Superfan Page 4

  “That jaw, though. The part we can see is cute. Besides, look at how bendy goalies are.”

  We both watch the on-ice action for a few contemplative moments as the goalie scissors his body to make one save and then another. And a couple months of celibacy are really screwing with my libido. The raw masculine power I’m witnessing tonight really speaks to my inner cavewoman.

  These men are like warriors. Bendy, bearded warriors.

  And the goalie is always in motion. And I love the way his awareness of the play around him is dialed up to eleven. It would feel pretty incredible to have that kind of focus directed at me.

  “I see the potential,” I admit.

  “And it’s just a date—with a professional athlete who says he’s a fan of yours. He follows you.”

  “Him and two million other people. You’re going to make this whole thing into a PR moment, aren’t you?”

  “It already is a PR moment,” Becky insists. “Besides, I doubt L.A. can clinch in the next four minutes. If you say yes, you still might not ever meet him. But Twitter will swoon if you take the bet.”

  “And I live to make Twitter swoon.”

  “Maybe you don’t, but I do.” Becky blinks at me with wide blue eyes. We’re such opposites. She’s trusting and open, and I’m…not. But maybe that’s why we get along so well.

  “Type up a reply…” I say.

  She gives a squeak of joy.

  “But don’t send it yet! Jesus. I’m still thinking.”

  “What?” Becky pouts. “Come on. Make Twitter swoon.”

  “I’m thinking, okay? What if Mr. Muscles wants to frisk the guy or something.”

  Becky looks over her shoulder, checking the whereabouts of my bodyguard before we talk about him. “You’re allowed to have a life. And if you do go out with this guy, we can clear him in advance. He’s a public figure, Delilah. Not some rando.” She’s already tapping on her phone, trying to figure out how to phrase our reply.

  Tweeting for me is literally Becky’s job. A good day at work for her is a bunch of new Twitter followers and a few new photos for Instagram where I don’t blink at just the wrong time.

  Those apps are on my phone, too, but I rarely look at them. People are horrible to me on the internet. To be fair, people are also lovely to me on the internet. It’s just that if I hear a hundred bits of praise and two nasty comments, it’s the nasty ones that sink into my soul.

  It doesn’t make any sense, but there you go.

  “Okay,” she says. “My finger is on the trigger.”

  “What did you write?” I ask. But then I lose focus for a moment as Dallas gains the puck. Two of their players pass it rapidly down the ice, and I find myself leaning forward in my seat and holding my breath.

  The whole date thing is moot if Dallas scores right now. And why am I strangely disappointed?

  The Dallas player makes his charge. I see him swing his stick, and the bendy goalie is already in motion—

  “A glove save!” Becky screams. “Whoa!” Play halts for a moment, and my heart is beating faster than it has in a while.

  Honestly, this is the first time I’ve ever understood why people watch sports. Staring at the game on a screen seems like a waste of time. I can never sit still long enough to watch TV. But a live hockey game is much more fun than I expected.

  Furthermore, twenty thousand other people dressed in green or black agree. I consider myself a connoisseur of crowds at this point. And this stadium is rocking.

  The players line up again, and the ref drops the puck between two them. They pounce like hungry tigers. You can feel the tension in the room as the clock ticks down. There’s fewer than four minutes left.

  The puck flies in our direction, and then a Dallas player slams an L.A. player against the plexiglass right in front of me. The first time they did that, I actually jumped like a frightened kitten. But this time I’m ready. The player is so close to me that I can see the beads of sweat on his eyelashes. That really shouldn’t be sexy, but it is.

  Professional athletes. Who knew?

  Come on, L.A., I find myself thinking. Now that I might meet a hockey player, I am even more invested. Although it’s looking increasingly unlikely. Four minutes become three. “What happens if it’s a tie?” I ask suddenly.

  “They go into overtime. They put another twenty minutes up on the clock. The first team to score during that period wins. Rinse and repeat.”

  “Oh. But the dating goalie thinks L.A. can win inside of three minutes?”

