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“Shit. Is it bad?” he asks.
“Do you not read the paper?”
“Who reads the paper anymore? Besides, there are people for the team that take care of all media stuff.”
“Do they ever tell you about what’s in there?” I ask.
“They used to but stopped when it was clear that I wasn’t listening. I got in trouble for that and kept the majority of my shit out of the public eye. So, is it bad?” My call waiting beeps through, I pull the phone away and see my mother calling. With an eye roll, I tell Gunnar that I will have to call him back and answer my mother’s call. She has question after question about the newspaper and reports of me taking advantage of the catcher for the Hornets or vice versa. Halfway through the phone call with my mother, Kim calls and I answer her call with the same questions that my mother had.
After an hour of phone calls, I’m exhausted and tired. Nevertheless, I torture myself a little more and open up one of the local gossip sites, to see if anything else has come up. When I search for Gunnar’s name, it pulls up pictures of him, some of his teammates and a few random girls at a bar in Denver. He’s not touching them in any ways, but whoever wrote the article was clearly playing on him being a player and that the weekend’s festivities with me were just another notch. I stop reading, shut down my laptop and get ready for bed.
THROUGHOUT THE NEXT FEW DAYS, there was little communication between Gunnar and myself aside from texts, which I was expecting since he had day practices and night games. No additional reports come out about the possibility of our relationship, but there was a piece that went into the background of my life. It brought up personal bits and pieces of my family and personal life. Gunnar did not seem to read any of the tabloids, and the team publicist, Melinda, did not squash any of the allegations of my being an alleged gold digger. So, I felt helpless.
I knew that Gunnar was getting back from Denver this evening, but I’m not sure of what to make of what was going on with us as I feel that it would be best for distance. I was unsure whether or not this was a normal thing or just a special occurrence. I never paid any attention to any news with the Hornets’ players before, because I wasn’t personally involved. I pull up his schedule for the season and note that he has a packed schedule. He had games every day until mid-next week.
I ran my hand through my hair and groaned in frustration.
My desk phone rings, when I answer there is a hesitation and then a woman’s voice came on the line.
“Hello, Ms. Rotham. My name is Belinda Jones from Channel-.” I didn’t even give her time to finish before I hung up on her. Not the most professional, but this was the tenth call today. Since the team was due back in the city today, reporters have been calling to get any sort of update on the situation. The crowds have died down in front of the company, but calls have been coming in steadily on my work line and my cell phone.
“Don’t worry; you’ll be last week’s news in no time. They just need to have some sort of scandal and you’ll be forgotten,” Bethany, my cube neighbor, says peering over the side.
“Yeah, but the reports are out there. Black and white text on paper. With photographic evidence forever,” I reply unhappily.
“You shouldn’t be so down about this. It’s not as if you are what they say you are. You and the guy seemed to have a fun time. Are you going to see him again?” she asks.
“We made plans for either dinner tonight or lunch tomorrow. Depending on when they get in tonight.”
“See! You should orchestrate the press to be there somehow.”
“Why would I do that?”
“That way they can see that it’s a blossoming relationship, not a one-off. That neither are being played,” she says matter-of-factly.
I think about her idea and shake my head.
“If the press is so hard up for a story about us, then they’ll find us. I don’t want to add any fuel to the flames.”
MY DOORBELL CHIMES, a sad excuse for a bell if you ask me. It sounds like the wires are shorting out and instead of a clear chime; it’s a static sound with a hum. That’s how I know it’s the doorbell, after years of living in this apartment; you would think that I would tell my landlord about it. However, it’s at the bottom on my list of things I need to do.
I straighten my shirt and tuck any loose hairs behind my ears before I stand straight and open the door to a smiling Gunnar Reynolds. His hands are shoved in his front pockets. He is wearing a gray V-neck t-shirt and black pants with Converse sneakers. He is wearing his hat backwards and I feel my ovaries bursting.
I’m a sucker for backward hats!
“Hey, Gorgeous.” He smiles stepping into me and kissing my cheek.
I smile and step aside to let him in.
“Want anything to drink before we head out?” I ask.
“No thanks,” he says politely. He doesn’t move far past the door, turns and crowds me as I turn around after closing the door.
His lips press against mine and his tongue licks at the seam of my lips asking to be let in. Both palms are holding the sides of my face, angling my head to match his kiss. My hands fist the end of his shirt as his mouth makes love to mine. We pull apart, gaze into each other’s eyes and are both breathless.
“I missed that while I was in Denver,” he whispers.
“What are we doing, Gun?” I ask meekly, searching his eyes as I ask the burning question that is at the forefront of my mind.
