We aren’t really officially together, but I like the way it sounds, so I let him continue on with his delusions. We’ve already followed her across all the platforms and strategically liked certain posts by media outlets.
It seems like overkill, but it’s caused the attention our managers had been aiming for. Mae’s fans continue to theorize while the football fans make their jokes, but so far it seems mostly positive. I hope Mae is having a similar experience.
“Oh, she just posted.” I try my best not to look too excited as I shift my weight on the couch towards Steven and my phone.
Sitting on a brick wall with Nashville’s skyline out in the distance, Mae sits in a sundress with a guitar resting in her lap. “Turn it up, would ya?” I say somewhat strained, trying not to sound too demanding.
Just as he does, the video cuts to Mae talking about an apparent new song. “I started writing this one a long time ago about someone in my life. I’ve just recently had the inspiration to finish it.” She smiles as the video cuts back to her picking the guitar and humming; I’m mesmerized by her ability to effortlessly tell a story in a single verse. The video fades out with an announcement that the single is now available.
“Well, we’ve gotta repost that,” Steven says, already moving toward the right button. “That Raleigh chick knows what she’s doing.”
“Hey, hold on, man, let me check with her first,” I say, ignoring his remark about Raleigh and taking my phone from his hands. I’d hate to do anything that makes Mae uncomfortable. Reposting a love song that will certainly be rumored to be about me kind of crosses that line for me.
Wyatt:Hey. Steven wants to repost your new video. Is that okay with you?
Wyatt:It was beautiful, by the way.
She responds almost immediately.
Mae:Thanks. It’s not my favorite piece, but my record label thought it would be good to release as a promotional single. You can repost it only if YOU want to.
Wyatt:I want to post it.
Mae:Then do it! I’m sure the football boys will love seeing my face on their feed for the 80 millionth time today.
Her response garners a chuckle from me.
Wyatt:They better get used to it.
Mae:I’m not going anywhere. *Blushing emoji*
“Can I do my job, please?” Steven asks, holding out his hand for the phone again.
Reluctantly, I hand over the one piece of Mae I have and pout. Steven taps the screen a few times and then clicks it off.
“Alright, you can have it back now. I’m going to comb through the tabloids just to see what they’ve cooked up for the day.” He glances over at me. “You can go get ready for practice if you need to.”
“Thanks for your permission,” I grumble, hoisting myself up and out of the living room.
We’d been checking the tabloids more recently. Most of them were hilariously off, but others were eerily spot-on. Photos of our drive after the game leaked along with intimate details of her flight. I asked Mae about it, and she seemed altogether unbothered. I don’t know if that’s something I could ever get used to.
In another article, it had compared the photos to the ones taken a few years ago, which caused a car accident. I didn’t want to look for more information, but I felt compelled to know more. What I found had me nearly breaking the chair with my grip. A paparazzo was driving while trying to get photos of Mae. He slammed into the side of her car at an intersection, killing himself in the process. She was sent to the hospital. The visions of my parents’ accident came screaming back and that had been enough to slam my laptop shut. I’m going to be late for practice if I don’t leave now anyway.
As I hop into my own car, I look over and wish Mae was there to fill the space. Next time she goes on a drive with me, I’ll be extra vigilant. My entire drive to practice is overly cautious, the images of Mae unconscious on a gurney playing on a film reel in my head over and over.
***
The past few days, I’ve been the subject of locker room teasing. Thankfully, we leave for Texas tomorrow and everyone’s head is screwed on right. I still don’t escape Coach; he pulls me aside towards the end of cooldown drills.
To my surprise, he pulls out a folded newspaper and points to the headline. I mean, no one even reads the print any more. It was one Steven and I had already looked through this morning and it's harmless, at least from a PR perspective. A shiver still runs down my spine when Coach gives me a pointed look.
“Is this going to cause problems?” he asks, his eyebrows raised.
“No, Coach,” I say, looking him dead in the eye. He’s never been one to hold a serious look for too long. It’s no different here. He cracks a smile and drapes an arm across my shoulders. “I just want you to be happy. There’s no reason to listen to any of this outside noise. It doesn’t matter. What happens on the field doesn’t matter.”
I push against him to create distance between us. “What?” If football doesn’t matter, then what does?
He pushes me back. “Of course it matters, Wyatt, but what you’re feeling matters more. I just don’t want the pressure to get to you. Usually, Ben’s the one under this kind of spotlight. You think you’re already picked apart for each and every play? They’re coming after you ten times harder now.”