  “That’s what he said. But it seems unlikely.”

  I guess it doesn’t matter what I do, then. So I take the phone from Becky and erase her reply.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m rewording it.” Sure, if L.A. wins in the next three minutes, I’ll go out on a date with you. I’ll put the green jersey back on, though, just to keep this interesting.

  “Delilah! That’s bitchy.”

  “It’s a shirt, Beck.” I hit Send. “No shirt ever changed the outcome of a game. Where’s the green one?”

  She blinks at me. “I’m not giving it to you.”

  “Why not? I’m being fun.”

  “No, you’re sabotaging yourself. It’s like you don’t even want to meet a nice man. I’m worried about you.”

  “I would love to meet a nice man,” I tell her. “Except those don’t really exist.”

  “See?” she sputters. “That’s not true.”

  “Name one. A real one. Not a guy from one of your books.”

  She bites her lip. “Okay, just because we meet a lot of assholes in the music business doesn’t mean nice guys don’t exist.”

  “Really? Between us, we have fifty years of experience meeting boys. And not one nice boyfriend to show for it.”

  “I had a very nice boyfriend,” she argues. “It’s just that he now also has a very nice boyfriend.”

  “Well…” I have to admit that her ex is a good guy. “Whatever. There aren’t many. And you’re stalling. Hand over the Dallas jersey.”

  “You’ll have to kill me first,” she says crisply. “One of us is going on a fun date, damn it.” She checks her phone.

  “What did he say?” I find myself asking.

  “Nothing at all.” She stashes her phone. “He’s glued to the game, I’ll bet. That’s why I want you to meet him. He’s interested in you, but he has his own life. Not like Ferris, the blood-sucking vampire.”

  “I thought we weren’t talking about him tonight.”

  “Fine. Two minutes,” Becky says, leaning forward in her seat. “The suspense is killing me.”

  I have to admit it’s killing me, too. The puck is in the far corner now, with players fighting over it. I can almost feel the clock ticking down in my gut. Then L.A. flips it loose, and the chase is on.

  “He replied!” Becky says, her phone in her hand again. “He says: Even if you wear the Dallas jersey, this is totally happening. You look pretty great in black, though. Just saying.”

  It ought to seem a little creepy that he can see me when I can’t see him. But for some reason the compliment spreads warmth across my face, anyway.

  “Aw! See how cute he is?” Becky gasps. “You two can tell this story to your children.”

  “Oh stop.” My cheeks are on fire, and it makes no sense. Besides, there’s only ninety seconds on the clock now.

  “Come on L.A.!” Becky hollers. “Let’s make some opportunities!”

  The players’ speed is almost dizzying. I guess it would light a fire under my ass, too, if I knew this could head into infinite overtime. It’s a blur of black and green and sheer ambition. I lose track of the puck near the Dallas goal. “What’s happening?” I ask pointlessly.

  “SHOOT!” Becky screams.

  And then twenty thousand people stand up for a better look as the Dallas goalie dives.

  I stop breathing. And then the crowd makes a deafening roar as the lamp lights behind the Dallas goal.

  “OMG!
” Becky squeaks. “L.A. scored!”

  “There’s still another minute on the clock,” I say slowly.

  She cackles. “What are the odds? I think you’re going on a date.”

  I take the phone out of her hand. So, um, where do you live? I reply to the goalie.

  It looks like I’m going to meet him after all.

  Three Years Earlier

  Delilah

  My set at the Coconut Club sets off a flurry of meetings with record labels. For a few days, it’s wildly exciting. Although nobody offers me a contract.

  “Yet,” Brett corrects me when I point this out after one of the meetings. His brand-new pair of mirrored sunglasses shine in the California sunlight, and he flashes me a smile full of perfectly whitened teeth.

  I want to believe him so badly. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m just one more shiny thing in his life that he’ll discard when a newer model comes along.

  “We’re not taking the first offer that comes, anyway,” he adds. “I’m going to play hardball.”

  Brett is fond of using sports analogies. Just an hour ago he said that if nobody signs me he’ll throw a “Hail Mary pass” and record the album himself.

