The Sweetheart (17 page)

“Mr. Henderson,” you answered, the very picture of self-­possession, “I'm not the same girl I was half an hour ago.”

No, you aren't that girl anymore. And now it's time that everyone knows it. Hold up your chin, drop your robe, and strike your pose—one hip cocked and supporting a propped hand, the opposite arm resting against an athletic leg. Pretend to look at the crowd, but make sure you can see the corner of the ring, where Mimi is standing. You will want to catch her reaction when she sees the gift you have made of yourself: the red-lipped smile, the green boots, the new do, the suit, and those extra inches of sex.

It seems to take a minute for Mimi to realize what is happening. At first, she appears far, far away. She is probably too lost in her imaginings of the future to think of anything else, her eyes too glazed by stardust to see what's right in front of her. It is only after the initial stir—a few frenzied yelps, shrill whistles, guttural
yeaaaaaah
s, and even various sisterly approvals like
Flaunt it, honey!
—becomes an all-out hullabaloo, complete with a lightning storm of flashing cameras and the thunder of the audience's response, that her expression begins to turn. Soon, there will be a few minutes of flabbergasted debate by the officials before they eventually decide there is no official rule against two-piece suits. You expect there will be a scolding from Joe and maybe even from Sam. But the possibility of these threats are tempered, if not altogether drowned out, by the look on Mimi's face
right now
when she finally registers what is happening, the one that says her carefully plotted career has just hit a serious bump in the road.

There is no way the story of the evening is going to be the Hollander Helicopter, or even, for that matter, Byers and Stewart's successful defense of their belt. This is The Sweetheart's story now.

FIFTEEN

W
hile Byers and Stewart preen, belts aloft, in the center of the ring, you and your partner slink back up the aisle. The crowd is disturbingly quiet. Not exactly the exit you were hoping for, is it? You can't blame them, really. They're not quite sure what to think about you, the recently defeated heel, and your out-of-place bedroom eyes and rosy-lipped smile. Mimi, on the other hand, is easy to read. She stays two paces ahead of you, choosing instead to direct her rage at random spectators by reaching into the crowd and shoving them to the ground despite (or, perhaps, because of) the complete absence of provocation.

As you expected, Mimi is not the only person who is less than enamored with your performance. After she disappears in a huff behind the door to your dressing room, Joe, coming seemingly out of nowhere, steps in front of the doorway to prevent you from following her inside.

“When you take off the suit,” he says, “I want you to come out here and hand it to me.”

He hasn't raised his voice, but you almost wish he would. Perhaps that might be less frightening than the undercurrent of rage you sense in his tone. He moves to let you through, and you disappear into the dressing room. Minutes later, you return to the doorway with the suit and hand it to Joe. He surveys the legs on the briefs. “You didn't even have it altered.”

“There wasn't time.”

“You could have—” he says, and stops himself, regroups. “What if you'd been disqualified?”

“But I wasn't.”

“But you could have been. This was a title match, Gwen! It was too big to gamble on a stupid stunt.”

Your lips purse as if you've sucked on something tart. He has some nerve chastising you like this. So he doesn't loan money. Fair enough. But if he is really so worried about morality, why doesn't he pay you a fair percentage? Why does he charge his struggling protégés interest on their debts? If he were really looking out for you, perhaps you would have been less inclined to take matters into your own hands. “You're the one who said modesty has no place in wrestling,” you say in a voice flattened with spite.

Joe stares at you, incredulous. “Let's make something clear, young lady,” he says. “This is my game, and there is only one way that you can play it: by my rules.”

•    •    •

You knew Joe and Mimi wouldn't be the only ones upset with your stunt. Sam was certain to be peeved, and probably more than a little, given his strong reaction at lunch earlier today. But all of that will disappear, you are sure, when he realizes what you have in mind for the rest of the evening. Later tonight, when he comes by your room, he will find you still dewy from your bath and ready to lose what is left of your innocence. What better way is there to confirm, without ambiguity, that you are his? It will be a fitting end to your triumphant day.

Of course, in real life, you are too silly with anticipation to stay in pose, and then, when the hour comes and goes, too unsure of the plan to do so. It will be enough, you think, pulling on your gown, to find you in your nightclothes—that will speak volumes. But then more time passes, and eventually, dewy becomes damp and cold, so you climb under the comforter. He's an hour late, then two hours. There is no reason to fret—it's a big night, and it will be hard for him to get away. Still, it is your only night together and it is slipping away. You pick up a book and look at the words until your mind shuts off.

