Lady and the Champ (21 page)

But she just looks up into my eyes and smiles, the expression so warm it feels like a caress. “I’d like that, Austin. I’d like that a lot.”

H
e moves behind me
, wrapping his arms around me and resting his chin on my head. I lift my hands to his arms and lean back, enjoying his closeness. It’s a quiet little bubble between us.

Until I hear a voice behind us, and the sound of a camera.

“Dude, it’s Austin Sherwood!”

At least it’s not paparazzi this time. They’re just fans, a good number of them kids, staring at him wide-eyed. Their parents seem hesitant to approach, but Austin says hi and starts shaking hands with the kids. A few of them hand over their game programs for autographs, which he supplies with a smile. He’s good with the kids, I notice—I can’t help noticing that. He’s good with his own kid.

He’s so gracious with them, as I noticed the last time we ran into fans, especially with the kids. It’s not long before I realize I’ve got a goofy look on my face just watching it play out. He’s a good guy. And he makes me happy. I honestly never thought I’d feel this way—this at home, this protected. Especially not with a football player.

Once we get clear of Austin’s fans, he leads me to an elevator that takes us to one of the top boxes. Even with the elevator, it’s been quite a bit of walking, and I notice Austin seems a little stiffer than he has been.

“You okay?” I ask him as we get off the elevator.

“Fine.” He winces a little, though.

“You’re still hurting,” I state.

He shrugs, not arguing, just trying to brush off my observation.

“It’s not bad.”

I don’t make an additional comment. He knows what he feels like, and he knows what’s at stake. If he’s okay with walking, I’m not going to stop him. In fact, walking might be the best thing he can do for himself right now. We head for our seats.

I’m not going to worry about it. I’m just going to enjoy the game and enjoy being with him. Being with him, in fact, has become one of my favorite things to do.

The National Anthem is belted out beautifully by a Nashville up-and-comer. When we sit back down, Austin drops his arm over my shoulders, pulling me up against him. Our seats are in a semi-private box—not glassed off like the VIP box we were in last night. I’m glad. Seeing the glass again probably would have sent me into a tailspin of lust I would have been hard put to keep under control.

“How’s Emma?”

“She’s with the sitter at home. Damn, I can’t wait to bring her to her first game.”

Austin buys me popcorn from a passing vendor. We laugh and clap and cheer when Austin’s team gets a first down, then a touchdown. He high fives me, and I lean forward to kiss him.

But he’s not looking at me. For some reason, he’s staring straight ahead, out onto the field. His eyes have gone wide. His hand tightens on the bag of popcorn, so tight some of the popcorn spills over the top and onto the concrete below us.

I follow his gaze. And I, too, freeze. My entire body goes cold, then hot, then cold again. And numb.

The TV screen at the opposite end of the field is filled with an all-too-familiar image.

It’s me. Or more precisely, my tits. Naked, and with Austin’s number drawn across them in eyeblack.

My mouth falls open. I can’t move; I can’t breath. Austin grabs my arm.

“Chloe. Chloe. Don’t. I don’t know what—”

I spin on him. “You fucking bastard. How in the hell could you do this to me?”

“Chloe, I didn’t—”

“You
planned
this, didn’t you?”

“No way!”

My face burns as his betrayal sinks into my chest. “You brought me here so you could humiliate me in front of fifty thousand people.” It’s beyond my ability to comprehend.

“Chloe—”

“Just shut up.” I shove up out of my seat, hitting his arm and sending the popcorn spilling everywhere. “Shut the fuck up!”

I run. My feet stumble on the millions of steps from our box down to the lower levels of the stadium, and I nearly go head over heels down three or four concrete flights. Better if I had, I thought. I’d bash my brains out and then I wouldn’t have to face this anymore.

“Chloe!”

Maybe he’ll trip on the steps. It would serve him right, to tear the shit out of his knee right when we were making progress on fixing it. I’m beyond angry. Beyond embarrassed. Humiliated doesn’t even cut it. I don’t think there’s a word in the English language for how I feel right now.

A hand closes on my arm and pulls me around. I find myself facing Austin. His face is sincere and open, red spots high on his cheeks indicating either embarrassment or exertion. I’m figuring it’s the latter. Why should he be embarrassed? It wasn’t his tits that got blown up to eighty times life size and broadcast to a football stadium full of leering men. And their girlfriends, and wives. And kids.

I jerk away from him so hard I nearly lose my balance. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

We’re drawing attention, but nobody seems inclined to interfere.

“Chloe, I didn’t—”

“The hell you didn’t. Who the hell else could have? Nobody had that picture but you!”

“I don’t know, but I swear to God—”

“You can swear to whatever you like.” I take a step back. I’m trying not to cry, but it’s mostly a hopeless cause. The edges of my eyes feel like they’re on fire. “How the fuck could you do this to me, Austin?”

“Doc—”

“Don’t fucking call me Doc!” Of all the things he could say, this turns out to be the one that lights the fuse on the thermonuclear device lurking inside my chest. “You did this on purpose! All you wanted to do was fuck me and get me to trust you so you could humiliate me! All that shit about protecting me and my job—it was all a pile of steaming bullshit, wasn’t it?”

“No. Chloe, listen to me—”

“I’m not listening to you ever again. I don’t even know you, Austin. You introduced me to your mother!”

I wheel away from him. Every thought in my head has become incoherent rage mixed with the purest, most painful humiliated embarrassment I’ve ever experienced in my life. It’s so intense I’m not sure I can physically survive it. It will hollow me out, make me bleed myself dry.

“Why would I do that?” he shouts back. “Why in the world would I do something like that?”

I don’t answer. I have no answer for him—I have nothing for him anymore. All I want to do is get away.

I run.

