“Don’t feed into the bullshit. Seriously, keep your mouth shut, head down, and pretend they don’t exist.”
“Right. Tell Daisy I say hi. Bye.” I hang up before he has a chance to respond. He means well—I know this. It’s hard to hear, though. Never in a million years did I think I’d be in a situation like this. I thought, if anything, it’d be a pregnancy to throw my life into a tailspin, not an accusation of rape.
I go into my kitchen and open the refrigerator; it mocks me while I stare into its empty confines. It should be stocked, but my housekeeper took a week off with the assumption that I could care for myself. I don’t know how I survived college, let alone adulthood. Slamming the door shut, I lean against the counter with my fingers clenching the edge of the marble countertop.
I want to scream out loud at how fucked up everything is, but I have no one to blame but myself. The urge to punch and destroy everything in sight boils deep within my veins as my fingers grip the marble even tighter in an effort to control my anger. What gives her the right to accuse me of something so heinous because I chose not to go home with her? And why am I being punished for her lies?
Rushing back into the living room, I grab my phone and do the unthinkable. I type her name into the search bar of my web browser, and social media links pop up. Her face, the one I remember so vividly from last night, stares back at me. I hover over the link that will take me to her Facebook page. I shouldn’t click. I don’t want to see her happy while I’m sitting here in misery, afraid to leave my home because of the reporters that are camped outside.
But I click anyway because I have to know who she is. Her recent status is public, and she’s feeling heartbroken. I thought I could love him. I want to comment and tell her that lying to get someone’s attention isn’t how the dating world works. She needs to know that just because a man rejects you, doesn’t mean you can falsely accuse him. Part of me wants to tag her in a post, letting the world know that she’s a liar. But what would that do? How would that be fair to her? I’m not the type of man who seeks revenge, at least not in this form. I’m going to have enough trouble saving face with my peers over the accusations I’m confronting. If I were to say her name publicly, I have no doubt in my mind that I would end up looking even worse than I do now.
As I scroll through her pictures, I see that she’s alone in most of them. There are a few with some other women, and I study those, looking to see if I know any of them. Maybe this was a setup—a scorned lover has Rachel doing her bidding. It’s far-fetched but not unheard of. I’m not the only athlete to be accused of rape, and I admit I use my star status to pick up women, but never have I had to force myself on them. And I tend to never say no to them until last night.
Leaving her page, I type in Saylor’s name. She’s been on my mind since I saw her at the bar, more so, knowing that she can give me some sort of alibi for last night. It’s not concrete, but she had to have heard what that woman was saying and how she was acting. Saylor is the one I wanted to leave with. She’s the one that I haven’t been able to get off my mind after we hooked up a couple years back.
I hated when she distanced herself from me, asking to be reassigned. I rejoiced when Jeffrey balked, making sure she stayed on my team, and since then I’ve done the stupidest things I could think of to get her attention. All so I could see her. Every move I’ve made on her, rebuffed. And it’s frustrating. Saylor is the type of woman that I can see myself settling down with, joining my teammates in the ranks of matrimony and maybe even kids. Hell, she already has a daughter, who in my opinion needs a father, and that is a role I can see myself playing.
Her profile picture is of her and her daughter, Lucy. My thumb hovers over them both, wondering what they’re doing tonight. I asked to go over there so we could talk, but she shot me down, leaving me no choice but to go see her at work tomorrow. I have to find a way to convince her to help me. She mentioned she could lose everything, but what?
Like a stalker, I screen cap a few of her pictures, and some with Lucy, to save on my phone. I know Saylor was in that bar last night for a reason—it’s fate or kismet, or whatever the fuck that shit is called. When I saw her last night, I was reminded that she’s who I want to be with. Now I have to convince her. Of course, a rape charge looming over my head is probably scaring her away.
“Fuck!” I yell as loud as possible, hoping the bastards outside can hear me. They need to know that I’m angry and hurt. I don’t deserve this shit. I’m an upstanding citizen who volunteers and raises money for organizations in need. So what if I like women? Show me one warm-blooded hetero male tha
t doesn’t. It’s in our nature. It’s how we were created.
“Screw it,” I say as I head to my front door. As soon as it opens, the voice levels rise and the people standing outside rush toward me. I stand on my stoop with my hands in my pockets and my hoodie covering my hair.
“I’d like to make a statement.”
Those words alone have everyone moving fast toward me. Cameras click with each picture being taken, and bright lights from video cameras shine on me.
“My name is Travis Kidd, and I…” I pause for dramatic effect. “I’m hungry.” I sigh and shake my head. “If someone could go get me some Chinese takeout from the place on the corner, I would greatly appreciate it. I have a tab there, and they’ll know my order. Thanks.” I wave and walk back into my house, hoping that someone will be kind enough to go get me some food. Unless of course, they want to follow me everywhere I go. Maybe next time I go outside, I’ll tell them that I’m about to take a shit, and they can ask me questions about how I feel after the fact.
Six
Saylor
From the moment I turned my phone on this morning, it’s been going off nonstop. Every sports media outlet wants an interview. Most outlets want an exclusive, but that has already been promised to my local ESPN contact, and I refuse to go back on my word. They want to hear Travis’s side of the story, and I know he wants to tell it, but we have to wait.
I believe Travis when he says he didn’t do it, and it seems logical that we should put his story out there, but since the DA has already named him as prime suspect, anything we do now falls on deaf ears. Sure, some of his fans will believe him, but most will rally against him because of his ways, and that is the last thing we want.
As soon as I walk into the office, my assistant looks at me grimly. Taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders, I walk into Jeffrey’s office, prepared to handle whatever it is that he’s going to throw at me.
“I love my job. I love my job. I love my job,” he says repeatedly as he paces the floor. I know for a fact that he does, until a crisis hits, and then we all end up questioning why we chose this field.
“Do I want to know?” I ask, sitting down. He shakes his head as he pulls out his desk chair and plops into it. His exasperated sigh is loud and slightly obnoxious.
“Kidd should’ve never gone in for questioning yesterday.”
“I agree. But we both know Kidd. He’s a stand-up guy despite his reputation.” I have no problem going to bat for Travis.
“Irvin and I spent a good chunk of the morning on the phone, going over what Kidd told them yesterday. You were there, right?”
“I was,” I say, looking at my phone to verify the time. “What time did you get into the office?”
“Five. Kidd decided to speak to the press last night.”
If I were looking in the mirror, I would have seen my face drain of all its color. How my skin turned clammy, and my heart began racing even though I was cold to the touch. I swallow hard, only to feel like something has lodged in my throat. Covering my mouth, I cough into my hands until my airway is clear.