It was no secret that Coach and I didn’t agree on much. We tried to stay out of each other’s way off the field as much as possible. It usually worked. Until now.
“Since you’re here, why don’t you sit?” Coach nodded toward the couch.
Mr. McCade was easily in his seventies, but none of us knew for sure. What we knew was he was a cheap bastard. He wanted the best team in the league, but wasn’t willing to pay for the facilities or the equipment we asked for. He wanted high dollar players, but negotiations could drag on for weeks. I didn’t have a lot to say to the man. He was my employer, but I wasn’t a fan.
One sweep around Coach’s office and you could see what the McCades thought about funding the management offices. The place looked like it hadn’t been updated since 1985. A row of play manuals lined the bookcase above his desk. There were a few framed family pictures scatted on the top shelf along with a team photo from three years ago. They all needed dusting.
“All right. What can I do for you, Coach? Mr. McCade?”
“I’m going to skip over the inspirational coach’s speech and get to the point.”
“Sounds good to me.” I stared at both of them with eyes just as cold as theirs.
Applewhite sighed. “We’ve got a problem on the team.”
“Yeah, guys are passing out left and right because they’re out of shape, it’s one-hundred twenty degrees out there, and rookies don’t know their routes,” I snarled. “What’s the status on the new indoor practice field?”
“Luke, we’re not here to talk about facility expansion. I’m not talking about the other guys. I’m talking about you.”
I sat there in my towel, waiting to hear what league infraction I had collected this time. Because it wasn’t the first time they had drug me in here with threats about my behavior. I’d gotten the speech fifty times to stop drinking. To stop picking up women. To stop speeding. To stop using my celebrity status to get favors. The thing was I didn’t give a shit. I lived my life the way I wanted and as long as I gave them results every Sunday, they could fuck off.
Mr. McCade cleared his throat before reaching into his suit pocket and retrieving a photograph. “Do you know this young lady?” He slid it across the coffee table.
I picked it up. Pretty girl, but I’d never seen her before. “Nope.” I tossed it on the pile of sports magazines covering the flimsy white wood table.
“That’s not what she claims. She accosted me this morning outside of my home. It was a surprise, especially to my wife.”
If McCade wanted me to feel sorry for him, he didn’t know what it was like liv
ing with paparazzi. I couldn’t buy gas without reporters asking for a statement. No sympathy here.
“So?”
“So,” Coach intervened. “She claims you got her pregnant.”
2
Alexa
“Keep still,” my stylist ordered for the third time.
“I’m trying to send out an update,” I explained. It was hard to concentrate on hair, makeup, and social media obligations at the same time when I was in a contorted position.
“Don’t you have a PR person for that?” Helena twisted my hair above my ears.
I grimaced. I wasn’t going to the hospital benefit looking like Princess Leia. “I do, but I try to upload my own pictures when I can. Fans can tell the difference. This is more authentic.”
She clipped my blond locks into place. “I guess that’s why they call you America’s Sweetheart, because you’re just so darn sweet.” She pinched my cheek in a teasing gesture.
“If I hear that one more time…” I rolled my eyes.
“It’s true though. You can do no wrong. Fans love you. The press loves you. I love you.” She smiled at me in the mirror.
“Well, that’s mutual.” I blew her a kiss.
Helena had been with me from my first album cover. The label threw us together, but there was an instant click between us and I hired her on the spot. She traveled with me on tour. She went to all of my press appearances. Some days I had her come to my house before I went out if I knew the paparazzi was going to be snapping pictures of me, which was mostly a guarantee for anything I did.
The sweetheart image wasn’t my idea. The label thought they could sell more music if I was everything that was missing from today’s country superstars. Alexa Wilde, or Lexi, as they started to call me, was born from a list of attributes on a piece of paper and crafted from a manager, tour director, and producer.