Fool Me Twice by Lizzie Morton
Eight
Britney
Festive movies in spring. That’s how I’ve spent my time over the past couple of days. One long, continuous Netflix binge. Cool? No. Productive? Also no. It’s served as a distraction though, stopping my mind from reliving the moments with Becket in the changing rooms. Naked. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m angry, embarrassed or, whether a part of me I’ll never admit to anyone, is a little bit turned on. Just thinking about it for a couple of seconds has my cheeks flushed.
A ping fills the room, coming from my cell on the hotel dresser, where I left it a couple of hours ago. I try to ignore it, but it pings again, and then again in quick succession.
I’m at the best part of the movie, and grumble as I climb out of bed and head in the direction of the offending object, which is bleeping, again. The screen is filled with multiple messages from Jess. She knows my silence means I’m engaged in some sort of pity party.
Jess: Update on the article please. –Your Boss.
Jess: I hope you’re not watching Netflix … again.
Jess: Seriously. I need to know how the article is going. We’re funding this little holiday you know.
Jess: I hate you right now.
Jess: Do I need to pull the boss card again? I’m about to lose my shit. The powers that be want updates, which means I want updates. Why am I not getting any updates?
Jess: You’re dead to me.
I roll my eyes at how dramatic she’s being and reply before she can get herself anymore worked up.
Me: I’m here, don’t get your panties in a twist.
Jess: You remember this is a work thread, right?
Me: Please reread the “you’re dead to me” comment. HR would have a field day.
Jess: Point taken. Update please.
Me: There’s nothing to update. I haven’t seen him.
Jess: And that would be why? How are you supposed to write about someone’s day-to-day life if you’re not with them?
Me: He purposely walked in on me in the shower naked …
Jess: Shit.
Me: Exactly.
Jess: What did you do?
Me: Apart from almost cry? I stormed out and haven’t seen him since. I don’t know how we’re going to work together, he’s impossible. I’m supposed to be finding reasons to convince the world he’s not an asshole. How can I do that if I’m not convinced myself?
Jess: Correction: He’s impossibly hot. Could this all be one giant mound of sexual tension?
Me: I thought sexual tension was between people who liked each other? We don’t. You know that saying “time heals,” that’s not the case for Becket. He despises me.
Jess: He’s used to getting his way. Sports players have a God complex apparently. You need to learn to work with each other, this article is important.
She’s right. The article isn’t going to write itself and it’s important for us both. A chance for us both to put the past behind us and better our careers.
Me: Leave it with me.
Jess: Keep me updated. And Brit … show him who’s boss.
I smile to myself at the last comment then click out of the message thread. I quickly find the number Becket used to get in contact a couple of days ago, then send him a message asking him when we can meet. I don’t expect him to reply as quickly as he does and hesitate before opening it.
Instead of a blunt response or onslaught, I get a more amenable Becket, interesting. Perhaps the space we’ve had over the past couple of days has served a purpose. For the first time since landing in Jacksonville, I feel optimistic that maybe, just maybe, we might be able to move forward, and I can get some research for the article done.
We decide to meet at a coffee shop in a few hours because it’s his day off. Discarding my cell at my side on the bed, I settle back into the swing of my Netflix marathon for a little while longer, praying he’s willing to behave.
***
The coffee shop where we agree to meet is halfway between The Bank and the hotel where I’m staying. Neutral territory. I try to keep my nerves at bay as I push open the door and step inside, wondering what kind of mood Becket will be in. Looking around, I tug at my dress, wishing I’d gone for something longer. I find him sitting in a quiet corner, with his head down, wearing the same cap he had on in the airport, the day we first met. I smile when I notice he hasn’t bought a drink for himself yet. Maybe he has manners after all.
He looks up and his eyes settle on me, there’s no backing out now. I walk to his table and sit down on the chair opposite, pulling out my notebook and a pen from my bag. He looks at me confused, clearly having forgotten the reason why we’re here.
“The article …” I say with one brow raised, a hint of a smirk on my lips.
“Right,” he replies.
My eyes might be deceiving me, but he almost looks sheepish. I look around awkwardly and my eyes focus on where the Baristas are dancing around each other, completing people’s orders. “Are we going to get some drinks before we start? I know you’re famous, but I think we still have to buy something if we want to sit here.”
Ignoring my comment, he pulls out his wallet and stands up. “What do you want?”
“A caramel cream please,” I reply, going for the sweetest thing on the menu.
“No coffee?”
I shake my head no. “I need sugar. Coffee makes me act a bit crazy on an empty stomach.”
