“Well, I think you’re pretty cool, too, Sadie. Thanks for being a fan. And maybe I’ll see you in the ring one day,” I tell her.
“That would be thecoolest! Mom, did you hear that?!”
“I’m standing right here. I heard it,” her mom says with a big smile.
I shake a few more hands, sign some more autographs, and Ashleigh leads me back to the locker rooms. “That was great! Your fanbase is really growing. You’re gaining so many female fans in the pre-teen age group,” she says, while typing into her phone. This woman is a master multi-tasker. “I have some new fan letters for you,too. I left them in your locker. They really appreciate it when you respond with hand-written letters, if possible.”
“Okay. I’ll get to them,” I tell her. Being an athlete at this level is a full-time job. There’s always something to do.
I flip through some of the fan mail Ashleigh left for me. Most of it looks like cards and letters from younger girls. There’s a larger, black envelope with studded stickers around the border. I open it and see a handwritten letter with the creepiest message.
Margeaux,
You make me go wild.
That red lipstick would look great on a very specific part of me.
Yours.
I drop the letter on the floor, rubbing my hands on my sweatpants, feeling disgusted. I check the envelope for an address, or name.Nothing. How did it get in this bundle? It was clearly written after tonight’s match. I haven’t worn red lipstick during a match yet.
I reach for my bag to take out my phone to alert Ashleigh.
“Let’s go, girl! Our booth awaits!” Jazz shouts, making me almost drop my phone. Her dark, brown hair is tied up in a messy bun, showcasing the shaved underside of her scalp. She’s not as heavily tattooed as I am, but she has a couple of nice pieces. She’s medium height, and more acrobatic in the ring. She’ll match up against Eva in a few weeks, andthatwill be interesting to watch.
“Yessss,” I moan just thinking about a giant basket of fries. “I think I’m going to have an orgasm just thinking about those fries.” I love salty foods, and definitely need the distraction after that creepy fan letter.
“Damn. It’s been that long, huh?” she asksjokingly. “You’re so sex-starved, your only hope is fried starches? Aw girl, we need to go prowling. Get your needs met. You seem wound up.” She fluffs her messy bun in the mirror as I tie my shoes.
Jazz isn’t wrong in her observations. I haven’t had a good fuck in while. Our training schedule is partly to blame. I also refuse to mess around with the guys on our team. I don’t have many rules, but that’s one I learned in my first year after signing a contract with PEW; it just complicates things.
It’s difficult to meet guys who understand the demands of this sport. Non-wrestlers don’t see you beyond the persona you play in the ring. Other guys just want the notch in their belt- that they fucked a celebrity. Depending on the guy, I’ve been down. But I scare away most dudes. Being super tall, muscular, tattooed, and pierced isn’t every dude’s smash fantasy. That leaves me with my hands and my toy collection most days.
“I’m not in the mood to prowl, Jazz. I can be your wing woman this weekend, though,” I tell her. My phone vibrates from inside my bag, and I dig through all my stuff to find it.
My home screen is filled with notifications- social media, e-mails, voicemails, and texts. I don’t look at most of them. I have over a hundred unchecked messages and thousands of unread e-mails. Ashleigh handles most of my correspondence. I make a mental reminder to tell her about that creepy fan letter later. I click on a voicemail from the one person I’ll always make time for, my brother.
Hey, Mags! I won’t be able to catch your match tonight, but I promise to watch the highlights. I know you’re gonna kick ass, Sis! Anyway, call me back. Zoey needs a confirmation from you for her bachelorette party next weekend. I know you’re super busy, but she’d love for you to be there. It would mean a lot to me, too. Alright. This message has gone on long enough. Talk to ya later. Love ya, Mags!
An hour, and an entire basket of fries later, Jazz is still trying to convince me to go to this stupid bachelorette party.
“Dude! You didn’t mention that her bachelorette party is in Paramount! That’s like, super dreamy vacation and party location,” she talks around a forkful of apple pie.
“Ugh. Don’t get me started,” I groan, considering ordering another basket of fries. I frown at my shirt, which has a fresh ketchup stain on it. I never make it through a meal without getting food on me.
“You know the coaches will let you take a mini-vacation. Fuck, I’ll crash the party with you. Is your soon-to-be sister-in-law cool with stuff like that?” she asks, sipping her vanilla milkshake. One thing about us wrestlers, we can eat.
I roll my eyes, considering how to describe Zoey. I settle on keeping it simple, too tired to go into a lot of detail. “I don’t think she’d be open to you crashingherparty. I doubt she even wantsmethere. It’s more of a favor for Jacky,” I say
Jazz nods her head, slurping her milkshake again. “Got it. She’s a prissy bitch,” she shoots me a wink. Then hisses as she clutches her forehead. “Fuck fuck fuck. Brain freeze!” She pounds the table, thinking that will make the ache in the front of her face go away.
“You do this every time,” I laugh at her. She’s such a masochist. She chugs cold drinks, she eats food that’s fresh out of the microwave and burns her tongue. To be fair, I do that too. But I at least try to give my food a couple of seconds to cool off. Not Jazz.
“It’s fine.” She waves me off, massaging her forehead. “So, you gotta go, Mar. I mean. Paramount is amazing, I’m told. I’ve never been. At least go and come back with some cool story about all the ritzy people who live there.”
Paramount is like Neverland. Online images show the perfect beach city. Only celebrities and billionaires can afford to live there.
I roll my eyes, picking up a remaining crispy piece from my fry basket. “I guess it could be cool to get away for a few days. I just hate being around all those girls from my hometown.” I sink lower into my half of the booth.
