“What’re we watching?”
“Football,” she says without looking up. Sometimes I wonder if she knows about my past, but I think if she did, she’d say something. I’m shocked that it hasn’t come up in an interview or someone has tried to claim to know me. It’s not like I changed my looks, just my name. Maybe I’m such a disgrace that no one cares.
The announcer says Mason’s name and I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. They show his player profile and his stats. I scan them quickly and match them to what he had in high school. Why I remember those numbers is beyond me. He’s doing okay in college. Not great, but he’s making a name for himself. I block out other noise and focus on what the announcer is saying. He’s married!
“I’ll be damned,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
I turn the volume up a bit more to see if they’re going to say anything else about him, but they move on to their next profile. It must’ve been halftime because they cut to the field and there’s Mason sliding his helmet on and taking the field. A pang of jealousy works its way through my body, stopping at my throat. I know if I start to speak now, nothing will come out.
Mason lines up on his quarterback’s right. The defense is going to blitz, I can see it, but the quarterback doesn’t. He’s not changing the play. The ball is snapped and before he can finish his third step, he’s down. The play is over.
The next play is a hand-off on the left and the quarterback doesn’t see that Mason probably has fifty pounds on the outside linebacker and he could take him. They gain five yards and now it’s third down.
I will the quarterback to give the ball to Mason. I want to see him run again. I want to see him break tackles like he used to in high school.
The quarterback takes center and is shouting something. I wish he were mic’d so I could hear him. Watching this game takes me back and for a moment, I miss it. I miss the excitement and the rush of the crowd. The crowd I have now is nothing like the ones from our games. The camera pans over the fans and I jolt forward to look for her face. The camera moves too fast and I silently pray that they go back over again to show Mason’s wife because surely they’re still best friends.
The focus is back on the field. The ball is hiked and passed off to Mason. He has the pigskin in the crook of his arm and runs like his ass is on fire for a forty-yard gain. Everyone goes wild and I’m looking for that one face again. I just need to see it, even if it’s only for a moment in time. That one moment will tell me everything I need to know.
The announcers come back on to tell us they’re switching games to
one that is tied with only seconds left. I want to scream and tell them not to change the channel, but I can’t. I can’t let Sam know that I have a past.
“Are you okay?”
I look at her, her face full of concern. I adjust myself on the couch when I notice that I’m on the edge and barely hanging on. I sit back and relax my posture.
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t realize you like football. I can get you some tickets to the USC if you want.”
I shake my head adamantly. “No, I don’t like it.”
“Okay, Liam,” she says to appease me. I know she can see through whatever wall I’m putting up. I just hope she doesn’t pressure me into sharing my feelings and shit. That is something I can’t do, not anymore. As far as I’m concerned those are buried deep in my soul and it will be a cold day in hell before I bring them out again.
Chapter 41
It’s amazing how quickly one can fall into a routine. When I first started playing at Metro, I’d stay ‘til the early hours of the morning and party it up with Harrison. I’d sleep late the next day, waking in time either to have lunch with my grandma or barely before it was time to return to Metro. On the days I wasn’t performing, I’d be up making breakfast with my grandma. That routine changed when I went on tour. Late nights and sleeping all day became my habit. I’ve kept that pattern for the better part of a year, except for now. Now, I’m up at the ass crack of dawn on a Saturday to go shopping at the Farmer’s Market.
This is Sam’s idea of being domesticated. I hate it. I live in a penthouse above a hotel so I don’t have to do my own laundry or make my dinner if I don’t want to. The last thing I want to do on a Saturday is don a baseball cap, sunglasses and pretend I’m having a blast picking out fruits and vegetables. But I’m here, trying. I told her I would and that’s what I’m doing.
We hold hands as we stroll through the different vendors. Aside from the norm, there’s pottery, flowers, homemade soap and clothes and that’s just to mention a few of the staples you can buy here. I’m not interested in any of it. I want to be home sleeping or lock myself away in my studio writing.
We’re due to cut another album for Moreno Entertainment but I’m having reservations. I feel like I’ve spent most of my life second-guessing everything and my gut is telling me I’m right about this one. This would be our second full-length album and aside from having one song in a major motion picture, we haven’t done shit. Our sales are lackluster and we still aren’t headlining our own tour.
Something has to change and I think it’s the label, but I don’t know how to approach the subject without coming off like a total diva. Harrison agrees with me though. We need something different and if it’s not the label, it’s our sound that has to change. Our first record was gritty, heavy. That’s not Harrison and me. We’re mellow. We prefer to sit on the couch and jam. The screaming shit isn’t for me. I knew the record felt wrong, but Mr. Moreno assured us that was what we needed.
Now I want to change and I’m not sure how to go about doing that. Right now I’m not a fan of talking business with Sam and she must know something’s up since I haven’t been in the studio for weeks, but she’s not asking nor demanding new material. I wouldn’t be able to give her anything. My mind is blank. I get a headache just thinking about writing lyrics down.
I carry Sam’s purchases in my free hand since she refuses to let go of my other one. She wants press pictures. She wants the paparazzi to know that she’s with me. It’s a status thing for her. She made sure the press had a field day with Valerie and my ‘break-up’. Sam didn’t even wait twenty-four hours before her and I made a public appearance and the cameraman caught us with her tongue down my throat. I’m convinced it’s all for show. I know she doesn’t like my publicist and this was her way of showing her who’s boss.
Sam hands me another bag full of God knows what. Her fingers linger on my arm, brushing back and forth. There’s a want in her eyes that’s indescribable. She loves me and that is my fear. I don’t want her to. I don’t want to hear those words from her or have her expect me to say them back, because I won’t. I can’t. I’m not capable of loving another human being. Shit, half the time I don’t even love myself. I move my arm so she can’t touch me. Her face falls and that’s not the reaction I want from her either. Truth is, I don’t even know what I want right now. I put my arm around her and pull her into me. She puts one arm around my back and the other is clutching the front of my t-shirt. I don’t want clingy either, but it’s better than seeing her face fall.
I don’t know what I’m going to do about her. I feel the talk coming and I’m not prepared to let her down. This is exactly why I didn’t want a relationship. This is why casual dating works so well. No attachments. If you’re friends with benefits, you hook up and scratch the itch. If you’re just friends, you do the occasional meet for dinner, drinks, take her out and show her a good time then retire to your separate apartments or spend the night on each other’s couches. This domestic shit kills me because she’s not who I thought I’d be doing this with.