As my voice warbles ino the chorus the crowd erupts, prompting me to recover my focus. The finale has them all riled up. “One more time,” I call out as I grip the microphone to ground myself. My female bandmates join me at the front to finish the song. We’re hardly able to hear ourselves over the crowd screaming along.
When the final note has died, we take our hands and step to the front of the stage for our bows. I can’t hide my smile. When crowds react like this, it gives me chills. This will be another performance for the history books.
“Sign me, Mae!” a girl a few rows back screams. Pointing at her, I invite her to the front. The crowd parts and I hop down between the barrier and the stage to greet her, guitar and all. No doubt Dalton is nearby having a heart attack.
An assistant procures a Sharpie and I sign the girl’s shirt before moving down the line and signing as much as I can. I place my cowgirl hat on a young man’s head but his girlfriendsnatches it right off of him. She turns to me and beams, “I love you so much, Mae!” I smile and take a quick picture with the couple before continuing down the line. When I’ve gone down the entire length of the stage, my crew is able to hoist me back up. I turn to the crowd one more time and blow them a kiss before finding my way backstage.
“Please let me know if you plan on doing that again,” Dalton says with his arms crossed. I can usually read the crowd pretty well and decide if I should worry about them or not. This group was a bit younger and mostly women, but Dalton’s right.
Taking a deep breath, I nod. “I will. I’m sorry.”
“You killed it, queen!” Turning, I find my friend Ivy and her sister Wisteria barreling towards me. They make up a folk band out of West Virginia, and together they harmonize like angels. I envelope both of them in hugs before pulling away.
“You guys next?” I ask, completely unaware.
“We were a last-minute addition.” Wisteria stares me straight in the eyes as she says, “Trenton wanted a different slot, so they shuffled things around.”
An annoying weight rests on my chest. “He didn’t want to go on after you,” Ivy says, leaning in. “What a loser.”
I fake a smile and echo Ivy’s sentiment, “Truly a loser.”
“You ready to get out of here?” Raleigh asks, approaching. Again, her head is buried in her phone. I turn to the sisters and mouth my apologies. They laugh and shoo me along.
I hardly see friends outside of galas and award ceremonies; it’s truly a blessing to have their presence. I try not to think about the other option. I have no intention of ever seeing Trenton Travers ever again.
As the sisters take the stage, my crew is escorted out the back. Hearing the sisters’ sweet harmonies calms me as we track towards the vans. A few fans have found their way back. It’s normal; usually at festivals like this, friends and families ofperformers are backstage. Still in a good mood from the high of performing, I find my smile and approach the group. I can feel Dalton’s watchful eye on me as we enter the belly of the beast.
I do my best to accommodate everyone with pictures and autographs. Most add them to their photo galleries of themselves with other celebrities and walk off satisfied but a small group of teenage girls are more reluctant to leave quietly.
“Okay, but what about this nonsense with Wyatt Lucas?” The young girl’s question catches me off guard. I’d seen his comments about my performance and how I was lucky they’d loaned me their stadium. I’d also seen the sweet pictures of him cuddling up next to two striking women in the stands.
“I don’t really know him,” I say, shaking my head with a polite smile. A vision of his stunning emerald eyes seer across my mind. We’ve never met and yet I haven’t been able to shake the familiarity since our paths crossed.
The next girl can’t let it go. “But, like, would you go to a game if he asked?” The bravery of these girls to speak to me as if they’re my best friends. But they are friends, right? I call my fans friends all the time. I trust them more than a lot of people in my inner Nashville circles.
“I’m a Nashville football fan,” I say with a shrug, leaving it open-ended. At the sound of the next question, Raleigh steers me right into the waiting SUV.
I stare out the window as we depart and head back towards the city. Tempted to open my phone and do my own research, I turn to Raleigh instead, “Did something else happen with that football player?”
Raleigh reaches across the space without looking up and pulls my fingers away from my mouth. I’ve always bitten my nails and it’s something Raleigh’s always hated. She scrolls through her phone for a few more seconds before spinning it my way.
“Well, that’s an interesting edit,” I say, hardly able to keep my smile hidden. She turns up the volume, and that’s when the embarrassment really starts. The images of myself ruling the stage and Wyatt’s best catches are cut together with a song I sang at a bar ages ago. It was never good enough to make an album–a cheesy love song–but the fans had found it and obsessed over it since it somehow saw the light of day.
I lean forward and scroll. Everybody is talking about us. Reporters on the gossip sites and sports channels alike. “Well that’s one way to bring the country together,” I say, leaning back into the leather seat. We haven’t even met each other, and this is the attention we’ve garnered.
“We’ve got to go to a game,” Raleigh says, continuing to scroll.
I push the phone away. “He’s a big-time football player. Emphasis on ‘player.’” I don’t know what causes me to attack his dating life. I don’t know anything about him, but the players in Nashville are on all of my friends’ lists of men not to touch at any cost. How could an athlete in big time LA be any better?
“He’s not,” Raleigh starts. “He doesn’t date like -”
I hold a hand up, cutting her off. “Doesn’t matter; he’s not interested.”
“But you are?” she asks, wriggling her eyebrows.
I feel the red heat climbing up my neck. I haven’t been on a date since Trenton, and before that, well, no one. It’s nice to have someone outwardly crush on me, and this one isn’t some creep. This is LA Gators receiver Wyatt Lucas. “I’m already a distraction. He doesn’t need more.” I say instead. I need to find every way to push this away, because if I don't, I might end up doing something very stupid.
Raleigh holds up her phone again. This time it’s a highlight reel of the Gators in their opening game. Almost every other shot is of him doing something crazy athletic. “I think distraction looks good on him,” Raleigh says.
