Dad here. Mom told me to call you. I assume you’re coming to work on Monday like we planned—don’t forget to meet with HR first. And call your mother.
Voicemail three: **beep!** Hi Chandler, my name is Sunny Bellefonte and I’m with SportsCenter. We haven’t met, but I was a guest at your cousin’s wedding this past weekend. Well, maybe not a guest, but I attended and got some fabulous photos and footage. I tried tracking you down at the reception, but you’d already gone and slipped through my fingers. I was hoping you’d have a chance to talk and would give me a call back. My number is…
On and on they went.
And the voice messages don’t come close to comparing to all the texts.
I hide.
Hole up in my new place for days, ignoring the messages that aren’t from close family and friends.
Hollis.
She brought me takeout last night, wanting me to feel at home, despite the reporters and paparazzi now breathing down my neck for an interview.
Breathing down my neck they are.
In droves.
Not that I blame them—they get paid when they get the scoop, and not a single one has gotten a sound bite from me. Not that they haven’t stopped trying.
I do feel a little guilty about the headlines, though. And the memes with Tripp’s shocked face as he hit the floor, stunned.
Chicago Blues star goes too far and gets tossed by pint-sized mystery woman…
This was before they discovered my identity as one of the Steam heiresses and didn’t know what to call me, though finding me wouldn’t have been difficult with more digging.
Lazy.
Chicago Blues star Tripp Wallace goes to the boards for bad behavior…
To the boards? That’s a hockey reference, so that reporter clearly had no idea what they were reporting. Typical.
But the part about him being thrown on his ass for unbecoming behavior? Makes me feel terrible.
Proof that things aren’t always what they seem, but I can’t very well come out and tell Sunny Bellefonte I used hard-earned karate skills for no good reason—flipping Tripp after he called me boring one too many times.
Petty much?
Yeah, no. I can’t say that or I’ll be the one who looks like a douchebag.
Still, it makes me uneasy seeing his face plastered all over the news, bad press roasting him.
I can’t eat.
Can’t sleep.
Guilt is a terrible bed partner…
Nine
Tripp
My phone is blowing up.
Has been for days.
Everyone wants a statement about the flip. The video has gone viral; news outlets from around the globe are having a field day with the story, with the video of Chandler and me dancing. Us arguing with our surly expressions then her tucking her hand beneath my armpit, lowering her head, and tipping me onto the cold, hard floor for the whole damn world to see.
I could have broken my neck!
Sunny Bellefonte won’t stop calling, relentlessly in pursuit of an exclusive interview—one I refused to give her the night of the wedding. She even went as far as sending her questions to my publicist—wanting to interview Chandler, us both, together—and after some brief snooping, it wasn’t difficult to obtain her information.
I mean, Chandler is the granddaughter of the Steam’s owner. You’d have to be living under a rock if you’re in sports and don’t recognize a member of the Westbrooke family when you lay eyes on one.
Same brown hair. Same smile. Same observant eyes.
“For the last time, I am not doing an interview,” I tell the team’s publicist for the second time today. He has been tailing me since I arrived at the stadium for practice, waiting near the locker room showers for me to emerge.
“That’s your decision, but you kind of look like a…” He pauses, hesitant. “Schmuck.”
A what? “How did I become the asshole in this narrative?” I throw a towel over the back of my neck, fresh from the shower, with Travis already riding my ass, trying to earn his overinflated wage.
I’ve been at work seven hours; can he not cut me some slack? I’m naked for fuck’s sake.
Jesus.
“Look Mr. Wallace, with all due respect, you haven’t had any press in a while—months. It might be good for your image, especially with, um…salary renegotiations coming up.”
Is he threatening me? It’s hard to tell with the sweat rolling down his nervous brow.
“How is getting bested by a girl good for my image, Travis? Help me see it. Paint me a picture, would you?” I scoff.
“Well.” He pushes his black-rimmed glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. “You’ve hardly been warm and fuzzy to reporters—Tom Brady