Page 43 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)

Cierra and I try to go for brunch and orange-juice-free mimosas, but we don’t get far down the busy LA sidewalk before the paparazzi descend.

Seriously? Reporters actually sit outside people’s place of work with cameras and microphones in this day and age? Wow.

We decide to head to my apartment, where we can order in and pop open a bottle of something stronger than champagne. After all, we’re simultaneously mourning and celebrating the loss of our jobs.

“You didn’t have to quit because of me,” I murmur to her as we do our best to use our boxes full of personal items to shield ourselves from the crowd. They’re trying to take pictures of me while yelling outrageous questions I can’t even understand over the cacophony of noise. Who knew a sex scandal with a pro athlete would blow up like this? Or maybe it’s the wronged “Hollywood sweetheart” that has the reporters swarming. I’m naturally photogenic, so I don’t usually mind pictures, but these being taken without my permission feels like an invasion.

“I was going to anyway. This just gave me a dramatic flair. Honestly, though, he never treated us fairly, and he always made creepy comments to us. The way he handled this morning was in poor taste, like most of the things he does. It was obvious you had no idea about the article, and to fire you without even sitting down to talk about it—” She shakes her head disapprovingly. “Despicable, really. It’s time for me to move on.”

“What will you do?”

“I met someone who knows someone who is married to someone in the advertising department for Vogue . There’s a coveted intern position open, and I think they’d be able to get me in for an interview.” She beams at me, nothing but perfect pearly whites and excitement. “From there, it’s just proving I have the skills they’re looking for at the standard they expect. It’s an unpaid internship, and I’d have to move, but I have savings. The opportunity is once in a lifetime, and I think I can do it.”

Forgetting all about the reporters around us, I stop outside my apartment building and pull her into a big side hug, both of us juggling our boxes in the process. “That’s fantastic, Cierra! I know you can do it.”

“Mickey! Mickey! Is this another of your clients?”

“Mickey! Are you and Ezekiel Aleks in a polyamorous relationship?”

“Why did Aleks choose a sex worker over Hollywood’s sweetheart?”

“Did you get fired from your day job for moonlighting at Mischief?”

“Mickey—”

“No comment,” I spit at the crowd of cameras and microphones, the shutter noises overwhelmingly loud now. It takes a minute to wade through them and reach the entrance of my apartment building. The doorman gives me a pitying glance before booming some legal jargon across the sidewalk that has the reporters all taking a large step back onto the sidewalk. I thank him and usher Cierra into the elevator.

Inside my apartment, we hash out our priorities. Cierra orders a spread of local brunch favorites while I put my phone on the charger and whip up some dirty martinis, stirred, not shaken, and with a healthy splash of olive juice. By the time I set them on the bar for us, my phone has enough charge to power on.

I shouldn’t be surprised by the number of notifications.

Somehow, my parents already know, which is . . . okay, I guess. They’re probably more upset I didn’t tell them about dancing at Mischief than they are about the fact that I’m a stripper. I swipe their messages away with a mental vow to call them later.

Same for Zeke’s mom. Not sure how this article made it all the way to Pinterest, but here we are.

Tahegin has sent me several messages in all caps with countless exclamation marks. Usually, I’m here for his eccentricities, but it just doesn’t hit the same this time.

Hendrix sent me a brief text that I can hear perfectly in his patented grumpy growl.

Rix: Just ignore Tahegin. Call if you want

Strangely, I know Rix is being sincere. He doesn’t often initiate texts, and while he didn’t say, “we’re here for you” or “call if you need us,” I know that’s what he means. I’ll have to remember to force him to accept a hug next time I see him.

There are a few others from friends, though none from Frankie or anyone else from Mischief just yet. I know the dancers and security guys are practically nocturnal, so I expect they’ll see the article later this evening.

Finally, I steel myself to check all of Zeke’s messages and voicemails, but before I can, my screen lights up with an incoming call from him. I quickly swipe to answer. “Zeke, hey. I’m sorry, my phone was dead?—”

“Are you okay?” he cuts me off, voice full of concern. “Stay at your office. Jess and I are coming to get you.”

Oh, God. It’s bad enough that his agent is tagging along? Fuck! Is she going to make us break up because of this?

Wait, he said— “I’m not at work,” I tell him once his words fully process. “I— Well, long story short, David fired me. I’m at my apartment with Cierra. Zeke, are you okay? How is this going to affect your career and the APA? I’m so sorry this got out.”

He shushes me gently. “Sh, bunny. Listen, nothing ‘got out.’ They’re making shit up and telling lies to turn it into a more interesting story than it truly is.You did nothing wrong, okay? We should have—” A feminine voice cuts him off, too muffled for me to hear. “Okay, yeah,” he tells her before returning to the phone and saying, “We’re coming to your apartment so we can decide how to deal with this. Be there soon.”

