We’re quiet for a moment. Probably we’re both thinking that no helicopter has flown looking for us.
Why hasn’t one?
“Your job knows you’re here, right?” I ask.
“Yes. I was speaking with my boss at breakfast.”
“So they should search for us.”
They should have searched for us regardless.
He gives a half-smile. “Yes, he’ll want updates on what happened to you. Since I followed you to Fiji.”
I snort. “I bet he was surprised.”
“It was his idea.”
My blood drops downward, and every organ lurches.
Because Cal hasn’t said that he wants to write a major story on me, but if Sports Sphere is putting up the money to follow me to Fiji, they think the story can be huge.
How many words is Cal going to write about how terrible I am? How long is he going to be on his screen, working to phrase the words with maximum negative impact? So all the country’s sports fans can shudder at how awful I am?
Embarrassment floods my body. My family will read it. My coaches. My teammates. Every person I once got along with. Every person I didn’t get along with, who will now know they were justified in not liking me, in deeming me not good enough for them.
The message boards.
It’s not a good idea to Google yourself. It’s something I don’t want to admit to doing.
But the thing is, sometimes I do have free time in the day. And I remember being curious.
I didn’t expect some web magazine I’d never heard of would have me on a list of Ten Worst Celebrity Lays. I didn’t expect that some hook up, well, several hook ups, would be talking about how un-amazing I was in bed. Most of the other guys on thatlist were in their seventies and shouldn’t be expected to perform like their celebrity reputation might have assumed back in the twentieth century, when there wasn’t even the Internet, and everyone was bored all the time and no wonder they got good at fucking.
I was the youngest person on the list.
Did Cal read that article? Will he?
Someone flings blood around my body, hampering my veins and organs’ normal process.
I don’t want people to know I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want them to know that I’m always, always pretending. I don’t want them to smirk, their eyebrows to lurch when they think about me.
Cal’s face flushes, like he knows what I’m thinking about. “I’m sorry. It’s my job. I just wanted to do a good job.”
“I should have given you the interview when you showed up at my apartment.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“My father thought I should go on a vacation. Let the team management know I’m not sad.”
“I would have thought mournful and frequent apologies would be viewed more highly.”
“Probably.” I glance at him. “I wanted to be a good hire.”
“I know,” Cal says.
“I wanted to be a good colleague. A good teammate.”
“So what happened?”
