Page 13 of Lovetown, USA

Lane

I hit the submit button on my column, sending my little wayward child off to be judged, edited, and released into the wild.

Back then, I always felt a rush of anxiety for about an hour, then I’d spend the next few hours drinking a glass of wine in front of the television. My reward for working hard.

Today?

I don’t give a single fuck.

I’ve already lost everything that means anything, so my heart isn’t in this shit at all, and I don’t feel like I’ve earned any tv time. I’m still drinking the wine, though.

“So you just runnin’ through the whole town, huh? I ain’t mad at ya, sis.”

I roll my eyes at Nadia. “Kindly shut the fuck up.”

She watches me as I use my phone camera to apply my mascara. “Where you headed?”

“I’m headed to make the most of this shit, like I promised you.” I swipe gloss across my lips. “The annual Lovetown charity basketball game,” I say with the voice of a game show announcer.

“Okay, I see you. That could be fun.”

“Stop gassing this shit, Nadia. I’m miserable.”

“I thought you got some the other night?”

“I did.”

“You said it was good.”

I spritz my face with setting spray. “It was.”

“Then…what’s the problem?”

I tilt my head and stare at her, irritated when she stares right back, eagerly awaiting my answer.

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “This place is weird, and I feel like my career is hinging on this. I just…I don’t like that feeling.”

“Well, nobody told you to—“

“Nadia!”

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” She tilts her head in sympathy. “Still too soon.”

She doesn’t take anything seriously. It’s irritating sometimes.

“I’m gonna go,” I say.

“Have fun. I’m serious. Enjoy yourself. I love you.”

“Mm hm. Love you, too.”

I end the call and stare at my reflection, giving myself a final once-over. Tight white jeans, a white v-neck tee, and my LV crossbody. I look casually sexy, which I was aiming for. I don’t know who all gon’ be there, but I need to be ready just in case.

Apparently Lovetown has one stadium, which is really an amphitheater, and that’s where this game is.

They’ve blocked off one side for the game attendees and the other for press.

I guess I’m the latter, but I’m not sitting over there with the one old guy from the two-page newsletter this town calls a newspaper.

I pack in on the bleachers with the rest of the fans. It’s buzzing with people greeting each other, talking, gossiping, catching up. Kids dart this way and that. My nose detects the smell of popcorn, and my eyes are assaulted with pink and red everything. And there’s way too much glitter.

I’m in hell.

But I have my iPad. I’m ready to work. Ready to dig myself out of this fucking hole if it’s the last thing I do.

I’m scanning the players warming up when I spot Deacon. He’s stretching, then dribbling down the court like this is the NBA all star game and not a small-town charity event.

I make a note of that.

When he sees me, his grin is instant, and I remember how handsome he is. He jogs over, sweat already darkening his white jersey.

“Hey, beautiful.”

I stare up at him and smile. “Hey. I didn’t know you were playing.”

“I didn’t know you were coming.” He nods at someone behind me. “You never called me back.”

“I’ve been super busy,” I say, even though ‘I forgot’ would be faster and truer.

“We need to schedule our date.”

“Right, right. The bingo date.”

He nods. “Can I lock you in for Friday?”

“Yeah, let’s do it. Friday,” I hear myself say, as if my mouth and brain have no connection.

He beams. “Perfect. It’s a date.” Then he jogs back to his team, tossing me one last smile before he returns to his warmups.

Well, shit. I guess I’m going on a date.

I scribble a little note about that interaction, then glance across the court, my eyes locking right on Trey.

I hide my surprise, look away, then look back to find him still staring.

His expression is unreadable, but he finally raises his hand and waves.

I return the gesture, waiting for a smile that never comes.

For one quick second, I wonder if he’s jealous of Deacon, but then I tell myself not to be ridiculous—he’s probably just in game mode.

The murmurs of the crowd snap me back to reality and alert me to the incoming presence of Mayor Daphne.

She struts out for the ceremonial ball toss looking like she just stepped off the pages of Vogue.

Scamming does a body good. Does a wardrobe good, too, I see.

Homegirl is eating in that charcoal grey dress and them patent leather red bottoms.

She smiles at the crowd, waving and laughing as they cheer from the bleachers. She doesn’t speak though, just tosses the ball in the air before scrambling out of the way.

And the game is on.

I’ve never been much of a sports fan. I went to all of the games when I was at Grambling, but that was so I could see the bands play at halftime. I wasn’t actually watching the players. Football bores me.

