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“Have you tried to call her?”
“Yeah… got her voicemail.” Foster’s distracted, his tone a weird mix of fear and anger.
“Are Sandra’s parents concerned that something bad happened?”
Foster’s gaze comes to me and he blinks before shaking his head. “No. They talked to her last night and she said she was thinking about rescheduling the flight but didn’t say why.”
“She’s fucking with you,” Liam says with disgust.
“Most likely,” Foster mutters as he stands from his stool and storms off. “Petty-assed bitch.”
Pushing my beer back, I follow him over the velvet ropes. He’s got a few paces’ head start, but I can see him winding through the crowd toward the exit. I catch up to him just outside the doors.
“Wait up, man.” Foster turns, surprised to see me there. “You okay?”
“No, I’m not fucking okay. That woman can’t stop taking potshots at me, even though we’ve been divorced for almost two years. I know she’s doing it to hurt me, but she’s hurting Bowie Jane too.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Much of the anger melts from Foster’s expression. “Nah, man… but you’d be the one I’d ask if I thought you could.”
“Well, maybe she’s coming on a different flight and Bowie Jane will be there in Buffalo when we get there Wednesday. Plenty of time still.”
Foster nods, but I can tell he doesn’t hold out hope. He knows his ex-wife far better than I do and I expect he’s gearing up for disappointment.
“Come on,” I say, tossing my head toward the doors. “Let’s go finish our beers.”
“Yeah… okay.”
I open the door and hold it for Foster to precede me in when a woman calls out, “Boone… wait up.”
Glancing back, I see Bailey Rensing walking toward me. Foster glances at her, then at me. “I’ll be there soon,” I tell him, letting the door close after he enters.
Turning to Bailey, I lift my chin. “What’s up?”
“What’s up?” she chides, sauntering up to me. “Not even a hug or a kiss?”
I offer a thin smile, bending down to peck her on the cheek. “How are you, Bailey?”
Her hand comes to my chest. “Much better after running into you. It’s been way too long. Buy me a drink?”
“Actually… hanging out with the team just for a beer. Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Fair enough,” she concedes, hand dropping from my chest. “But I actually want to talk to you about a news story I’d love to interview you for.”
Bailey Rensing is a reporter for one of the local TV stations. She’s got the cool sophistication of a woman who’s comfortable in front of thousands of viewers and of course, she’s gorgeous with her deep auburn hair and green eyes. We met at a Titans’ event last year and hit it off. I asked her out and we went on a handful of dates. We had some fun times and eventually ended up in bed. Ultimately, the chemistry wasn’t that strong and we parted amicably.
“Story about what?” I ask.
“Philanthropic work done by the players. I know Ms. Norcross has the organization as a whole that supports many charities, but I’m more interested in the individual players. I saw some of the press releases about you getting your teammates out for visits to the children’s hospital and thought that would make a nice piece.”
I rub at the back of my neck, mulling this over. While we did indeed court press attention in our efforts to raise money, I certainly don’t want to be the centerpiece of a story. As such, I try to point her in a different direction. “I think all that stuff has to go through Jenna Holland, our media liaison. You should contact her.”
“Oh, I will,” Bailey assures me with a wink. “But it’s you I’m going to ask for permission to interview. I just thought I’d float it by you first.”
“Whatever the front office wants me to do, I’m happy to do it,” I say, making a mental note to talk with Jenna first thing in the morning and tell her I don’t want to be the only one interviewed. If they want to do a group of us, fine, but I’m not about to be the face of some puff piece when I do these visits to satisfy my soul.
“Maybe you and I can go out for a drink sometime,” she suggests, her tone silky and suggestive. “We had good times together, right?”
