Page 4 of Rumor Has It

A shuttle was waiting at the airport for her and a few more players set to arrive at similar times. The driver was an incredibly nice elderly gentleman with a thick gray mustache and coke bottle glasses. His name tag read “Albert,” and he looked like he made a wonderful grandpa. Becky almost felt bad letting him load her checked bag into the underside of the shuttle. She tried to tip him, but he wouldn’t let her. So, she climbed onto the little bus and waited.

She sighed heavily when she spotted Wren Eames and Courtney Sinclair chatting happily as they rolled their luggage up to the bus. Courtney handed over her bags, but Wren just followed the old man over to where the luggage was stored and slid her checked bag in for him. Of course she would just naturally do something like that, Becky thought, rolling her eyes. She hadn’t even known that was an option.

Her jaw clenched as she watched Wren through the side mirror of the bus. Her long dark hair was down and unruly. She tossed her beat-up old duffel bag in after her checked bag, leaving her with just a faded Adidas backpack strapped to her back. Becky wondered if Wren owned any clothes that weren’t strictly geared towards sports. She looked down at her own outfit, jeans and a plain black V-neck. Courtney was wearing something similar. But Wren was in her usual track pants and a T-shirt that looked at least a size too big for her. It rubbed Becky the wrong way. They were going to a team meeting, not practice.

Courtney climbed up the bus steps and cheered loudly when she saw Becky. “Ayyyy, Becky. Becksters. Beckita my buddy, what is up?” She high-fived Becky and sat down in the seat across from her. It felt forced and Becky knew it. Sinclair was the obvious choice to be the team’s captain, but she was on Wren’s club team and had gone to LAU.

Wren shot Becky a nervous smile and once again offered her fist, the most basic form of acknowledgement. Becky bumped her own fist against it. She knew their tension would be obvious to Sinclair. Hell, Courtney was probably expecting it. But Becky refused to let Wren Eames get the better of her in front of their other teammates. If she wanted to pretend their past had never happened, well Becky could, at the very least, try.

They waited for fifteen minutes filled with clunky conversation entirely facilitated by Courtney until another rookie, Ali O’Connell, joined them. She was short and stocky, with fire engine red hair and completely covered with freckles. Ali said hello and high-fived everyone. She was going to be a defender with Becky, so Becky fully expected her to sit on her side of the bus, but she didn’t. She slid into the seat next to Wren and struck up a conversation with her like they were old friends. Becky’s mind drifted back to Wren’s cocky response after she had told her to go fuck herself. She swallowed in frustration as Ali started blasting music from her phone.

It was none of her business who Wren talked to. In fact, the less she knew the better, which is why even though she wasn’t the world’s biggest fan of club music, she wished Ali would turn the music up so she didn’t have to hear them at all.

“Did you really already sign a sponsorship gig with QA?” Ali asked Wren.

Wren barked out a laugh and nodded. Her green eyes were lit with excitement. “Hell yeah, dude. They called the day after the roster was made public. You better believe I said yes. Free, badass clothes, plus money for repping them? Hell yes. Photoshoots aren’t my thing, but I know a model or two. I’ll get them to help me out.”

Courtney laughed from the seat behind them. “You’re so dumb, dude. I know a model or two.” She did a poor imitation of Wren’s rough voice.

Wren’s lips tugged up into a mischievous smirk. “I’ll bet you a hundred dollars right now that I can hook up with a Victoria’s Secret model before our first match.”

Courtney scoffed and held her hand out for Wren to shake. Becky’s stomach knotted. She wasn’t used to women being so cavalier with their conquests, or what would surely be a failed attempt at a conquest. Especially not when those conquests would be women. Weren’t other women supposed to have a little more respect for each other than that? Becky certainly always had.

“Sounds like a win-win to me,” Wren said, settling back down in her seat.

“Are you going to try and do more partnerships and stuff?” Ali asked, thankfully moving the conversation away from Wren’s sexual exploits.

Becky wanted to puke. Why on Earth was she fan-girling someone who was literally on the same team as them? Another rookie, no less. And sure, Wren was objectively attractive, and openly gay, but she wasn’t anything to fawn over. Not to mention the contract they had all just signed. Trying to sleep with a teammate was a one-way ticket off the team.

