With that, the woman stormed off with a pout, only to stop a few feet from us as we stood by the door. Why did she look so familiar?
Suddenly I realized where I’d seen her before. It was the Matchy blonde. She’d been the one who’d appeared on his phone. What the heck? I had half a mind to confront her, but suddenly I felt a pang in my abdomen. With a gasp, I bent over.
“Honey, are you okay?” asked my dad, a worried frown on his face.
“Um, yeah,” I gasped, putting my hands on my knees and breathing deeply. I closed my eyes and focused on inhaling through my nostrils.
“Janie, if you’re not feeling well, we can go,” said Paula in a worried tone. “We don’t have to wait for Mason because he’s going to be a while.”
I looked up for a moment at my step and saw that it was true. The crowd surrounding him showed no signs of dispersing and he was still answering questions, with the reporters shoving mics in his face.
But this was Mason’s moment of glory and I wasn’t going to cut it short. I wanted my man to enjoy the fruits of his labor, so I straightened slowly and took a deep breath before blowing a curl out of my face.
“Yeah, maybe we should go,” I said. “I just feel a little tired,” I added wearily as we made our way to the exit.
It was true, after all. I was tired, but not because I’d been pulling double-shifts at the Donkey. On the contrary. I wouldn’t be dancing at the Donkey for a while because I was pregnant with Mason’s child, and I haven’t gotten a chance to tell him yet.
14
Mason
Holy fuck, the shit’s hit the fan. The Olympics were fucking awesome, and business is good as a result. Even more sponsors have piled on since I won my medals because they want to put my face on everything from condoms to Cheerios, my appeal’s that broad.
But it’s also unpredictable. I have stalkers now, including women who throw themselves at me like I’m a piece of meat.
“Mason you’re so hot, marry me!” squealed one, chucking something my way. I caught it and grimaced when I saw that it was her panties. I only hoped they were new, and not dirty and stained.
“Mace, you’re an American hero!” screamed another woman, this one practically launching herself at me. Fortunately, my reflexes are quick and she ended up in the arms of my agent, Jim. Of course, instead of pushing her away, Jim, that dirty old bag, used the opportunity to cop a feel, squeezing her breasts and giving her ass a whack as she pulled off. Clearly, the geezer’s never heard of the #MeToo movement because he could get in some real trouble.
But life continues. Even though I’m with Janie, it still feels nice to be the man of the moment. Plus, the cash is rolling in, so Janie and I are pretty much set for life. Yet, my girl’s been acting weird recently. When I asked her about the Donkey, she hemmed and hawed a little.
“No, I haven’t been dancing because I’ve been feeling sick,” she said, sitting up straighter in her chair.
It was true. Janie’s been looking a little pale recently, but I figured it was because of all the travel. Janie accompanies me as I do the rounds of daytime talk-shows, and I love having my girl there as I joked with Maury, shot the breeze with Al, and jived with Lester. Having Janie’s support, whether backstage or in the audience, made me feel invincible and helps me loosen up too.
Take my most recent jaunt to New York, for example. Jim had booked an appearance for me on ABC’s Morning Vision with its host Hester Kopt, a daytime veteran known for her wacky and sometimes biting sense of humor. As part of the gimmick, the producers wanted me to wear a swim cap with my Thom Browne suit, which is a thousand dollar get-up that I’d had tailored to my proportions. As an Olympic athlete, I’m six four with long arms and legs, so you can’t exactly buy things off the rack. Plus, I looked good in the custom-tailored suit and knew it. Janie had helped me pick it out, and we’d purchased the two-piece with an eye towards its sharp lines, and the telegenic appeal of the expensive fabric.
But a swim cap on top of Thom Browne? I’d be a laughingstock.
“No way,” I’d growled. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Come on Mason,” wheedled Tim, the stage manager. “You look more like you when you have the swim cap on.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Well, you know that you’re generally swimming face down, so no one can see your features,” Tim replied reasonably. “All they see is your cap bobbing up and down in the water. It’s your identifying characteristic.”