I wasn’t on the plane, as I walk through Jacksonville International, I wish I was back on it. After collecting my bags, I walk to where the cabs are parked, waiting. Of course, there’s no line. I’d give anything for there to be a line. I’d happily wait hours. I need more time before I see him. I can’t even avoid him by checking in at the hotel. It’s on my itinerary to head straight to the TIAA Bank Field—the open-air stadium where the Jacksonville Jaguars are training. I don’t know much about football, but I know the stadiums, and everything associated with the NFL are huge. This is going to be intimidation at its finest.
“Nervous?” asks the cab driver, looking at me through his rearview mirror.
I don’t need to ask what gave it away, my bottom lip is practically raw from biting down on it so much. I’ve tried everything to distract myself from the apprehension building, but even taking in my surroundings as the cab flies along the highway doesn’t help. “You could say that,” I reply, nervously smiling back at him through the mirror.
He chuckles. “I would be too if I were heading to The Bank. Must be something mighty important you’re going for. Not many people get to go in during training season.”
“It’s pretty important,” I say vaguely. He’s prying, I can spot it a mile off. After all it was part of my previous job description. Trying to steer the conversation in a different direction I ask, “How long until we get there?”
“A few minutes.” He looks at me again in the rearview. His eyes are friendly. Maybe I should cut him some slack. “Excited?”
“No, but I have no choice.”
The driver’s friendly expression turns to a frown. That wasn’t the answer he was expecting. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of the journey.
I jump out of the cab once I’ve paid, retrieving my luggage from the trunk. I can’t decide whether it was my decision to wear a black, tailored pantsuit, the Florida heat, or nerves that has me sweating. I begin walking forwards awkwardly, struggling to maneuver my suitcase, along with my laptop case and tote bag over one shoulder. I just about get into a rhythm when a figure crashes into me from the side. Fumbling my laptop case, the tote bag is sacrificed and tumbles to the ground. Papers slide out, scattering along the floor before blowing around in the warm breeze. Clambering around, I expect to at least hear an apology, but I get nothing. Looking up from where I’m crouched on the ground, I find no one, until I turn my head and, in the distance, see a black, hooded jacket darting away. Asshole. They could at least have helped me pick up some of the papers.
I manage to quickly get together all the papers, almost certain none escaped, and shove them back into my bag. I’ll have to deal with that mess later. I look up at The Bank, as the cab driver called it, and swallow nervously.
Ten minutes pass. My feet remain rooted to the spot. I’m about to finally work up the courage to move when my cellphone pings from in my tote. When I eventually find it, Jess’ name is on the screen and I smile to myself. She’s the perfect excuse to stall.
Jess: You’ve got this.
Me: I really don’t.
Jess: Are you there yet?
Me: I’m standing outside.
Jess: What are you doing standing outside? Get yourself in there!
Me: I’m not ready.
Jess: And you never will be because it’s going to be shit.
Me: Are you trying to fill me with confidence? Because you’re doing a terrible job.
Jess: Just keeping it real.
Me: I’m going to start ignoring you now.
Jess: Put on your big-girl pants and get in there. You got yourself into this mess now it’s time to get yourself out. Plus, you’re on the payroll, you have no choice.
Me: We’re on opposite sides of the country. I can do whatever I like.
Jess: Wrong. I have Coach Langford saved to my cell and he’s informed me you’re late. So, get moving.
Everyone is adamant I do this, and I haven’t felt this out of control in a long time. It’s unsettling. If I run, it’s game over. Becket will make sure of it. I’ve come so far, but he’s threatening to undo everything.
I stand looking up at the glass doors to the stadium. I have to face him. I’m not a bad person, not like he most likely thinks I am. If I were a bad person then I wouldn’t feel any remorse.
But I do.
Every. Single. Day.
A throat clears behind me. “Are you going to stand there all day?”
I spin around to find Coach Langford towering above me. Sheepishly, I say, “Just getting my bearings.”
“You’ve been standing here for over ten minutes. That’s more than enough time. Follow me.”
Panic sets in as Coach Langford walks away towards the doors in front of us, while my feet stay firmly planted.
He looks back over his shoulder with one brow raised. “Are you coming?”
“Erm … yeah. I was just gathering myself.” Gathering myself? This couldn’t get any more awkward.
Finally, my feet move, and I follow him, pausing just inside the doors. What I see doesn’t fit the preconceptions I had of the NFL—it’s more like a swanky VIP club, not the high school drama I pictured in my head. Huge glass windows create a barrier from the outside world, and the sunlight pouring through bounces up from the marble floor and reflects off the stark-white walls. I expected mud and sweat; red plastic seats smeared with ketchup and mustard; the smell of stale beer. Instead, there’s leather and lots of white.
So … this is the big league.
We move away from the main entrance and start walking along a corridor when Coach Langford attempts to make small talk.
“How was your flight?”
“It was fine.”
“I assume it was better than the last one you took here.”
Warily, I reply, “I guess you could say that. Where are we going?”
“Practice,” he grunts. “We’re almost there. The team is out on the field.”
Butterflies take flight in my stomach. This is it. Our paths are finally going to cross again and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’d hoped our reunion might be private. Alas no. There will be me, him, and his footballing family.
I’m going to be outnumbered.
I hold my breath when we stop in front of a large metal door, which I assume leads out onto the field. Coach opens the door and light floods in. Raising a hand to my brow to shelter my eyes, I squint as they readjust after being in the dimly lit corridor. My mouth drops open. The stadium stretches out in front of us, reaching over two hundred feet into the sky, providing a shelter from the rest of the world. We’re in a football bubble. An exceptionally large football bubble. As dusk chases away the remainder of the daylight in the sky, the arena lights blare down even brighter. It’s blinding and surreal.