Not missing a beat, he says, “So what’s your excuse the rest of the time?”
I narrow my eyes. “I heard that.”
“I wasn’t trying to hide it.” He stalks to the counter to order our drinks and I wonder to myself if he does it so I can’t bitch at him again over being courteous. Great start.
A couple of minutes later he returns with my creamy drink and a black coffee for himself. I open my notepad and write down black coffee.
He looks confused.
I remind him again, “The article.”
“Ok, what have you managed to get so far? Can I see?”
I spin the notepad on the table and the words black coffee stare up at him. “That’s it?”
“We’ve seen each other twice … and both times you’ve been less than amenable. That’s me putting it nicely.” I pick up my drink and suck through the straw. When my eyes flick upward, I find Becket staring at me with such intensity I almost gag on my drink. “What?”
“Can you not suck on the straw like that?”
“Excuse me?”
He leans in, so the people sitting at the tables around us are less likely to hear. “You look like you’re auditioning for a role in a porno.”
My eyes widen in shock. He really is an asshole.
He leans back with that annoying smirk of his and folds his arms across his chest. “Maybe I had the wrong companion in that little movie you made. I think you would have been much better suited for the job."
“You’re an asshole!” I snap, louder than intended. Not my finest moment.
He smirks again. “I never said I wasn’t.”
“Why am I here Becket?” I sigh.
“You know why.”
“This article is a ruse. Admit it.”
His posture softens ever so slightly. “Actually, it isn’t. I have the NFL still on my case after that not-so-little stunt you pulled. Thanks for that by the way.”
“How am I supposed to inform the world who The Real Michael Becket is, when it’s clear you’re exactly who they think you are?”
He leans forward and I hold my breath. “The world sees what I want them to. You included. Don’t forget that when you throw around your judgmental looks and act like you’re better than me.” He stands abruptly and walks out of the coffee shop with his head down low. It’s a pointless effort if you ask me because he stands about a foot taller than most of the people in the room.
I’m left wondering what the hell just happened when my cell vibrates on the table. I pick it up and open the new message from Becket:
We have a ball to attend tomorrow. Bring your A-game Brit.
***
Me: I can’t go. I have nothing to wear.
Jess: It’s a job requirement.
Me: It’s a ball Jess. It wasn’t on the agenda when I was packing. I. Have. Nothing. To. Wear.
Jess: You didn’t go back in time when you flew down there. There are stores you know.
Unfortunately, she has a point.
Me: I have no money.
Jess: There’s a little thing called a company credit card. This is classed as business so shop yourself into the ground and charge it to the magazine.
I roll over on the bed and scream into the pillow. I’m not getting out of this. She has an answer to everything. There’s a reason she’s my boss—she gets what she wants, and she wants this article.
Me: Fine. You win.
Jess: I always do. By the way, it’s a masquerade ball.
Great. In case Becket wasn’t enough of a mystery, now he will be wearing a mask.
***
Standing in front of the hotel mirror, I give myself a once over. Acceptable, I think. I’ve never been to a ball, let alone a masquerade one, so I don’t have a clue. I spent the morning traipsing around store after store, with plenty of video calls to Jess, figuring out what to wear. In the end, we settled on a long, fitted dress, oozing old-school glamour. It’s silk with a lace overlay, completely open at the back.
Slipping on my mask, I take one last look in the mirror, applying an extra layer of deep rouge lipstick. It complements the paleness of my skin while matching with the red dress and mask perfectly.
Accepting I can’t put off leaving any longer, I make my way down to the hotel lobby, then step outside. I find a sleek, black vehicle with tinted windows waiting, just like Becket’s PA said it would be. Sitting in the back, I clasp my hands then unclasp them, trying to focus on keeping my breathing level. It’s just a ball—a ball in which I will be surrounded by his friends and teammates who all hate me. Thank God I’ll be wearing a mask. The irony isn’t wasted on me, that I’m trying to get Becket to remove his, while clutching at my own.
All too quickly, the driver pulls up outside a tall building. I look out the window and watch a couple of players walk inside. Their hulking frames are the only things familiar thanks to their masks. The dates on their arms are the same: unrecognisable. It dawns on me I’m probably one of the few people here without a date and no one to talk to. Great.
“Ma’am,” says the driver, breaking me from my thoughts.
“Yes?” I reply.
“Are you ready to go in? If you don’t get out soon, you’re going to be late,” he says kindly.
Why can’t he be my date? He’s the first person since I touched down in Jacksonville who’s actually been nice to me. I nod.
