There was a beat of silence. Then laughter. All the laughter. Actually, if I’d been sitting across the small kitchen table back in our apartment in Milan, I think Paige would’ve spit all over my face.
“Okay,” I said, settling into the couch delivered earlier that morning. It faced the lake, which usually helped to lower my blood pressure instantly, but my best friend’s laughter in my ear upon hearing the news that I was now the sort-of-not-really proud owner of a professional football team was having the opposite effect. “I get it. Haha, so funny.”
She made this weird sucking sound and I briefly wondered if she was choking, but I just rolled my eyes.
“I’m sorry, Allie,” she wheezed. “It’s just … you … a football team.” And the hysterics began anew.
Spread out in front of me were binders upon binders. Stacks of paperwork requiring my signature. Ridiculous articles I’d googled about “how to own a professional football team” and “what do team owners do in the national football league.”
Surprisingly, they weren’t very helpful in my current predicament. My brain was overloaded with facts and figures, team structures from around the league and why they were or weren’t successful, bios on the people who apparently now worked for me.
Incredibly successful men who now worked for the woman known for the pictures she took and the jewelry line that was now defunct, which left my savings account less full than it had been two years earlier. Though, once all my dad’s money was transferred over to me, paperwork signed and completed, that would change. Holy bananas, was that going to change. I’d always had a steady stream of money because of what I’d inherited from my mom, but this … this was on a completely different level.
My dad had been rich AF.
When I didn’t respond immediately with, Oh I know, isn’t this so funny!, Paige cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “Talk to me.”
The back of my head found the couch, and I stared up at the bright white ceiling. “I don’t even know what to say, Paige.”
“Are you going to keep it? I mean, you could, like, sell it, right? Make a shit ton of money?”
“Believe me when I tell you that I do not say this to sound pompous, but as of last week, I already have a shit ton of money.”
Most people wouldn’t have sounded so glum when they said something like that. Oh hey, I inherited mega, mega millions, and here I sit on a relatively affordable couch in a relatively modest home (comparatively, of course) feeling like someone just tossed me into the middle of the Pacific with nothing to hold on to.
“So you don’t need to sell for the coin,” Paige answered. “But no offense, sweet cheeks, what exactly do you know about running a football team?”
Now that answer was easy.
“Nothing. I know nothing about running a football team.” I lifted my head and leaned forward to snatch the binder off the top of the pile. A courier had dropped off a large box sent over by my father’s assistant, Joy. She’d cooed and clucked over the phone, telling me that I didn’t have a single thing to worry about. That everyone would help me. That everything would be fine. Told me to take a day and read over all the paperwork, call her with any questions, and take the time to wrap my head around what this might mean.
Joy was my new best friend. Not that I’d tell Paige that. Paige was my actual best friend and an actual fashion model, as opposed to me.
I knew my angles. I had six hundred thousand likes on my Instagram page, mostly by pervy men who liked the shots of me in designer bathing suits. Paige, on the other hand, had graced multiple magazine covers and walked in New York, Paris, and Milan fashion week more than once. She was one of the few people who felt real in an industry that was very, very fake.
“You’re smart, though,” she admonished. “Don’t sell yourself short. You always told me what a good businessman your dad was even if he ignored your existence most of your life. Would he turn the team over to you without giving it any thought?”
“No,” I admitted. It was an easy admission to make too because I’d turned that thought over in my head all night when sleep wouldn’t find me. My dad was no fool. There were things about him that I couldn’t stand, of course. That list was probably longer than the things about him that I loved. But I could never, ever call him stupid or impulsive.
Paige continued when I didn’t say anything else. “There you go. You buckle down and do your homework. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. It’s not like you have to coach the team, right? Maybe you can just stand there and look hot and wear a power suit like a boss bitch. The media will eat it up.”
I groaned. “They’ll laugh at me.”
“Maybe,” she said in a quiet voice. “Just don’t give them anything to laugh at. Show them you can do this. There’s probably an entire building of people over there who will be willing to help you figure it out. Don’t be afraid to ask for help, you know?”
Switching our call to speaker, I laid my phone on my chest and leaned back. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I just wish I could figure out why he thought I’d want it.”
When I talked to my dad—usually, no more than a couple of times a year—we stuck to safe topics and definitely nothing too deep. What I was doing, where I was living, veiled comments about me finding an actual job.
These were all things that Paige knew since I usually started pouring large amounts of wine before the calls were even over.