* * *

I
’m
calmer when I get home, but it’s not a good calm. It’s more like everything has gone numb. The little voice in my head says I should stay away from the Internet, but the first thing I do is turn on my computer.

My inbox is exploding with emails. Some of the subject lines make the numbness go away, replacing it with sheer horror, embarrassment, humiliation. I scroll down, reading one horrible sentence after another.

Nice tits, Chloe.

Congratulations! You finally made it onto national TV!

Wow, you really took that wardrobe malfunction thing seriously!

Worse—as if it could get any worse—I realize I don’t even know most of the people who are emailing me. The email addresses and names aren’t even remotely familiar. Where are these people coming from? How did they get my email? How have this many people seen that picture? Was it on national TV? I can’t be getting this many emails just from people who were at the game.

Stomach sinking, I open my Twitter account. And there I am. In all my naked, eyeblacked glory. Picture after picture, all the way down my timeline, with my Twitter handle attached. Some of them are screencaps from local TV stations. One’s a screencap from ESPN.

God. Everybody in the world has seen my tits at this point.

Blurred out or not, it’s still too much. This isn’t who I am. I didn’t do it for attention. I did it for Austin. Tears start to prickle at the corners of my eyes, and my chest is tight, then I start to hyperventilate.

This is more than an invasion of privacy. It feels like a physical attack. Violation. To have my private pictures smeared all over the Internet, exposing me to any asshole mouthbreather with a social media account. Whoever did this has no consideration for my personal safety, my privacy, or even my status as a human being.

I get a cold washcloth to put on my face, trying to get myself back under control. To settle my galloping heartbeat and ease my breathing back to a normal speed. Once I calm down a little, I realize it would be a good idea for me to figure out where this all started.

It’s not hard to follow the chain of events back to the social media source. Which turns out to be Reddit. Somebody posted a picture of the screen at the game there, and then it spread. Somewhere, it got my name attached to it. I’m guessing via Facebook, but the original’s been deleted there because of the Showing of the Tits. This is the first time I’ve been happy Facebook is so prudish. Not that it helps much—it looks like I’m all over the Internet in spite of it.

I glance over the emails. The calm I managed to dredge up is falling apart again. My eyes are going hot; the edges of my eyelids feel like they’re on fire.

I will not cry. I will not cry.

The mantra beats in my head, but nothing in my brain seems to actually be paying attention, because there are tears escaping from the corners of my eyes even as I focus.

I start deleting emails, stabbing the mouse button extra hard to make it feel more final, more violent. The links all go back to the same thread sequence—a Reddit picture of the screen at the game. It’s followed by the same picture being propagated on Twitter, Instagram, and Google Plus. God. I didn’t even know anybody used Google Plus anymore.

Then I see a link that looks different. The preview in the email is small, so it’s hard to tell at first glance, but it doesn’t look like the picture from the stadium. I click on it, because apparently I’m stupid. The picture loads into my browser, filling the screen. It’s not the picture from the stadium. It’s much clearer, much more detailed, and there’s no Jumbotron frame.

It’s the original photo off Austin’s phone.

My face goes numb again. There’s no way to make any excuses for him. Austin took the selfie I sent him—just for him—and spread it everywhere. It’s the only explanation. Nobody else had that picture. Nobody else had access to it, or to my phone.

Why? Why would he do that?

He asked me that question, and I realize I have no answer.

Because he’s an asshole.

He hasn’t been, though. He’s been sweet. Good to me. He’s acted like he’s actually interested. Like he cares about me. Surely a man wouldn’t open up the way he has if all he wanted to do was humiliate me.

That doesn’t mean anything. If he cared about you, he wouldn’t have done it.

My brain just keeps chasing itself around in circles like a rabid hamster on a wheel. Nothing makes sense. I can’t make it stop. I slump over the computer and put both hands over my face, trying to block everything out.

And then my phone rings.

Shit.

I pick it up and glance at the caller ID. Double shit.

It’s Dr. Richards.

Might as well get it over with, I guess.

“Hello?”

“Chloe.” His voice is thin, hard. “I think you probably know why I’m calling.”

I take a slow breath, trying to keep myself under control. Bursting into tears immediately isn’t going to accomplish anything. “I can guess.”

“I thought so much better of you, Chloe. You know getting involved with a client is not only inappropriate, but so thoroughly unprofessional it goes beyond just crossing a line.”

He pauses, as if he expects me to respond, but I know if I say anything I’ll lose the tight hold I’ve got on my emotions. After a few seconds, he continues.

“Everything you’ve told me about your relationship… You lied to me, Chloe. I can’t condone that. That’s the worst part of it. I could understand a mutual attraction, and wanting to move forward, but you lied to me. I didn’t want to believe the rumors, but there’s no doubt now.”

“Rumors?” I manage to force out the single word. My voice shakes. “What kind of rumors?”

“Rumors that you and Sherwood were involved in inappropriate behavior. That you weren’t being discreet.”

“Who said that? Who told you we were involved?”

Only one person has ever seen Austin and I together in anything close to a compromising position. Only one person could have had a reason to hurt me.

“Never mind that—”

Another realization hits me. Dr. Richards hates football. Ironic, yes, but it’s the truth. “Why were you even watching the game? You never watch football, even if our clients are playing.”

Another moment of silence, this time straining over his end of the phone line. He’s not going to answer the question, I realize. It doesn’t matter. I can answer it for him. He’s willing to protect a male colleague who basically posted revenge porn where it would be broadcast on national TV, but he’s not willing to protect me.

“None of that is important, Chloe.”

“I’m not so sure it isn’t.” The tears are coming now, hot and fast, though I’m still keeping my voice under control. I’m angrier now than anything else, and I hate it that fury makes me cry. “This was a deliberate attack on me.”

“You still took the picture. You still were involved in relations with a client.”