I jog over to Margeaux’s hotel, ready to tell her that we don’t have to be serious, but we deserve to give this connection between us a shot. I recognize the employee at the front desk from when I left the hotel last night. I take a shot talking to her.
“Hey. I was here visiting a friend last night. She’s in room 419. I want to surprise her. Is there any way you can give me a copy of her room key?” I ask, giving my best friendly doctor smile.
“Ohhh. Sure.” Her face blushes as she types into her computer and then hands me a key card. “Don’t tell anyone I did this for you,” she whispers as she gives me a wink.
I snatch the card from her; shouting thank you as I run for the elevators. I get to Margeaux’s room, hoping to catch her in bed so I can apologize to her with my face between her thighs again. She doesn’t have her press thing with Brice Strickland for another hour or so.
I unlock her room door and quietly enter. It’s dark inside, the blinds completely shut.
I search for the bed in the dark and notice that it’s empty.
“Margeaux?” I whisper, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness.
This isn’t a big room. It takes me all of two minutes to realize she’s not here. In fact, none of her things are here. Her bags are gone, none of her toiletries are in the bathroom. What the fuck? Where is she?
I switch on a light, and the only thing in the room is an open letter and a black envelope on the bedside table.
20
MARGEAUX
My legs are trembling.Sweat is pouring into my eyes to the point where I can’t distinguish between it and my tears. My teeth feel like they’re about to shatter.
“Come on, Marg! Three more!” Jazz yells at me.
The bar is inches away from my face. I dig my heels into the floor, trying to muster all my strength to get it up.
“Push! Push!” she yells, again.
I’m fucking trying!
My arms turn to noodles. “No!” I grunt, bracing for the bar to pin me to the bench.
Jazz swoops in at the last second and grabs the bar, helping me bring it all the way up to the rack. The metal clangs into a safe resting position, away from my face and chest. I let my arms go lax and dangle at my sides.
“What is up with you, girl? This is baby weight for you, and now you’re getting pinned under it before you finish one set. What’s up?” Jazz asks, plopping down on the bench opposite me.
Monday mornings are for weight training. I usually look forward to these sessions. I love the burn my muscles get and the pump I feel afterwards. I feel most confident in the gym. A gym doesn’t judge you.Barbells won’t lie to you. Treadmills won’t follow you. The mirrors don’t threaten you.This is the safest place a girl can ask for.
“I haven’t been sleeping too well the last couple of nights,” I tell her, groaning as I sit up and reach for my water bottle.
The more accurate answer is that I haven’t slept in over a day. First, Jon and I have the most sexually revolutionary experience of my life. I think that man bruised his tongue letting me ride his face for over an hour. Then he confesses how much he cares about me while still in a relationship with the most vapid bitch I’ve ever met. If that isn’t reason enough for a girl to be spun out, I have a crazy stalker sending me creepy messages. I drove for eight straight hours to get back here. I said fuck it to that public apology with that Strickland douchebag. Ashleigh is trying to smooth it over for me, but I don’t give a fuck. I got back to my apartment, locked all the doors and stayed up, clutching a baseball bat, until it was time to come to training this morning. So, yea. Not really in tip-top shape to move heavy weights.
“Alright, well. Go take a nap or something. We have match practices, and run-throughs tomorrow,” she says, trying to sympathize.
“I don’t feel like going all the way back to my apartment.” I need to stay where it’s busy, and I’m around people.
Before Jazz can offer another suggestion, my phone pings with a message from Ashleigh.
Ashleigh: You’re in serious shit! You didn’t do that apology. I’m smoothing it over for you, but you’re in fucking deep shit with the match directors. They’re over your diva act.
I don’t even have the mental strength to respond. What can I say?I’m being stalked by a psycho, and I ran away because I was scared for my life. They’d just accuse me of being dramatic.Wouldn’t be the first time. Especially since so many of the athletes get creepy fan mail, they’ll definitely say I’m overreacting. This is the life of being an athlete in the spotlight, right? If I don’t find a way to deal with this shit, they’ll just get rid of me and replace me with some other girl who is willing to put up with this shit. I just need to make it through this season. Then I’llhave the chance to build up my fanbase and hopefully have enough distinction in this sport to have a voice.
Nobody listens to you until you’re sitting at the adult table; unfortunately, I’m still a kid in this sport. And nobody is going to worry about me- a bigger woman. I’m over six feet tall and strong. I’m not the stereotypicalvictim.
I’mnota victim.
Match training went fine. Somehow, Ashleigh smoothed things over with that yuppy asshole and he’s not demanding a public apology anymore. That’s the least of my worries. Now that training is wrapped up for the day, I can’t delay going home. It’s getting late.
