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I stopped, confused. “I don’t know what you’re saying Russian. What’s happened?”
“Really? You’re all over social media with some guy, several guys actually,” he said, his voice was dangerously low.
“What guys?”
“The guys you were tarting around with,” he snapped.
“Hold on,” I said, still confused. “I was out with the girls, I didn’t have a guy with me ... I grabbed my iPad, tapped in my password and checked out the feeds. Some of the girls had already posted images from our night out and there I was with Steffi, both of us planting a kiss on the cheek of our team manager who stood between us and was old enough to be our father; then there was shot of me with Aimee, her cousin Roy, the coach and the coach’s husband. Roy had his arm around Aimee and me; there was another shot with Steffi, me, Latoya and her fiancé ... they were nothing shots.
“They’re not guys, well technically they are, but they’re the team guys ... our team manager, the coach’s husband, Latoya’s fiancé ...” my voice trailed off as I heard the sound of overwhelming silence on the other end of the line. Was he seriously freaking out about this?
“Russian,” I started again, “this is nothing more than if you were out with the Saints and had some random group shots taken with the club’s extended family.” All clubs had extended families of partners, kids, relatives and friends.
I heard him inhale. “I told you Brooker, I wasn’t playing this game; I’m not putting up with that shit again ... I’ve had years of it. If you want to fuck around, fine, but not while you’re with me,” he said, and hung up.
I stared at the phone. What the fuck had just happened? In a matter of minutes I had gone from a huge high to the lowest of lows.
I looked at all the shots to see what he was seeing, but they really were innocent – especially when you knew the people in the shots as well as I did. Then I got angry. I didn’t want to wake Lucas, but I guessed The Russian had his phone on silent, so I rang. He must have stayed out on the balcony because he answered after a few rings and I could hear the noise of the city behind him – I had been bracing myself for the message bank.
“Russian, we need to talk,” I said, in my most pacifying voice.
He made this grunting sound.
I felt scared and angry, they were competing with each other. I kept going. “I know you’re in pain and I know you’ve been hurt before, but you can’t deflect that on me,” I said. Again, dead silence. “I don’t fuck around. I’ve never fucked around, I’ve never cheated on anyone and I won’t do that, do you understand?” I asked. He didn’t answer.
I continued: “I’m not your ex-girlfriend, Russian, and you need to find a way to unload all that baggage you are carrying about her and these jealousy issues.”
I waited, neither of us spoke for about a minute.
“So let me get this straight ... you often go around kissing guys and letting them put their arms around you?” he snarled.
“Yeah, I do when they’re friends. And when your female friends—Saints’ partners, the office girls, old friends—do the same to you, I’ll hide my jealousy and trust that you don’t have feelings for them, and that your intentions to me are pure.”
He ignored what I said. “That cousin of Aimee’s was keen to get to know you last time we met, now you’re all over him. Why don’t you just follow him up and we’ll call it quits?”
I knew he was baiting me and I knew he wanted an avalanche of assurances but that hit like a punch to the stomach. Now I was hurt and fucking angry. I snapped.
“I’ve got a better idea, Russian, when you grow up, give me a call ... if I haven’t fucked off with the entire male basketball team by then,” I shot back at him, and then I hung up. I breathed out, put my phone down and burst into tears.
It rang straight away and I didn’t answer. The Russian’s name lit the screen and this time he left a message.
“Don’t fucking hang up on me Brooker,” he growled, “call me back.”
Fuck you, Russian. I put the phone on silence so he wouldn’t stalk me for the rest of the night, what sleep hours remained, and I went to bed. But I didn’t sleep, I cried, and stressed and went through all my actions in my head to see if I had been ‘tarty’ or led anyone on, or disrespected The Russian.
Then I decided to drive home in the morning ... it would take me a few hours but I could get there in time to hear Dad give mass and then see what he thought about the situation. Dad’s perspective would help – he was a qualified counselor as well as a reverend.
I glanced at the clock – it was nearly two a.m.; I would leave at seven to get home by nine and to attend Dad’s nine-thirty service. My phone buzzed beside me a few more times and then, somehow, with pure exhaustion riding me, I must have slept a few hours. I woke and washed my face, my eyes were swollen, and I put on something conservative for church. I drove with the sun rising around me and headed home.
