The Game Changer (The Perfect Game #2)

The Game Changer (The Perfect Game #2) Page 19

“Thanks.” Confused and unsure, I asked, “Do I still need a ticket to get in?”

“Yes, you do. The ID card is so you can get down to the locker rooms at away stadiums.” She handed me an envelope with one ticket inside.

“Ah. That makes sense. Thanks so much.” I turned to leave, walking toward the other building.

My freshly printed ID card in hand, I made my way to my assigned seat. It wasn’t the same seat from last night’s game, but it was still in the same section. Tension galloped through my body like a racehorse as I neared the seats filled with the mean girls.

“Try not to yell at your boyfriend tonight, Cassie!” A manly voice mocked me from behind and I stopped midstep.

“Bitch,” another voice mumbled within earshot.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Resisting the urge to look over my shoulder and confront the hecklers, I straightened my shoulders and continued toward my appointed row, my heart pounding out beats in double time against my flesh.

“If poor Jack gets cussed out when he wins, imagine what she does to him when he loses!” another voice bellowed, barely louder than the pounding that echoed in my ears.

Suddenly feeling vulnerable, I quickened my pace down the concrete steps. I shuffled into my seat, recognizing the meanest wife, Kymber, right away as she watched the situation unfolding. She laughed and whispered something into the ear of the wife sitting next to her. Both women glanced at me before directing their attention elsewhere.

So, it’s really going to be like this. Awesome.

My phone vibrated, and I pulled it from my pocket. Thankful to see Melissa’s name on the screen, I clicked the text message button.

Put that shit-eating grin on, babe!

That was all she wrote, followed by a picture of me walking in the stadium, an uncomfortable look plastered all over my face.

I shoved my phone into my purse, feeling nervous and extremely exposed. It was one thing to be in a stadium filled with people when no one knew who you were, but it was quite another when you were recognized. I’d become completely identifiable to the thousands of people around me, all of whom knew—thanks to the pictures popping up online and in the press—I was Jack Carter’s girlfriend.

These fans had already formed their own opinions about the picture printed in the newspaper this morning. They assumed they knew me, or knew the kind of person I was. They made judgment calls about my character based on nothing but a simple photo taken completely out of context, which, as a photographer, really pissed me off. I strived to maintain my integrity when I was shooting, making sure that my photographs and edits always captured what was truly going on in the scene. I never attempted to create a false illusion with my pictures. Apparently it was too much to ask others to do the same.

If people wanted to take pictures of me without my knowledge, they absolutely could… and they would. If they wanted to approach me, there was nothing to stop them. I lacked any sort of self-protection, and it worried me. If the other wives weren’t such raging bitches, I would have asked them how they got through it. It amazed me that none of them offered to help, or asked if I was OK. I looked around for Trina, but she was nowhere to be found. And since Jack pitched last night, he wouldn’t be pitching at all tonight.

I toyed with the idea of calling Matteo and going back home, but the potential fallout cemented my ass right to my seat. I imagined pictures of me leaving the game early followed by distasteful and untrue headlines.

Nope. I wasn’t moving. My pride refused to let me.

My phone vibrated again and I considered not grabbing it. One reminder pulse later, I reached into my purse, pulling it out. Another text from Melissa. Did I want to see this? Resigned to whatever fate was throwing at me tonight, I clicked the Read button.

Remember: LEMONS! In. Their. Faces.

A smile crept over my face as I stifled a laugh, hearing her voice in my head. Meli was right. I inhaled a sharp breath, suddenly filled with the determination to rise above this madness. I would not let them beat me. Not the mean-spirited fans. Not the horrible wives. Not the newspapers or online sites.

I watched this game for one reason and one reason only.

Jack. Fucking. Carter.

No one in this stadium had any idea the kind of hell Jack and I had endured in the past, and I’d be damned if anyone was going to ruin this for me after all we’d been through. I crossed my legs and leaned my back against the cold, hard seat, silently wishing Trina would show up soon.

Yes, I wanted to prove everyone wrong. I wanted to show them that they wouldn’t tear me down and wreck this experience. But it sure would be nice to have a friend by my side while I stayed strong in the face of such intentional ugliness.

You’ll be fine, Cass. You can do this.

And I did.

For nine long innings, without Trina by my side, I endured. I left my seat before the game officially ended in order to separate myself from the rowdy crowd as it exited. As I walked up the staircase, the sound of someone snorting and coughing briefly caught my attention. I continued up the stairs, but the sound of wetness hitting the pavement forced my attention downward. My gaze stopped on the blob of spit mere centimeters from my front foot.

“Stupid bitch,” a clearly drunken voice slurred.

Without thinking, my middle finger shot up from my right hand and flashed the crowd as I exited the aisle and into the tunnels.

Shit. I probably shouldn’t have done that.

The next morning infamous photos of Cassie flipping the bird photos were all over the Internet. Captions read: “Jack’s Sweetheart is Anything But!” and “Sassy Cassie Has Quite the Temper!” They were childish and annoying, but they affected me nonetheless. Embarrassment crept over me as I found myself thankful that Jack avoided the Internet. I quickly typed out a text to Melissa.