  I had to Google it, because I don’t follow sportsball. But a Hail Mary pass is something you do in football if you’re running out of options.

  This is life in the arts. You have these little moments of glory when the applause is loud, and it feels like you might finally take things to a whole new level. But then the glow wears off and you realize nothing has changed.

  “I think I’ll go off in a corner somewhere and do some writing,” I tell him. “Get my mind off it.”

  “You do that.” I get another blinding smile. He puts a possessive hand on the back of my neck and gives me an appreciative look.

  It would be so easy right now to lean in and let him kiss me. I don’t do it. But I don’t hate that look he’s giving me—like I’m fascinating. Sometimes I make bad decisions when men look at me like that.

  But not today. I ease back, disappointing him. He doesn’t force the issue, though, especially after the earful I gave him after that obnoxious kiss in front of the Coconut Club crowd.

  “We are not a couple,” I’d reminded him. Not yet, anyway.

  “I was just overwhelmed,” he’d said. “You were so amazing. I lost my head.”

  He said it wouldn’t happen again. And it can’t. If I give in to this man, he’ll take me for granted. I need him to find me a record deal more than I need a man in my bed. Even if he is objectively attractive and successful.

  “Chin up, girl,” he tells me now. “You have what it takes. I’m going to make sure everybody knows. There will be more meetings.”

  “I know.” I plaster a smile on my face and make plans to meet him later. Then we part ways. I walk down Main Street, glancing into shop windows, taking my time.

  Darlington Beach reminds me of the Colorado town where I went to high school. There were mountains there instead of the ocean. But the vibe is the same, as is the string of expensive shops.

  There isn’t a single thing in these window displays that I could ever afford—then or now. I really don’t understand how they stay in business selling artisanal pottery. Only one of the pieces in the window has its price tag showing—probably in error. It’s a $160 bowl. And it’s not even large.

  When I was sixteen, I was placed in my seventh foster home. The couple were both pastors at a pretty stone church. Taking in foster kids was part of their calling, they said.

  They were okay. I have no horror stories about them, other than his laugh sounded like a drunk hyena’s. But the school was a disaster for me in my second-hand clothes and off-brand jacket. I didn’t wear North Face or play a sport or snowboard.

  I spent a lot of time alone, scribbling poetry into notebooks and practicing the beat-up guitar that I’d literally found on a curb on trash day.

  My foster parents tried to get me to play during their church service, but I wouldn’t do it. I didn’t need one more way to look weird in front of my peers.

  The high school music teacher tried to help me, though. Mrs. Hernandez was a taskmaster, but she cared. She paid for new strings for my guitar out of her own pocket and had one of the tuning keys fixed.

  “It sounds like a new instrument,” I’d said in a hushed voice when she handed it back to me.

  “You keep practicing those arpeggios,” she’d said in her clipped voice. “Music builds character, and it’s good brain work.”

  I just liked the way I felt when the chords hummed against my body. Calmer.

  Then the high school held a fundraiser, and Mrs. Hernandez—whose practice rooms I’d been using after school—paired me up with Travis Baker. “Guitar and piano, guys. Pick a piece and perform it. I don’t care what you pick as long as its inoffensive and under eight minutes.”

  Travis Baker. He had strong-looking arms and a slow smile that I’d been admiring from a distance ever since I landed at Cottonwood High. He was also wildly popular with the girls who ran the school. He had a shiny, black Jeep—a Wrangler—the cool kind made for adventure—and I never saw him in it alone. The glossy ponytails of various girls were always visible beside him.

  “Heartbreaker,” was the word I’d most often heard in reference to him.

  We’d never spoken before. But spending hours alone in a practice room has a way of bringing people together. Travis dropped his cool-guy facade pretty fast when it was just the two of us.

  I couldn’t believe my own luck. Not only was it fun to have someone else to play with, he was good. I let him choose the music. He brought in sheet music for an Eagles medley.