The creaking of the door wakes you. Light shoots in from the hallway and disappears again. The room is too dark for you to see any of Sam's features, but the silhouette that walks toward you is unmistakably his. When he gets to the bed, he stretches out beside you on top of the comforter, fully dressed. The mattress shifts as he slips his hands beneath his head, crosses his ankles. You wait for him to say something. When he doesn't, you say, “You made it.”

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“I was hoping you would. What took so long?”

Sam lets out a long, slow breath. “Well. First I had to win a title I didn't want. Then I had to talk to a lot of people I don't care about. Then I got waylaid by my uncle, who wanted to know why I didn't stop my girlfriend from going through with her little exhibition this evening, and I had the great pleasure of admitting to him that I didn't know anything about it because she didn't bother to let me in on it.”

Some emotion gathers in his voice as he speaks, but you don't bother to identify it. Whatever it is, you are sure you can placate him. You slip a finger into an empty belt loop on his slacks.

“Sam—”

“And then, when I finally got back to the room, my knees were killing me, so I popped a few pills and waited for those to kick in while I iced them down.” If he has noticed your hand, he hasn't let on. “Then I cleaned up and came down here, but I had to circle around a few times so no one would see me sneak into my girlfriend's room. Like a schoolboy or criminal or something. And now, I am so, so tired that I don't even want to take off my shoes.”

So that's all it is: exhaustion. Well, then, you will just have to energize him. You give the loop a playful tug.

“Sam—”

“Did you buy socks today?” he asks quietly.

This gives you pause. Maybe this is not going to be so easy after all. You search his face in the dark. Maybe he is asking an earnest question. But you are hesitant to give an earnest answer, so you buy some time. “What?”

“You said you had socks in your bag. Did you?”

You still have a lot to learn about the language of relationships, its nuances, but this, you understand.
You lied to me,
he is saying.
You don't trust me.
And he is right. You have not met your basic obligations to him. You put the plan first. Knowing Sam, I suspect this is the great problem of his life—everyone's plans always come before his own. If you want to assure him you are not just more of the same, you should come clean.

“No,” you say, and retract your hand.

Sam nods and closes his eyes. “I didn't think so.”

There are footfalls in the hallway, and the hum of voices. They recede and then disappear while your own heartbeat picks up pace.

“I'm falling asleep,” he says. “I need to, anyway. No way I'm making it to Lincoln tomorrow if I'm not out of here by first light.”

First light? You knew this evening would be a race against the clock, but you didn't know it would be rigged. Hours have been stolen from you; now even the precious minutes are gone.

“But we haven't even—don't you want to—” There's no right way to say it, or to express the panic you are feeling. You need this. Completing this act would assure you both of the other's importance, would carry you through the long weeks ahead. Desperate, you kick off the comforter and thread one of your legs through his.

This time, your gesture registers: Sam looks down at the tangle of your legs. But that is it. He looks and thinks; he doesn't move. It is terrible to lie here like this. To wait. Worse, though, is when he props himself up on his elbow, pats your knee, and moves it gently back to your side of the bed.

“Maybe we should see which way this thing goes first,” he says, his eyes soft and kind. “Okay?”

He says this gently. Still, it is rejection. Tonight it seemed every pair of arms in St. Louis drew you in—just not the one that could hold you until morning. Who knows how long you will have to wait for that?

“Okay,” you lie.

“Let's say good-bye now,” he says, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Just in case I have to slip out before you get up.”

“You could wake me,” you say, but when he presses his lips to your forehead, you understand that he won't. Soon he is asleep. You stay up as long as you can, hoping you can outlast him. And for a while, it seems you might. Your churning thoughts keep you awake while he softly snores. But you have reasons to be weary, too, and eventually, you run out of gas. When you wake the next morning, he is gone, just as you knew he would be.

•    •    •

That night, you stretch across the bed of a different hotel room and ink two new stars in your map: a purple one in St. Louis and another blue one around Nashville, your current location. Mimi's suitcase, still packed, sits at the foot of the bed. Joe is gone, too, having rushed off for a meeting with the promoter. Not that either of them was much company on the road. Normally, you don't mind silence, but right now, the last thing you want is to be left alone with your thoughts, which are growing more panicked by the minute. As exciting as it is to make the papers, you can't help but worry that you have gone too far to get there. By the time someone knocks on the door, you are convinced that Mimi is going to pummel you, Joe is going to fire you, and you have lost Sam forever.