He exits the car, walks around to my side and holds open the car door.
I thank him for the ride as I step out onto the sidewalk. I pause before heading inside, readjusting my dress and mask, making sure everything is in place while working up the courage to face whatever awaits me. A throat clears at my side and a chill runs over me, even though the air is warm and humid. I wish I had a jacket.
I turn to face the inevitable. Becket.
I suck in a sharp breath when my eyes land on all six-foot-plus of him in a perfectly tailored tuxe, which shows off every sculpted part of his body. His hair, normally ruffled with sweat after wearing his helmet, is styled neatly. I fight the urge to step in closer and inhale as his cologne hits my nose, overwhelming my senses with the musky scent of lavendar and birch. Get it together, Brit.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly, unsure how to act because of the way we left things at the coffee shop yesterday.
His eyes trail down my body, taking in each inch of the fitted red dress. He grimaces.
Not quite the reaction I was going for. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he replies, bluntly.
“It’s just you loo—”
“Nothing is wrong.” He gestures towards the doors of the building, where the ball is being held. “We should go inside, it’s going to start soon.”
I notice there’s one thing missing. “Where’s your date?”
“She’s running late.” He walks off without looking back.
I follow behind, careful not to walk too close. I don’t want him thinking I’m following him, like a lost puppy. Inside he makes a detour to a group of players from his team still standing in the foyer. I don’t wait for him, he didn’t wait for me.
So this is how the other half live, I think as I enter the grand ballroom. I’ve stepped into a scene from a movie. The only light comes from the hundreds—possibly thousands—of candles strategically placed around the entire room. They’re dressed with dark-green, satin table cloths that sweep the polished hardwood beneath. Sparkling silver cutlery, glasswear, and intricately designed porcelain plates have been carefully set in front of every satin-dressed chair. In the middle of each table is a huge glass vase as a centerpiece, filled with gold and black beads, finished with a display of white and gold venetian masks and plume of deep green ostrich feathers at the top. The image it creates is striking. I’m in over my head and try not to look pathetic as I figure out what to do next. A large display in front of all the tables catches my attention.
Thank the Lord there’s a seating plan. My luck stops there though. I’m assigned to the same table as Becket and Coach Langford. But where else would I be sitting? This is the reason I’m here.
Throwing my shoulders back and standing as tall as my five-foot-two frame allows, I strut to my assigned table and settle in my seat, offering a small smile to the people already there. The masks make it impossible to recognize anyone, so I focus my attention on the wine. Without a date or a friend to interact with, alcohol is the next best thing. The remaining players and their dates start to make their way in, signalling that it’s almost time for the event to begin.
Coach Langford walks across the room with a woman on his arm. Without even trying he commands attention from his players. They nod with respect when he passes by—a dead giveaway that it’s him, even with his mask on. Following suit, I nod and smile politely when he sits down across the table from me with who I assume is his wife. Becket walks over and sits at my side. Of course he couldn’t choose one of the other empty chairs at the table that are further away. He wouldn’t be able to spend the night torturing me when no one is looking if he did.
The main stage at the front of the room lights up and an older man walks on, clearing his throat to silence everyone when he reaches the podium. When he welcomes everyone to the Jacksonville Jaguars annual ball, the room fills with a round of applause. I subtley roll my eyes at how cliché it all is, then zone out for the rest of the speech. The wine at the center of the table becomes the focus of my attention, and I relish the feeling of the crisp, white liquid as it passes down my throat, settling in my stomach and creating a warm buzz. My whole body sags as some of the tension lifts away. Alcohol is definitely the way forward tonight if I’m going to come away in one piece. I catch a female walking hurriedly towards our table out of the corner of my eye. She’s petite with long, flowing brown hair and although her face is covered, she seems familiar. She gets closer and I think to myself—Christ, it’s Abby West. As far as I’m aware, she’s Becket’s ex. At least she was the day we met on the plane from New York. She’s why Becket was on the plane—he was trying to get away from her and everything that reminded him of her. That’s why he hates New York so much. At least it’s one of the reasons I’m aware of.
There’s been nothing in the media since that would suggest things between them have changed, but this Abby West lookalike is heading in our direction. Seeing that my focus is on something other than the man on stage giving the speech, Becket turns to see what I’m looking at and a mischevious smile takes over his face. He stands to greet her, obscuring my view. Pulling out the chair on his other side, she takes her seat, and then he slides it back in gently.
Sitting down in his own, he gestures between the two of us. “Britney, meet my date, Lola Fisher.”
