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On autopilot, I shook her hand.
I took the cue from her, repeating my name and emphasizing my supposed last name. “Ah, thank you. It’s Marietta…Adams.” My voice−just a notch louder when I said “Adams,” making sure Scott Englewood embedded it into his memory bank so I could avoid the unpleasantness of him forgetting it again.
“Marietta, can I take your beautiful coat and hang it in our coat room?” she asked, unfazed by what she clearly knew was transpiring.
I shook my head, thinking about how Mandy had meticulously taped the tag to the inside lining so it wouldn’t accidentally poke out. “No, I’m fine. It’s a little chilly, so I’ll just keep…”
I felt his firm touch on my elbow as he leaned in closer to my ear, his breath brushing my cheek. “Give her the coat. I’d like to see what’s under the wrapping,” he said, his tone hanging somewhere between commanding and salacious. A combinationof the two—a tone I would learn to associate with many clients over the years.
A silent sigh left my mouth, steeling myself for the humiliation that would follow. Retracting my arms from the sleeves, I felt him behind me, gently pulling the cream wool off my shoulders. Then I saw Cynthia’s eyes shift at the exact moment when she realized why I was reluctant to give her my coat. She extended her arm toward Scott. “I’ll take that,” she said, quickly folding it over her arm, hiding the taped tag, protecting my farce.
The right side of my mouth went up, my lips moving with the words “Thank you.”
She nodded. “You two enjoy. And, Marietta, let me know if that martini isn’t to your liking. The bartender doesn’t always know how to break on the gin, so if you’d like something else, it’s no problem,” she said, turning her arm once again so that no one could see the taped tag. Silently, I took note of her kindness and swore I’d pay that back to the world someday.
His eyes leisurely examined me as if I were a piece of art and he had to figure out if it was to his taste. My breath halted as his gaze rested on my hips before scrolling up to my breasts then meeting my eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched—not anice to meet yousmile, but more like anI approve of my purchasekind of smirk. I winced internally. It wouldn’t be the last time that a client’s appraising eyes made me want to hurl. Instead, I smiled demurely, the way I imagined Marietta would, my chin slightly down, my head to the side, my expression submissive, while on the inside I flipped him off. To put it simply, he had the power, and I did not. That little fact lit a fire in me that I would constantly have to douse.You’re using him as much as he’s using you!Those words drove me that night and for the following five years. I learned how todisassociatemyself from Rakell to become Marietta.
The flight attendant, asking if she’d like another drink, snapped Rakell back to the present. Her mind was churning with memories and trying to figure out what the future would look like. What would happen with Jake? The warring thoughts battled against one another. Should she take the risk of telling Jake the truth or cut all ties with him? She could say she was involved with someone else, but after thinking about it, she knew she didn’t want to hurt him. Or she could do as Matt said and give him the chance.
She wanted to open up to Jake, but it was a risk and so difficult for her to do, but surely he, especially Jake, would understand her past. He deserved to have some clarity about why she ran last spring. Why, when he reached out after that day, she was mostly silent. There was a way to shed some light but not reveal the details of being Marietta…she thought, settling the back-and-forth argument twisting in her.
Chapter Seven
Dwayne threw his bag in the overhead bin and scooted into the seat next to Jake. “This is unbelievable. We are heading to the biggest game of the year, Jake, you and me. So I guess the man upstairs does listen to you. Must know that even if you fumble in life, you still mean to do the right thing.”
Jake snorted. “Really, dude, don’t use words likefumblearound me right now. I am trying to psych myself up. Picture us winning…all that stuff you're supposed to do in your head before something like this. Visualize the scoreboard, visualize you being open and me throwing a spiraling pass your way, and how grateful you are for this throwing arm.”
“Sure, sure. All I know is I’ve been envisioning this since I was nine. I always saw myself playing pro, then this of course, this, the Super Bowl.”
“And your dad, he wanted this for you. You said you promised him, so I suppose we can thank him.”
“Yes.” Dwayne tilted his head, his eyes on Jake, as if he was rolling Jake’s words over in his head. “But I’m doing this for… I want this win for my mom. She’s the one who sacrificed the most.” He wanted to move Jake off the subject of his dad. “You? Did you picture this when you were young?”
“Dude, I didn’t think I’d even play in college. That game, that infamous game, when Bowie beat Westlake that I may have mentioned a few thousand times because everyone in Austin thinks I made it up—I’ll never forget it because that game changed everything for me. It truly was the biggest game of my life.”
“Well, brother, when we take home the Super Bowl trophy, you may rethink that.” Dwayne chuckled.
Jake put his head back, shutting his eyes, thinking about how life-changing that day had felt. “That game was the first time I ever saw football as a way of life instead of something I did after school.”
“Well, let’s keep that way of life going,” Dwayne said, resting his head back. Both were silent.
As Jake tried to see himself playing the Kentucky Stallions tomorrow, his brain replayed that game when he was sixteen.
I played football for Bowie High School in Austin. The team hadn’t won a championship in years. I’d heard countless people tell my parents, “If you want him to have a football future, send him to Westlake. They send so many kids to college on scholarships. That’ll give him a better shot at the NFL…just look at Drew Brees.” But my parents shrugged those comments off.
I got the distinct feeling that they thought I was good enough for high school football, but that’s where it would stop. To be honest, I saw myself in the same light. I thought maybe I could be a history teacher like Mr. E., the most beloved teacher at Bowie. I never thought football was my ticket—I just loved it. But I also loved riding horses, boating, and reading about history. Growing up, I saw myself staying in Austin, working on my parents’ ranch, and teaching high school. Things changed in my junior year.
“Jake, you can’t bull your way through this game.” Coach Mark got in my face, and it was clear he was pissed at my approach on the field. Bowie was behind by three, and the game had been back and forth all night. I kept trying to run the ball down thefield, but Westlake’s defense was all over me. I was used to being able to do what I wanted because I was big and fast. But the Westlake boys were just as big, maybe bigger, and just as fast. I was pretty sure those rich Westlake parents were feeding their boys only the best grass-fed beef.
Coach Mark always said I lacked “football finesse.” I’d nod my head and think,Sure, whatever the hell that is.This is football, not fucking ballroom dancing.Until that night, I thought he was saying that to make himself sound more sophisticated than just a Texas high school football coach.
Staring right back at Coach Mark’s red face, I had yelled, “Then what, Coach? What the hell do you want me to do?” Grinding my teeth, I knew I was teetering too close to Coach Mark exploding. He didn’t tolerate disrespect.
Coach grabbed the side of my helmet. “Think, Jake. This is a thinking man’s sport. You’ve got a whole team out there counting on you to think, and they’re ready to help you execute. Slow down, take a second to think about your next move. You’re one of eleven, not the whole blessed team. This isn’t about you, damn it. Just think!”
I wanted to argue, yell right back at him. But I took a deep breath and repeated Coach’s words, “Think, think.” Our defense had held Westlake on their last drive, and now our offense was running onto the field.
“You got this Jake—use that brain!” I heard Coach Mark yell behind me. I blew out a long sigh, scanning the group as we huddled up. I took in the other players, mostly juniors and seniors.These guys know what to do, help them do it,I murmured to myself, trying to pull together all the splintering thoughts going through my brain so I could concentrate on the here and now.