I push back the lingering fear that this is all my fault and clutch the phone tight like it’s my only lifeline, responding with a simple “Okay” in a voice that sounds meek even to my own ears.

“I love you,” he proclaims solemnly. “See you soon.”

“You too.”

When I hang up, Cierra is looking at me with concern. “Hey, Micah. Remember that time the server crashed hours before kickoff and we had to scramble to recover all the designs?”

I nod because of course I remember. It had been a shitshow. I hadn’t been that flustered since college exams.

“Well,” she continues, “I remember you had something to help calm you down back then. Something for anxiety, maybe.” Taking my hands, she carefully uncurls my fingers and rubs her thumbs over the deep crescent moons left behind on my palms. “Do you think you need that now?”

The fog of fear and dread—no, anxiety —in my head refuses to clear, and I can’t seem to put one sentence eloquently together. My test anxiety during high school and college was bad, but rarely ever this bad. Maybe I should take my medicine. It’s prescribed as needed. Pretty sure I need it now.

I numbly make my way to my bathroom and dig in the vanity drawer for the long-forgotten medicine. After taking it, I meet Cierra at the bar again, sliding my untouched martini beside her half-empty glass. “Not supposed to mix the meds and alcohol,” I explain.

She accepts the drink and drags both it and me to the couch, where we curl up under a comfy throw blanket. She begins a long spiel about how she met this friend of a friend of a spouse at Vogue , but I honestly can’t focus on any of it. Her casual conversation helps calm me, though, so by the time food and Zeke arrive, I’m a little more present.

“Oh, bunny. I’m so sorry this happened to you.” Zeke wraps me in a big hug.

I bury my face in his chest. “No, I’m sorry. This is going to mess up your image?—”

“Fuck my image.”

A throat clears, and I peek out of our embrace to find Jessica smiling tightly. “Let’s maybe find a way to rebuke this article and save your image, shall we?”

“Sorry,” I apologize yet again and take a step back from Zeke, shifting and wiping my teary eyes.

His agent just sighs. I imagine she’s been awake and working since this article dropped earlier this morning, but she appears perfectly composed and put together. An ever-present pantsuit adorns her curvy figure, and her makeup is flawless. “Why didn’t either of you give me a heads-up about this? I could have had a statement prepared.”

I sniffle as delicately as I can with my nose running like a river. “So you aren’t going to make us break up?”

“Hell no,” Zeke growls, wrapping a protective arm around me.

Jessica shakes her head with a huff of frustrated air. “Men,” she mutters. Without bothering to ask, she helps herself to the brunch spread along my dining table while a tipsy Cierra compliments her designer suit. They immediately hit it off.

“Gin and Rix are coming over,” Zeke informs me as he rests his head on my shoulder and hugs me from behind. “You know how Gin is. I couldn’t keep him away.”

“It’s okay. We should accept all the support we can get.”

The next hour passes in a blur of waiting for our friends to arrive and watching Jessica expertly juggle call after call from other agents, the Rubies’ lawyers, and social media managers. She’s in full damage-control mode. We don’t even dare attempt to interrupt her to ask if she needs anything from us.

I change into comfy clothes—ie, a pair of Zeke’s sweatpants rolled severely at the waist and an oversized sweater. Neither match my magenta-colored hair; there are more important matters at hand, after all. Just as I’m about to leave my bedroom, my phone vibrates in my pocket. The caller ID flashes “Benjamin Santiago” across the screen, and not even my anxiety pill can keep the dread from pooling in my gut.

“Please don’t fire me,” I say by way of greeting after connecting the call.

He doesn’t respond for a moment, probably thoughtfully contemplating the situation as he usually does. “Did your other boss fire you because of this gossip article?”

“Um . . . Yeah. He did.”

“His loss,” Ben declares without hesitation. “Oh, well. Perhaps now you’ll consider my offer to join my marketing team. I need a revamp in our advertising, and your designs are what I want.”

I blink at the unexpected direction of the conversation. “Did you call to offer me a job?”

“Not primarily, though rest assured it is a legitimate offer. No, I called because I’m going to make a statement on behalf of you and my club. I called first to inquire if your partner’s sports agent would like a courtesy notification about it. That is, assuming he has someone handling the press on his side?”

“Yeah, um—” I clear my throat and try again, feeling the need to sound more professional to match him. “Yes, he does. Her name is Jessica. Um, she’s here now if you want to speak to her, or . . .”

He easily picks up when I trail off. “Please see if she is available. I understand she may be busy at the moment. My publicist has already approved my statement, so this is only a courtesy call. I’ll release it whether she makes time to speak to me or not.”