“Shaw,” Coach barks. “I don’t know how many times I’m gonna have to tell you to follow me.” He’s enjoying watching the fear take over my face. “If you were on the team, you’d be running laps by now.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. If this is Coach’s attitude towards me, who knows what Becket has in store for this whole farce.
“I won’t say it again,” he shouts over his shoulder, stalking across the field in the direction of his players.
Reluctantly, I scurry behind, struggling to keep up with his large strides. It takes two of mine to match just one of his. Each step I take, my heels sink down into the ground, slowing my pace even further. My choice of attire couldn’t have been less suitable if I’d tried.
Time slows when I stop in front of the large group of hulking men, putting their bodies through their paces. To some, this would be heaven, watching men kitted out, muscles rippling, but this is my version of hell. My presence goes unnoticed, and the team carries on, their uniforms and helmets shielding who they really are. This was part of the homework I didn’t complete—learning which jersey number belongs to which player. Major faux pas on my part because now I don’t have a clue who is who. I wouldn’t know if Becket was here or not. I hope he’s not.
I wait for him to seek me out, twiddling my hands together. It’s a relief when Coach walks back over to me. He’s the only person who seems to care even slightly that I’m here.
“What happens now?” I ask uncertainly.
“You’re the reporter, you tell me.” His attitude is beginning to piss me off, not that I would let it show when I’m surrounded by his loyal followers.
“I’ve never done an article like this before,” I admit, stumbling over my words. An error on my part because you should never show the enemy your weakness, easier said than done when under pressure. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I suppose your forte is ruining people’s careers rather than bettering them."
“Careful Coach, you’re showing your true colors,” I snap back, losing my temper. I never expected animosity from someone so high in the ranks and it’s throwing me off.
“Nice to see you’re still a bitch,” says a shrill voice from behind.
A chill runs down my spine at the same time my cheeks flush. My dilemma is over. Becket has singled me out, proving he’s the one calling the shots. Now, I get to witness firsthand where his reputation for being the biggest asshole in the NFL has come from. Meanwhile, Coach Langford stands smirking clearly not going to call his player out for his offensive language to the team’s guest.
I turn around slowly, expecting to see his face, but his helmet is still in place. “Becket … Hi.” I hold my hand out as a peace offering. Stupid idea, I cringe. Even stupider, I say, “Britney Shaw.”
He throws his head back, laughing. “I know exactly who you are, Brit.”
My fight or flight response kicks in, warning me to get away from this situation.
“I know who you are in the same way you knew who I was when we boarded that plane.”
At some point during our short exchange, the rest of the team stopped running drills. Now, they’re standing behind him with their arms folded against their broad chests. I’m surrounded by a crowd of giants, all of which hate me for what I did to their teammate. This was my own doing. I deserve this. I need to let Becket play his games and hurt me, because I hurt him. Even if he never admits it, I know I did.
“I—I—” Can’t think of anything to say. This is mortifying.
Becket and his team stay surrounding me. “What’s wrong, Brit? Cat got your tongue?”
This is going worse than I predicted and I struggle to swallow over the lump in my throat. I only know it’s him because of the two green eyes, glowering at me through the cage of his helmet, and his gruff voice, giving only one thing away: he despises me. But I’m not that person anymore. I promised myself eighteen months ago I’d stop allowing people to use me for their own gain and I haven’t looked back since. There’s no shame in admitting to myself I need to regroup.
“I have to go,” I croak. Even with my heels sinking into the ground and my suitcase dragging along the grass behind me, I leave the stadium quicker than I walked in. It takes everything in me to fight the urge to keep walking straight onto the next plane out of Jacksonville. I’m out of my depth, but no matter what, I cannot run.
***
Becket
Britney’s almost out of the stadium when I take my helmet off and drop it on the grass. Instinct told me to keep it on as a barrier, protecting me from the devil in disguise, but she’s on my turf now and I’m determined to keep the upper hand as long as possible.
The moment she stepped out on the field my eyes found her, not that I’d ever let her know. She’s like something out of Game of Thrones with her long, white-blonde hair and icy-blue eyes. She’s the last person I want to think about, but the only person I can. I screwed up when we met on the plane; I never should have let her in. Walls are built to keep people out and I’ve been paying for my little slip-up for months.
Now, my mask—Becket—is firmly in place.
“That went well …” says my teammate and best friend, Brad, walking up beside me.
Together we watch as she bolts through the same door that she came out of just a few minutes ago.
“It went exactly how it was supposed to.” I bend down to pick up my helmet as Coach calls the whole team in together.
“What if she leaves?”
“She won’t,” I sound more confident than I feel. If I were her, I’d be on the next plane out of Jacksonville.
We reach the rest of the team, but Brad’s not finished and says, “You don’t know that. She looked like this was the last place she wanted to be.”
I shrug. “That’s what guilt does to you.”
“If she feels guilt, then maybe she’s not as bad as you thought?”
“What do you mean?” I turn to him, confused, not caring if Coach will have our asses for speaking out of turn.
“Feeling guilty shows that she has a conscience. After the way you described her and everything that happened, I thought she’d have no regrets over what she did.”
I frown and look over at Coach, replying under my breath, “It doesn’t change anything. She still set me up.” I don’t want to believe there might be some truth in what he’s saying. It would mean I’ve spent months focused on the wrong thing, driven to the wrong outcome. It would mean everything I’ve come to believe about her has been wrong.
Brad runs a hand over his face and lets out a harsh breath. “She seemed scared.” He doesn’t get it because he wasn’t the one, she screwed over.
“Good,” I reply, “she should be.”