“Well,” Paige said slowly, “maybe he thought you’d like it.”
“Me? How many sporting events do I watch in a given year?”
“Zero,” she said instantly.
“Exactly. There’s no way he thought that.” I shook my head and exhaled heavily. “My track record of not succeeding at life was well-documented by my father. Every failed business investment and every boyfriend who turned out to be another money-grubbing douchebag were added to some list somewhere, I’m sure. This team was the thing he loved the most, and he knows that’s a huge reason I never came back. Why he never pushed for me to come back. Because I could never be around him without being a constant reminder that I was his failure. The thing he ignored because it was easier.”
Paige sighed heavily. “Lordy, this is heavy shit. And here I thought when I drove you to the airport that you were just going home to collect a massive check and you’d be back in a couple of weeks.”
“So did I.” Now, I didn’t know what would happen or how long I’d be here. The empty home on the lake had been appealing because I wanted a bit of solitude while going through the process of burying my father. And now the quiet was almost making my ears bleed for what it was doing to my brain. Suddenly, I didn’t want to discuss this anymore. I didn’t want to think about this anymore. “Paige, it’s so late there. Why don’t you get some sleep, and we’ll talk in a few days when I know more, okay?”
“Love you, boo.”
“Love you, too,” I said back. She disconnected the call, and I didn’t move from my spot.
The sun was starting to set over Lake Washington, and from my too-firm couch, it looked like the sky was bleeding a vivid pinkish orange, starting at the line of the horizon and working its way up in soft, blurry lines. I stared at the sun until my eyes hurt and I had to blink and look away.
From the balcony in our apartment overlooking the Fashion District in Milan, we’d been facing the wrong direction to watch the sunset. Every once in a while, we’d see the reflection of it in the yellow and brown and red buildings in the distance, and I wished desperately that I could see the colors as they changed.
All I’d had to do was walk a block over and stand on the opposite street corner to have a perfect view of it against the Italian skyline. A small effort on my part would have yielded a huge perception change.
It was enough to motivate me to get off the couch, which would hopefully relax over time. From the fridge, still pathetically empty, I grabbed a bottle of pinot grigio. The remaining cupcakes stared back at me, and I scoffed before slamming the door shut on them.
I hadn’t seen the asshole next door or his pink cast-wearing daughter, but oh man, had I devoured a lot of those cupcakes. The amount of working out I did was so that I could eat shit like that, not so that I’d have to abstain. The cupboard next to the fridge held all the glasses, and I snagged a lowball with two careful fingers. With my Bose speaker tucked under my arm, I walked downstairs and made my way out into the long, narrow yard that ended at the lake.
A small patio table sat next to the hot tub that I’d yet to test out, and I sank into the chair that would afford me the best view. Carefully, I set down the wine and my glass, then connected my phone to the Bluetooth speaker.
While I sipped my cold wine, I felt the stress slip from my body. Finally, I settled on Imagine Dragons and let out another deep sigh when the music started, and I could sit and watch the colors bleed slowly into a deep blue.
As thoughts of the team filled my head, all the unanswered questions looped and circled in an annoying beat that I couldn’t stop. I turned the volume louder and closed my eyes, hoping that that would help, hoping it would drown out whatever was in my head. I needed to make a decision and stick with it. Own the choice for my future.
I could take the stack of papers on my coffee table and find someone else who would gladly take them off my hands. Or I could sign them, accept this strange gift my father had inexplicably given me, and try to make something from it.
Whichever choice I made, I’d own the hell out of it. I just needed a little more time. Some moments like this to sift through all the extra noise in my head.
Between the beats of the song and the pauses between notes, I heard other music. I looked out onto the lake and didn’t see any boats nearby. No one was on my dock or the dock belonging to my next-door neighbor. Whoever was listening to the music turned it up louder, which did not help the cacophony in my brain, so I tried some breathing exercises to try to focus on my own music.
Then, like a string was hooked to my right, my head pinpointed where the sound was coming from. There was a row of tightly cut and neatly landscaped hedges between his house and mine. I leaned forward, and between the brief opening of the bright green, I saw someone sitting on the other side.
From the time I’d spent on my own upper-level deck, I knew that he had a patio as well, including a small lap pool, adjacent hot tub, and patio furniture surrounding a large fire pit that had given me an equally large twinge of envy. But now, I narrowed my eyes in a glare when I realized I could see ink covering the arm that I’d spied.