“Y-yes, sir. Hold on just a second. I’ll go get her.” Something about his no-nonsense tone lights a fire under my ass. This man is literally famous for his businesses, guaranteed to be invited to any red-carpet event, and the owner of every club worth visiting on the West Coast. The fact that he’s bothered to carve time out of his busy schedule to call me . . . I don’t walk; I run to Jess where she’s set up shop at my desk positioned near the windowed wall in my living room.

She gives me and my outstretched phone an odd look.

“It’s my boss,” I explain, a little breathless. “The, uh, owner of Mischief.”

Her perfectly arched eyebrows raise in surprise. “I’ll call you back,” she tells whoever is on the phone pressed to her ear. “I have Benjamin Santiago on the other line.” The person responds too softly for me to hear, and she chuckles. “Oh, yes. Be very jealous of my connections, Bart.”

Once she’s hung up her phone call, Jess extends her french-manicured hand, gesturing for my cell.

I nervously pass it over.

“This is Jessica,” she says by way of greeting, Her tone adopts one similar to Ben’s, though not as severe. They go through quick introductions before diving into legal jargon like “hearsay,” “defamation,” and “damages.” The conversation goes on so long I eventually curl up beside Zeke on the couch while we wait.

Hendrix sits, bored and stoic, on the other end, so I tuck my chilly feet under his thigh. He gives me a look, but doesn’t tell me to move. Tahegin and Cierra are sitting on the love seat talking about . . . something. I recall him being on the cover of Vogue magazine once and wonder dimly if he’s offering to put in a good word for her over there.

It reminds me of how Tahegin put in a good word for me with the network that broadcasts his team’s games and how I managed to score an interview at Neverending Designs because of it. If I had known back then how this would turn out, I might not have tried to leave Mischief. I don’t regret my time with Neverending Designs, but . . . man, David was a shitty boss.

An hour later, Jess comes back with a plan. She has typed statements for Zeke, Tahegin, and me to post on our socials. Ben’s statement will focus on the reputation of Mischief and all its dancers, rebuke the lies about any sex work, and proclaim his support of Zeke’s and my relationship. Tahegin’s post will be in support of us on behalf of himself and Hendrix—since Rix doesn’t use social media. Mine will highlight the lies and appeal to people by focusing on the invasion of my privacy. Zeke’s is an amalgamation of all three, plus adding that this could be an attempt to tarnish his reputation to prevent our petition to change the bullshit dating rule in the league. The team coach will be holding a press conference as well with Zeke present.

Jessica assures us this isn’t the end of the world. The media scrutiny will actually help us get the word out about the rule we’re trying to overturn.

The decision to allow players who are dating to take the same field at the same time should not be up to the league. Players should not be forced to hide their relationships or be forced to out themselves nationally to abide by some bogus rule. That power should lie within the hands of the coaches and team owners. If favoritism is called into question, the only people it would help or hurt are the individual teams. It should be handled in-house without the eyes of the entire league watching or the press waiting like vultures on the sidelines.

***

Over the next few weeks, we spin the attack on our relationship to help our cause. We fight.

We preach these things until we’re black and blue. We hold press conferences, debut on podcasts, live stream online, and petition. Our fellow queers and allies from other teams join in with their support.

We’re getting close, Jessica promises. The league is going to have to listen to us now. We can only go forward from here.

Until the league presents an addendum to the player dating rule.

“What the fuck now?” Zeke growls when Jess sends him a link about the addendum. We’re lying in bed together, and it’s too early to be awake, but this is too important. He scrolls and reads. “Damn it.”

The NFL announces a new addition to the latest rule regarding players engaging in intimate relationships with other players within the league. This new addendum comes as a shock to those who have been closely following the Allied Players Association’s attempt to overturn the rule. The APA has been fighting to continue allowing players who are romantically involved to take the field together, but it appears as if new information has come to light. Will the APA agree or disagree with the clear and concise statement added by the NFL, stating “an active player may not be engaged in a romantic, intimate, or physical relationship with a coach of any team wherein the two involved in such relations would be present on the same field at the same time.” This begs the question: Which player and coach is this about? Has yet another player joined the scandal, following in the footsteps of our already famously queer players—Kane Kennedy, Nathaniel Conroy, and Tahegin Ellingsworth—who are or have been dating their teammates or rivals? Our journalism team is investigating, and more information will become available as we discover the truths behind relationships within the league.

Yet again, something that should be between the players and team owners rather than being publicly announced by gossip sites.

Also, who the hell are they talking about, and why hasn’t this player told us about their relationship with a coach?

Zeke types out a half-frustrated, half-amused message in the private Allied Players group on Facebook, available only to queer and ally players and their partners. He’s shaking his head and smiling all at once, and I know we’re thinking the same thing: good for whoever it is, but couldn’t they have waited until after we overturned the stupid rule first?

Ezekiel Aleks: Which one of you fuckers is sticking it to a coach???