“Stop kidding yourself. I think you need to give this Mae chick a call,” Ben shoulders me. “Get it over with, man up, and invite her to a game.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Bringing it out, I see my manager’s name across the front. Had the headlines from the conference sprung up this quickly?
“Oh, you’re in trouble now,” Ben teases from over my shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it. See you tomorrow.”
“Drive home safe,” I say, waving him off. I know it’s a silly thing to say to a grown man, but with my sister and my niece and nephew at home, I feel like it’s something I need to reiterate. He doesn’t look back as he waves his hand over his shoulder.
Taking a deep breath, I head back out to the field and take a seat as I answer the phone. “Hey Steven,” I say, hanging my head in wait for the biggest scolding of my life.
Steven Champ is easily the best manager in the game, but he doesn’t put up with any silly business. Today definitely qualified as something on his ‘no-no list.’
“Alright, I’ll start then,” Steve says in a clipped tone. “Today was interesting. I wish I didn’t have to hear about this relationship via some random newspaper headline, Wyatt.”
I rub my eyes in frustration. “It’s not a relationship. I went to her concert, was impressed by her talent, and that’s it.”
I hear Steven huff to the side before he laughs into the phone. “Well you should make it official.”
“What are you even talking about?” I scoff.
“The internet loves it. Your faces are everywhere.”
I swallow hard at the thought of her pretty face up close to mine. She didn’t ask for this, and I certainly didn’t mean to get her into it. “Well, I’m not going to make it official, so you better figure out a different way to spin it.”
“Alright, alright, easy, man. I didn’t know it would bother you this much. It’s just a little fun in the media.” He pauses. “I thought we could capitalize on it.”
“Can’t they just focus on football?” I ask, exasperated.
“Sexy country stars sell too. She’s the hottest thing off music row.”
I cringe at his description. “Maybe we could just call her Mae.”
“Just reading some headlines.” I can practically hear the nonchalant shrug in his tone.
I burrow my head between my legs further. Mae seemed so sweet when she wasn’t angrily singing about someone she clearly still has deep-rooted feelings about. She doesn’t deserve to be objectified on my behalf.
“You still there, Wyatt?”
I groan in reply.
“Woof, sorry. I truly didn’t think it would bother you this much. Forget that I said anything. You focus on the game and make sure those headlines are about victory tomorrow.”
Suddenly, all thoughts of Mae leave my head as I stare down at the end zone. “I will, Steve.”
The call ends and so do my anxieties. Game mode hits me like a train sometimes, and for once, I’m awfully glad for it.
Chapter 4
Mae
“I’M AFRAID IT’S that time,” I say into the microphone. It’s the end of the set; I’m sweating through my bedazzled pantsuit, and I can hardly keep my hat on my head. These late summer music festivals can be brutal, but it’s the last one I have scheduled for the year, so I figure I should enjoy it. “For this last song,” I adjust the mic in its stand and move my capo. “I’m going to do a little throwback.” I pause as the crowd roars. “There’s a lot a man can learn from a woman’s scorn.” I have to pause again as the crowd overpowers me. I can’t help but smile; they’re ready for the song, so I skip the rest of my speech. “This is a song by one of my idols. This is ‘It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels’ by Kitty Wells.”
Those who know the song scream in surprise while the others gawk at me confused. My band surrounds me as the strings start to pick up. It’s a classic country standard, but this damn song hasmeant so much to me the past few years that I feel the passion pour out of me when I sing it. Today is no different.
Even though I’m happier now and I can get through it without crying, it still helps me to feel bolstered in life, like all the women who came before me in this town are standing at my back, helping me get through it all.
Realizing my focus has wandered off as we approach the bridge, I recenter myself. Tossing my guitar over my shoulder with a twirl, I look out at all the women in the crowd and smirk. With everything I have left in me, I belt the bridge.
I sing with the shake of my head as I approach the line about the blame being on women when it comes to heartache. I watch a girl’s face light up with the truth of it as I bring the bridge home. From the beginning of time most any heart that’s ever been shattered was because of a man, not the other way around. I’ve felt these lyrics more and more lately.