“Asshole,” I muttered under my breath.
What pompous prick thought a random woman would show up on his doorstep with cupcakes as a thin excuse to have sex with him?
Fine, he was hot, and he probably got some blatant come-ons when he was out at a bar, but it’s not like was Chris Hemsworth, newly single and carrying around a strip of condoms or anything.
I mean, fine. His eyes were like, dark and broody looking, and that jaw had the kind of edge that you could probably cut yourself on, but whatever. What arrogance.
I knew I wasn’t hard on the eyes, but I certainly didn’t walk around assuming that every man who spoke to me wanted in my pants. The ones that did usually made themselves known pretty quickly, and I’d done nothing, nothing, to make him lay that assumption over my shoulders.
Because the thought of how he’d so coldly dismissed me got my skin all prickly and hot, I grabbed my phone and hit the button to turn up the volume. And just to be spiteful, I went to my queue on Spotify and added a Britney Spears song.
Did I cackle under my breath when he, in turn, increased the volume of whatever classic rock song he was listening to, just in sheer anticipation of how he’d scowl when he heard my next song choice?
Maaaaaybe.
Did I turn the volume higher and then hold up my speaker while aiming it in his direction just as she started singing “Hit Me Baby (One More Time)”?
Hell yes, I did.
“Oh, come on,” he bellowed from the other side of the hedge. “Are you serious right now?”
Instead of answering, I sank farther into my chair and enjoyed the feeling of pissing him off in a way that couldn’t possibly come close to what he’d done to me the day before.
Suddenly, he was standing next to the hedge, glaring at me, only his chest and head visible over the vibrant green. I’d forgotten the color of his sandy dark blond hair and how it was a little longer on top than it should have been. From the bulge of his muscles, I knew his arms were crossed over his chest like it would somehow intimidate me.
I held his eyes and took a slow sip of my wine.
“Turn it down.”
One of my eyebrows lifted slowly, and when I leaned forward, his shoulders relaxed slowly. Until he realized I was turning it louder.
Thunderclouds. It was the first thing that came to my mind when his face turned stormy. He looked like a thundercloud personified. But from my safe little distance, blocked by those flimsy hedges, I felt braver than I probably should have. Because he shouldered through the bushes and stormed in my direction, which churned up a bright flame of nerves that I wasn’t expecting.
He towered over my seat, and I casually crossed my legs, allowing my foot to bounce to the ridiculous synthesized beat.
“Turn it down, please,” he ground out.
“Oh, look at that,” I said with a sickeningly sweet smile on my face. “He does have manners.”
Even though his lips were pressed together, I could tell that he slicked his tongue over the front of his teeth.
“I’m trying to enjoy my evening, and this shit music is ruining it.”
I nodded like I was interested in what he had to say. “I’m sorry to hear that. Did you get the frosting out of your shirt? It was very white, and the frosting was so very pink.”
“No, I didn’t.”
When my smile stretched into something more genuine, he muttered a particularly dirty string of curse words under his breath. When I still didn’t turn down the music, he reached out and snatched the speaker.
“Hey!” I yelled, jumping up to take it back.
He punched the power button with his stupid big thumb and set it back on the table with a loud thunk. “You’re lucky I don’t throw this in the lake.”
Ooooh, this man was lucky I wasn’t slapping the shit out of him. “What is your problem?”
Instead of an answer, he gave me his broad back as he headed in the direction of the bushes again.
Oh, no. I stomped after him as well as someone can stomp in flip-flops. “I was trying to be neighborly, you arrogant asshole. They were just cupcakes.”
He spun around, and I froze at the fire in his face. “I don’t want cupcakes. I don’t want you to be neighborly. I want peace and quiet.”
I held up my hands. “You’ve got it. I’ll listen inside tonight. But the next time I’m out here first, put on some headphones and call it a night because I’m not budging.”
The puff of air that left his mouth was so forceful that he sounded like a freaking racehorse. Without another word, he made a sharp pivot and pushed through the bushes again, then I heard his slider door close loudly.
“Men are so unbelievably stupid,” I hissed. This is why God created vibrators.
After I sat back down at the table, I poured another glass of wine and sank back into the chair again. No muscled-up dickwad would ruin my night. I planned on steering well clear of him, and it didn’t take a genius to guess that he’d do the same.
With any luck, I’d never have to deal with him again.