Apparently, so does basketball. I’m more interested in scribbling notes than who’s scoring points.

I make a note on the guys’ uniforms—white with tiny red hearts for Deacon’s team, and black with pink hearts for Trey’s.

I shake my head as I sketch the design, annoyed at how far they’re taking this bullshit.

The cheerleaders look to be from the local high school, and they’re adorned in pink and white. “Love Wins” glitters across their chests as they jump and chant in perfect rhythm.

My eyes roll yet again.

Trey gets the ball, and I make the mistake of watching him closely. He’s fast. Focused. The way he moves…controlled, efficient, as if every muscle knows its job and clocked in for its shift. It kinda reminds me of his physicality in the bedroom.

That’s why staring at him was a mistake.

Memories flash on the screen in my mind. Him inside me. His tongue. His dick. His hands.

And now he’s successfully pulled me away from my notes. My eyes follow him up and down the court as he drives past two defenders, jumps, and sinks a shot like it’s nothing. As he jogs back, he glances over his shoulder, catches me staring, and winks.

My stomach does an inconvenient flip.

The crowd is irritatingly loud, stomping on the bleachers, chanting, booing bad calls, but I keep finding Trey in the noise.

He steals the ball and goes for another shot, scores, and pumps his fist. While Deacon’s team scrambles to regroup, Trey glances at me again and gives me a smile.

It’s like we’re sharing some private joke. Some intimate moment.

I like this, but at the same time, I don’t like it.

By the time halftime rolls around, the arena is alive with energy. I’m thinking about going to the concession stand when the lights dim. Whatever the halftime show is gonna be, I hope I enjoy it.

Two minutes later, I realize I won’t.

Because out waddles a little five-year-old “bride” in a fluffy white tutu, white lace gloves, and a plastic tiara.

The “groom” is an equally tiny little boy wearing a tux with a red bow tie.

They walk down a makeshift aisle while the announcer narrates it like it’s the royal wedding.

People in the stands are smiling and crying. Phones are out.

This is horrifying.

I look around, searching for one reasonable person in this crowd, somebody who’s also thinking this shit is ridiculous and over the top. But there’s nobody. Everyone’s enamored.

This is hell.

Trey’s eyes find mine again through all the bullshit. He’s leaning on his knees, still catching his breath, smiling just a little like he knows I’m silently judging this whole spectacle. I look away as my pulse spikes. You’d think I was the one out there sprinting up and down the court.

Thank goodness for small blessings—the kids don’t end the ceremony with a kiss. Instead, they fist bump, and the crowd goes wild while I throw up in my mouth. The lights come back up and the cheerleaders come out to do some jumping around at the center of the court.

I’ve seen enough. I’m gathering my shit when I hear Trey’s voice.

“Can I get a kiss for good luck?”

I look up, my eyebrow raised. “How do you know I’m not a jinx?”

He laughs. “Even if I lose, I still got to kiss you.”

My smile emerges victorious in the fight against my resting bitch face. I lean forward as Trey leans down and offers me his cheek. I plant a soft kiss on it, and of course, of fucking course the nosy ass love addicts in the vicinity say, “Awww,” like we just put on a show for their asses.

I gotta get the entire fuck out of this town.

I forget I was supposed to leave, instead becoming engrossed in the second half of this game.

It’s faster, it seems. More aggressive. Every time Trey scores, his eyes find me.

Sometimes he gives a little nod. A smirk.

One time, he points, just barely, like I’m the one he’s playing for.

By the time two minutes rolls around, the score is tied.

Then Trey scores a three-pointer—yes, I know what that is—and puts his team ahead.

Then, they win.

The crowd goes wild as the buzzer sounds.

I guess I was good luck after all.

After, I make my way down the bleachers and over to the sideline.

“Congratulations!” I shout to him over the din of the crowd, trying not to sound proud of him, even though I kind of am.

“I have you to thank,” he says with a grin that should be illegal.

“That was all you,” I insist.

“We should celebrate.”

I hesitate, mentally measuring my better judgment against my desire for…whatever this is. My better judgment loses. “Fine. Let’s celebrate.”

“Be ready in an hour.” He walks off before I can ask for details.

As I turn, I look up and into the eyes of Mayor Daphne who’s watching intently.

As soon as our eyes lock, she waves and performs a smile—that’s the best way I can describe it.

It’s creepy, but I wave back anyway, all the more resolved to expose her and whatever she’s doing that’s making this town feel like Valentine’s Day on meth.