Make sure Dean doesn’t show that shit to Jack. I don’t need him worrying about me or yelling at me or being upset with me over this. Please make sure you talk to him.

If anyone could curb Dean’s actions, it was Melissa. I worried about him sending Jack the same type of text messages with pictures that she had been sending me. I knew better than to let the jerks know they affected me, and now I’d have to pay for my stupid actions with the online postings, comments, and whatever else came along. The last thing I wanted was for Jack to be worried about me, or think I couldn’t handle myself in the face of some stupid drunk hecklers, so I was determined to keep my behavior a secret from him.

My phone chirped.

You got it. Dean won’t tell Jack anything about his crazy middle-finger-flipping girlfriend. LOL But hey, you gotta keep it together or these fans will eat you alive. You’re better than that.

I sighed inwardly and typed.

You’re right. I know. I lost my cool. It won’t happen again.

I worked the rest of the day uninterrupted and only started to get nervous about the game when Matteo dropped me off at the stadium. If he knew about the pictures, he wasn’t saying anything.

“Have a good night, Cassie. I’ll see you later.” His smile reached all the way to his eyes, and I shoved my nervous energy aside before smiling back.

“See you later Matteo. Thanks for the ride.” I slammed the door shut, hoping no one would notice me. If the comments started already, I’d probably turn around and chase Matteo’s car all the way back to Manhattan.

Attending Jack’s games solo all the time might start to get old. I really needed to make some friends who liked watching baseball. I guess I wouldn’t want new friends so badly if the wives had been kinder. And as much as I liked Trina, it was obvious that her modeling jobs kept her from coming to most games; that sucked for me because without her there, I felt completely alone.

A few nasty comments burrowed into my eardrums as I walked out of the tunnel and into the night air. One deep, steadying breath later and my nerves started to settle. I repeated a chant in my head as I walked toward my assigned seat: Don’t give them anything to talk about. Don’t give them anything to talk about.

I avoided looking directly into anyone’s gaze for fear that they might see through my façade. I played tough on the outside, but it wouldn’t take much to break me down at this point.

The game ended and I started walking toward the exit, the sound of drunk men stumbling in line behind me. A quick shove forced me to slam into the guy in front of me, my hand grabbing his shoulder for balance. “I’m sorry,” I quickly offered as he shook me off. Another rough shove and I started to wonder if they were accidental.

Reaching the end of the aisle, I turned to eye the person responsible for the shoving, when moisture splashed against the back of my shirt and bare neck. The smell of beer filled my nostrils as I winced, rolling my shoulders forward away from my damp and sticky shirt.

“Oops,” an oversized man said with a sarcastic gruff before heading away, laughter ripping from his lungs. I watched as his friend patted him on the back in congratulations.

I stopped moving, the crowd filing out around me as my eyes met Kymber’s. She looked at my soaking back and continued walking, her eyes saying it all. She didn’t care what happened to me out here. She wasn’t on my side and she damn sure wasn’t going to do or say anything to help me. The other wives followed behind, all of them glancing in my direction, but none of them stopping to help.

I hurried toward a concession stand, my eyes scanning for a jersey with Jack’s name and number on it. I breathed out in relief when I saw it displayed against the silver fencing.

“Can I get a Carter jersey in medium please?” I asked.

After paying for my purchase, I rushed into the nearest bathroom. Tearing off my beer drenched top, I reached for the faucet. I placed my black top into the basin and allowed the warm water to drench it. I wrung my shirt out before filling it with more fresh water, repeating the cycle numerous times until I was satisfied that the beer smell had dissipated. Soaking the shirt with water one last time, I scrubbed my body with it the best I could. I tried to get the stickiness and stench off of my back, but it was hard to reach.

“Do you want me to help you?” a lady around my mom’s age asked from behind me. Her brown eyes looked sorrowful as I viewed her in the mirror.

I turned on my heels to face her, thankful for the kindness. “Please?” I refused to let myself cry from the frustration, embarrassment, and sadness. “Thank you,” I said, turning back toward my reflection.

I watched as she scrubbed at my exposed skin, taking extra care to not get me too wet. Once finished, she grabbed some paper towels and patted my back dry.

“There you go.”

“Thank you so much,” I smiled before pulling my new shirt out and slipping it over my head. I shoved my wet shirt into the bag and pulled the drawstrings tight. Glancing into the mirror, I ran my fingers through my damp hair and knew Jack would smell the beer on me if I didn’t wash it out.

I twisted my head down toward the sink, allowing the warm water to penetrate the beer soaked ends of my hair. Walking over to the hand dryer, I pressed the start button. It roared to life and I placed my wet hair under the heat. Once dry, I quickly sniffed at my hair, satisfied that no one would smell the beer unless you were searching for it. I pulled out a small bottle of scented vanilla lotion and rubbed it on my arms and my neck to help mask any lingering smells.