“What, do you like her or something?” The sound of Blue’s voice grates on
my nerves.
Saylor looks over my shoulder and rolls her eyes.
“Or something,” I say, without taking my eyes off Saylor.
As soon as a taxi pulls up to the curb, Saylor is sliding in.
I make a split-second decision to get in with her, but not before Blue yells at me. “Where the fuck are you going?”
I answer her by slamming the door shut. I have Blue on the outside screaming and Saylor looking at me like she’s going to kill me. Saylor opens the door, and I hear Blue say, “Fuck you, Travis Kidd. You’ll pay for this.” And before I realize what’s happening, Saylor is standing outside the cab. When we drive off, my tongue is tied, and I watch through the back window as Saylor disappears the farther I get down the road.
Two
Saylor
My phone vibrates repeatedly on my kitchen counter, causing it to move as if there were an army of ants underneath it. I glance at the clock on my microwave before picking it up. The motto at work is that it’s never too early to start working. Unfortunately, being a single mom, that isn’t how I can function. My daughter comes first, and my employer is very aware of this fact.
Except this morning seems to be different. A quick swipe and his text message, along with numerous others from my co-workers, appears on my screen. The message is simple: Get to work ASAP. That’s code for something, and likely something has happened to one of our clients. It could be anything from a Good Samaritan deed, the birth of a child, a divorce, or the type of publicity I don’t like to deal with, accusations for rape, murder, and the like.
Being a public relations specialist has its perks. If I want to attend a sporting event, I call my client. If I need to woo the pants off a prospective client, I set them up with a luxury suite at whatever game they want to attend. And as with any job, it also has a downside. My hours are long, the job is never ending, and sometimes I feel like a babysitter. But I wouldn’t trade what I do for anything. My clients and co-workers have become my family.
Lucy, my five-year-old daughter, comes sashaying into the room, dressed as her favorite princess for her school’s character festival today. Her blue Cinderella dress is one that we bought last year from Disneyland, along with her matching tiara.
“Well, don’t you look like a pretty princess?” Crouching down so we’re eye level, I push a lock of hair back up into the bun she attempted to do on her own.
“Cinderella doesn’t have brown hair,” Lucy tells me.
“No, I suppose she doesn’t, but that’s the best part about make-believe. You can make her look like anything you want.”
The smile she gives me feels like I’ve won Mother of the Year, even though I feel far from it. I struggle emotionally when it comes to Lucy. Her father, my ex, has wanted nothing to do with her until yesterday. I haven’t heard a peep from him since the day I told him I was pregnant, and now he’s asking to see her. It would be easy to say yes and give Lucy the answers to all her questions. Hell, I want answers, too. I’m like her. I want to know why her father hasn’t wanted to see her. But I don’t trust him. If he could so easily dismiss her before she was born, what’s to say he won’t do the same after he meets her?
Deep down, I feel it has to do with his wife and the family they’ve started. Some of my clients are in constant battles with their exes, and it’s never pretty. Most importantly, I want to know why now, after all this time, he’s interested in Lucy.
“Have you brushed your teeth?” Lucy nods. “Okay, let’s get ready to go.” I kiss her on her nose before she runs off. I can hear her singing “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo” and getting only a few of the words right.
Slipping my phone into my messenger bag, my hand brushes against the envelope that brought me to my knees yesterday. I intercepted the handwritten letter about Lucy that has the power to ruin everything I’ve built. I thought I could go to the bar and seek comfort in an old friend, but I was mistaken. Holding the glass with two fingers of Scotch only reminded me of the hell I’ve been through. I purposely ordered liquor that I can’t stomach, hoping that it’d curb my desire to drink. It didn’t. A man in the bar did.
Once I saw Travis Kidd standing next to me, I knew I had to get out of there. He’s trouble—he knows it, and I know it. I’ve been down this road with him before, and I’ve determined that he’s not worth my career. One mistake with him led to a long line of legal troubles for me. My employment agreement states that I will stay away from the athletes, despite how appealing they can be, and the indiscretion with Travis nearly cost me everything.
Lucy comes out of her room, ready to go. Her tiara has been replaced with a knit cap to keep her head warm, and her fingers are covered in mittens. It’s chilly, but not overly cold at the moment. Although the cold weather is right around the corner, and that isn’t something I’m looking forward to. Winters in Boston can be brutal.
Walking hand in hand, Lucy and I make our way to her school. It’s only a few blocks from our apartment and close to the subway, which makes it easy for me to get to work, because my office is only two stops away. I remind Lucy that her grandmother will pick her up from school today and tell her to be good before I make sure she’s in the hands of her teacher.
Now that she’s in school, my mode switches to work. With my phone in hand, I’ve quickly become one of those people who walk and text at the same time. I look up periodically to make sure I’m not about to be run over or, better yet, crash into someone while I answer what feels like a hundred messages.
As soon as I step into the office, the assistant I share with my boss takes my coat and bag and tells me that my boss is waiting. Stepping into Jeffrey Tay’s office is like walking into a sports museum. His walls are covered with pictures of him and most of his clients. Jeffrey motions for me to sit down as he continues his phone call. He pinches the bridge of his nose while pacing back and forth, agreeing to whatever is being said on the other line.
“Fuck,” he roars, throwing his headset across the room. The somewhat flimsy product lands with a loud thump against the wall, causing me to jump. Jeffrey faces the large window that overlooks the Boston Harbor and laces his fingers behind his head. By the shudder in his shoulders, I can tell he’s let out a sigh or maybe even two. “Travis Kidd needs our help.”
The mere mention of Travis’s name has me feeling uneasy and uncrossing and crossing my legs to find a bit of comfort. While Jeffrey continues to stare out the window, last night’s encounter runs through my mind. Nothing I said last night, or any actions on my part, could be construed as a violation of my employment contract. Only my actions years earlier, but I’ve kept those under wraps.
Then I remember what Jeffrey said, and that Travis Kidd needs our help, and that seems to quell a bit of the building anxiety. He’s done something that has Jeff visibly upset, which means it’s going to be a lot of work for me. But it means that my secret is still safe.
I’m afraid to ask what he’s done. The list running through my mind right now is a mile long. It could be drinking and driving, although I saw him get into the cab last night and watched it leave. Assault is always a possibility. Or maybe he was drunker than I thought and he wound up walking into the wrong house. It’s bound to happen and, unfortunately, is an action we, in the business of sports management, have had to deal with, especially in the off-season.
Regardless of the situation or how I feel about this particular client, I have a job, and I take immense pride in it.