“Oh, hell yeah. I’d love to be able to buy a house one day. I’ll take whatever I can get, energy drinks, clothes, chapstick. I don’t care.” Wren laughed easily. “What about you? You selling out with me, or do you have some sort of trust fund to fall back on when all this is over?” Wren’s green eyes flashed to Becky then, just for a second, before flickering back to Ali.

It took every ounce of self-control Becky possessed to not demand to know what the hell that was supposed to mean. She pointedly stared out the window, refusing to look at the rest of them.

“God, I’d love to sell out, but I have no idea what company would want me marketing for them. A potato company maybe?” Ali laughed at her own self-deprecating joke.

Wren and Courtney laughed along with her. Becky dared a glance across the bus to see Wren shoulder bump Ali playfully. “I’d eat your potatoes, girl.” She wiggled her eyebrows at her, and Ali let out a happier, lighter laugh.

Becky just shook her head and stared out the window. Of course Wren Eames had to be nice to bus drivers and make the awkward red-headed kids feel better about themselves. Becky pushed her feelings down. She could do this. The past was in the past. If all went well for them both, they’d have to play together for the next decade. There was no reason to dredge anything up.

When they got to the stadium, they were greeted by the coaches and their training staff and led to their locker room. Becky had never been in a locker room like this before. Every player’s jersey was pressed and ready to go. Becky touched hers with reverence. Rothschild was written out across the back, number sixteen just like she had requested. There were two full kits hanging in her locker: one navy blue with red and lighter blue pinstripes, and one white. Some of their teammates were already changing into the fresh kits.

“Alright, ladies,” Coach T, their assistant coach, said, as they all found their lockers. She was Romanian and no one could pronounce her last name, so they all just called her Coach T. She had been a hell of a defender back in her day, and now she was a formidable coach. Becky had been trying to impress her, specifically, all throughout their combine. “Get suited up and head into the bathroom area. We’ve got hair and makeup here to get you as done up as you’d like. We’re going to do typical start of season promotional photos and then pick room assignments for the next few weeks.

Becky nodded. She wished she had known. It’s not that she really would have done anything differently, but it was kind of like school picture day without any warning. She knew they had professional makeup artists and such to help make sure she looked good for her photos, but still. She didn’t know one or two models who could help her with things like this and she hadn’t had to take photos for the North Carolina Cougars yet, so this was her first photoshoot of this caliber.

She looked around to see what the other girls were doing so she would know how this was supposed to go. Some of the more seasoned players like Courtney and Morgan Prescott were debating which kit was the cutest. Wren had stripped down to boxer briefs and her sports bra and was pulling the navy blue kit out of her locker. Becky quickly looked away. The last thing Wren Eames’s ego needed was for her to catch Becky watching her change.

She pulled the white uniform out, assuming that if she was wearing the wrong color, someone would tell her to switch. Once she was suited up, she headed over to the stations where the other players were getting their makeup done. As soon as a chair was vacant, she took her seat.

“Becky,” Wren said, acknowledging her from the seat next to her. Becky’s jaw clenched. There was something so annoying about the way Wren said Becky, like she was mocking her for her name.

“Eames,” Becky replied, looking into Wren’s mirror and locking eyes with her reflection. She did her best to not audibly scoff when the corners of Wren’s mouth pulled up into a smirk. The woman doing Wren’s hair had done wonders to tame its thick natural waves and curls. Wren’s smile grew, and she arched her stupid eyebrow with its stupid scar through it.

Her own beautician stepped up and introduced herself as Miranda. She straightened Becky’s hair for her and helped her put on just enough makeup to make it clear she was wearing some, but not enough to hide her freckles. When she was all finished, Becky thanked her and got in line with the rest of the girls, ready to have her picture taken a bunch of times.

“Oh good, Ms. Rothschild.” Becky didn’t recognize the man who had said her name. He looked like someone her dad would affiliate with. He was wearing a suit that looked way too formal for the occasion, his glasses were pushed up on top of his head, and his greying goatee gave off unfortunate vibes. He seemed to be in charge of the photographers. “I spoke with the coaches. They want to get some photos of you with Ms. Eames. Everyone loves a good rivals to teammates story.”

Wren was standing off to the side, waiting patiently while Ali took her photos. She was tossing a soccer ball back and forth in her hands, calm as ever. She looked over at Becky and smirked. Becky wondered if this had actually been her idea. She looked at the man who had called her over. “I’d really rather not, sir. Do we have to?”