It's Joe, his overcoat still buttoned to his neck. Rather than wait for an invitation, he brushes past you, stops at the foot of your bed, and points at its corner, where you dutifully sit, washed over with dread. While he drags a chair across the carpeting with one arm, popping open his coat buttons with the other, you imagine all the directions this conversation might go, none of them good. He's going to punish you by giving Mimi an even higher percentage of the purses. He's going to make sure you are never booked within two hundred miles of Sam, that you never have the chance to win him back. No. He's done with you altogether. By the time he sheds his coat and settles into the chair, you're certain he intends to put you on the first bus home.

Joe leans in until the two of you are almost nose to nose.

“Just tell me why you did it,” he says. “Give me a reason. And make it good.”

“I just wanted some attention.” You rub the back of your neck and look just above his eyes. “I needed to show that I had star power.”

“It was a national title match.” He speaks with exaggerated restraint: quietly, slowly. He is a muzzled Doberman. “What. More. Do. You. Want?”

“They didn't book
me,
” you say, just above a whisper and with all the hesitancy of a confession. “They booked Mimi. I just happened to be her partner. You said so yourself.”

“You want to go solo then?”

“Yes,” you say, finally lowering your eyes to meet his.

Joe, satisfied that he's gotten the truth out of you, reclines into the chair and drapes his arms over the back. “You got me in trouble with the boss. You embarrassed me in front of my colleagues.”

Your eyes wobble in their sockets, but they don't break their gaze. “I didn't think—”

“Exactly,” he says, nostrils flared. “You didn't think.”

“Am I—” you say. “Is this—”

“No,” he sighs, “but we have to change plans. People are already talking. Costantini wants you in DC next week, alone and with the suit. Others will, too. You wanted attention. Well, you got it. I think the best thing we can do is just go with it. Tomorrow, during the match, you'll make a public break with Mimi.”

“Does that mean—”

“Yes,” he says. “You're going clean.”

This should be a relief, and it is, but it also serves to release all of the day's pent-up angst. You close your eyes, cup your hand over your mouth, and will yourself to stop trembling.

“What's wrong with you?” Joe sounds more frustrated than sympathetic. “This is what you wanted.”

“I know.” You let out a long, slow exhale. “It is. I just thought . . . I thought you were going to say something else.”

“I'm not done being mad,” he says. “This is a major hassle. Everything has to be reworked. I'll have to call promoters, change bookings. But, first things first—and first, we worry about tomorrow. Mimi is working out the new program. She'll walk you through it in the morning. Here.” Joe fishes around in the pocket of his coat, and then slaps the red suit, now heartily reinforced, on the top of the bed. “I just hope you know what you're doing.”

You close your eyes again and do not open them until he is gone. You do not want him to see that you haven't the foggiest. You are not even sure about what you have already done. St. Louis may prove to be a shrewd move that will pay off in the end, or it could be the biggest mistake of your young life.

•    •    •

Just past sunrise, Mimi shakes you awake. You didn't even know she was here; you'd fallen asleep before she returned to the room. She wants to get to the local gym before anyone else needs the ring. “Let's get going.”

The orders don't stop there. For the next half hour, she is a flurry of directives.
Get dressed
.
Walk faster. Hop up.
You do as you are told, waiting until you are more than half-awake and on top of the apron before bothering to ask, “What did you have in mind?”

“I think you should do that thing off the ropes again,” she says, stretching her hamstring and looking past you at the empty gym, hard-eyed and resolved. “Like you did in that first match. Only this time, do it better.”

You aren't sure what exactly she is after. It is entirely possible she is trying to trick you into breaking a bone before the match just to teach you a lesson. Perhaps sensing your reluctance, she says, “You started this.” Her breath is hot against your skin. “It's better for us both if this thing makes some noise.”

You are all for noise. If there is no noise, then everything is for naught.

•    •    •

The match that follows is the most tightly scripted of your career. The entire bout will clock in at twenty-five minutes, but it is the final ones when you climb up and balance yourself on the top rope that really matter. Mimi hits her mark, and you make your move: not the higgledy-­piggledy jump-and-hope-for-the-best maneuver you attempted in Florida, but an infinitely more assured top-rope dropkick, which now lands within reasonable proximity of the middle of Mimi Hollander's chest.