  Don Henley doesn’t really do it for me, but at least the hottie hadn’t chosen a bad piano arrangement of Metallica.

  I still wouldn’t have argued, though. I was deep in lust before we ever sat down to play together. Rehearsals were heaven. I got to watch those muscular arms move up and down the keyboard.

  And all musicians have a music face. It’s an expression that’s out of your control, because you’re concentrating on the sound and forgetting yourself. Everyone’s music face is different. Some people look dreamy. Some look constipated.

  Travis looked…serene. Everything felt softer inside me while I watched him play. And whenever we finished a part, he’d look up at me and smile. “Not bad, right?”

  I swear to God, it was the first time in my whole young life I’d ever felt seen.

  So when he leaned over and kissed me one afternoon, I was less shocked than I should have been.

  After that, our remaining rehearsals were half spent on music, and half on fooling around. One practice room had a lock on the door, since it was once a teacher’s office. Travis made sure to grab that one, I noticed. After a run-through of our material, he’d pull me into his lap and put his hands up my shirt. And my hand down his pants.

  One inevitable afternoon he forgot to lock the door. I heard a click followed by a sharp intake of breath. Then the yelling started.

  Even as Travis zipped up his pants, Mrs. Hernandez was shrieking, “Idiot! Are you crazy? Are you stupid? Do you not know how this works? You make good choices—you could go to college and be something. I tried to help you! And you do this? Stupid little slut.”

  She yelled only at me. Travis snuck out of there unscathed. Six years later I still cringe when I remember all the awful things Mrs. Hernandez said. She also canceled our duet.

  But that’s not what hurt the most. Travis never spoke to me again. Unfortunately, he spoke about me. There were whispers and pointed fingers the very next day.

  Slut. Trailer trash. Those are just a few of the choice words I heard about myself. That’s my most indelible memory of high school. And I’ve been a mistrustful person pretty much ever since. People who appear to appreciate you can turn their backs in an instant.

  That’s why I’ve kept my distance from Brett Ferris. He may well be the grown-up version of Travis. A rich guy w
ith big plans and plenty of options.

  I’m still the poor kid toiling in obscurity. But if I’m careful and patient, I can put my career first. And if Brett Ferris still wants me after I don’t really need him anymore, then maybe we are a good fit.

  Maybe. I’m not ready to trust it.

  Today I’m too far inside my own head. Any songwriting I do will come out broody and self-conscious.

  So I don’t take my notebook to the park near the beach and find an isolated spot in the shade. My feet lead me somewhere else entirely. The fine shops on Main Street eventually give way to a gas station and a nondescript post office.

  Past that is my true destination: Roadie Joe’s.

  Just like the last time I was here, the outdoor tables facing the beach are all occupied. But as I pause at the side window and peer into the darkened bar, I see only one person.

  Ralph is there, just like last time.

  I pause for a moment, taking him in. He’s chopping something with those strong hands. I have a thing for men’s hands, apparently.

  The rest of him is pretty great, too. There’s something sexy about the way he moves. And the trimmed beard works well on him. It makes him more rugged than beautiful. Except for those kind eyes. They’re special—a green-blue color, rimmed with dark brown lashes.

  Still, California is full of attractive men. Standing here, gazing through the window, I still can’t figure out why he’s so fascinating to me. But he is.

  So I open the door and step inside. There’s some music playing at low volume and kitchen sounds, too. Ralph doesn’t hear me as I cross the room to the bar. The stool slides noiselessly when I pull it out. I sit down, still unnoticed.

  Then, as he twists to reach for a pitcher, he finally spots me. He’s startled, pausing midstep. Then something goes very wrong. One moment we’ve locked eyes, and the next moment he disappears from view, falling violently to the floor with a horrible crash and a thump.

  “Omigod are you okay?” I squeak. “Ralph?”

  “Fine!” He lets out a frustrated groan and climbs to his feet. “I slipped. My buddy took the rubber mats outside and…” He shakes his head, then rubs the side of it. I suspect he whacked it against something. “What are you, part ninja? At least nobody else saw that.”