Despite my dramatic exit, I didn’t end up leaving everything behind in Paris.
Dwayne, however, was ditched soon after our taxi’s arrival at the Benton Budget.
“Are you serious?” He grabbed my arm after I thanked him for the information and tried to leave him behind on the curb in front of the hotel’s entrance.
“I came all the way to Paris to get you back. Do you know how much that cost me? I don’t even have enough money to pay my rent next month in L.A.—especially without a job!”
Old Kayla would have felt guilty about Dwayne’s plight.
But new Kayla’s head was still spinning with anger and outrage over what had happened with Mick—Andy—whatever his name was!
I snatched back my arm and shut down Dwayne’s guilt trip with a scathing, “I am not responsible for your poor decisions—not when we were dating and most definitely not now that we’re done. I am never taking you back, so get that dream—really that nightmare out of your head.”
At first, Dwayne blinked at me, looking like a confused 5 foot 11 child.
Then he started to cuss me out.
“Not your fault? Not your fault? It’s all your fucking fault, bitch!”
With a numb heart, I turned away and headed toward the hotel’s double set of front sliding doors.
“I’d still be on the Suns’ roster if it wasn’t for you not understanding the difference between me cheating on you for real and a publicity stunt! I had to do it—for my brand! Why the hell can’t you—what? No, stop! Get your hands off me!”
Dwayne abruptly switched from yelling after me to yelling at a broad-chested security guard when the middle-aged man blocked him from following me through the second set of doors.
“Guest only. Right this way, Monsieur!” The guard escorted Dwayne out of the hotel so smoothly that I could tell I wasn’t the first tourist in Paris who’d needed his help to ditch her trifling ex at the curb.
After that, I settled back into the room I should have been staying at all along, and I had no problem blocking the third number Dwayne had tried to reach me at in as many days.
However, my thumb hesitated over the option to delete and block the contact I’d made for Mick.
But then I reminded myself his name wasn’t Mick, it was Andy.
Specifically, Andrew Michael Atwater—or, as PureFootball.com referred to him when they placed him right below some guy named Roy Keane on their list of 7 Meanest British Footballers of All Time, “The A.M. Volcano.”
Just a little bit of research yielded a slew of articles detailing his horrible me-first attitude, his refusal to commit to any of the many celebrity women he’d been linked to throughout his soccer career, and his billion-dollar “side hobby” of making ruthless business deals when he wasn’t on the field.
The more I read, the more I understood why he’d pursued me so hard. I’d been a pawn in his latest business deal, the perfect cover story—and plaything while he negotiated what appeared to be a significant payday to defect to the Paris Triomphe team next season. That night at the VIP Lounge might have been some kind of hazing ritual, for all I knew. “The A.M. Volcano” testing his new teammates to see just how far they’d go to acquire him.
Andy—not Mick—had been using me. I erased and blocked the contact without another moment of hesitation.
Then, I put all of my energy into doing what I should’ve from the start, planning out an itinerary for my last three days in Paris—which I’d get back to after a quick run to the closest discount store to pick up enough clothes and toiletries to get me through the rest of my trip.
However, that turned out not to be necessary. The hotel manager knocked on my door a few minutes later with my two suitcases. Apparently, François had packed for me and sent everything I’d left in their penthouse suite over to my room at the Benton Budget.
Just like that, the cute little back and forth with my luggage was solved by an efficient butler—obviously following the orders from a ruthless player who didn’t need me anymore to pull off his plan.
My eyes grew hot—but no, I refused to cry.
Crying was what got me into this position in the first place.
I could just imagine Mick looking at me on that plane, vulnerable and so stupidly honest. I’d cried myself straight into his evil mind games.
“Thank you,” I said to the hotel manager, lifting my chin. “Let me just go grab my purse for a tip.”
“Ah, no, madame,” she answered. “This will not be necessary. Actually, there is something I must talk with you about…”
* * *
And that’s how I ended up accepting an economy trip ticket home to L.A. on a flight leaving the next morning.
The only slightly apologetic manager had firmly explained that paparazzi and other reporters had begun to arrive at the Benton Budget.
“We do not have the personnel to handle such events here, and our normal security is not enough.”
She’d also advised that trying to do “the usual tourist things” would be much more difficult, given the furor over the acquisition of “The Atomic Foot”—also because of that huge scene we made at the Tourmaline.
“Excuse me, but this event is already being talked about on many news sites?” the manager explained. “I have been authorized to procure a ticket home for you—or perhaps you would like for us to move you into a suite at our Benton Grand location?”
“No, no more suites!” I answered. “I’ll take the ticket!”
So, in the end, I came home with my suitcases. But my dignity, both intimate relationships I’ve had in the past four years, and my general sense of trust???
Well, all that got left behind in Paris.
However, the story followed me home.
It was true that Americans weren’t big on soccer. It might be a huge sport everywhere else in the world, but it was barely even covered in the States unless a major match, like the World Cup, was involved.
Prior to my return to California, I could have argued that, like me, few Americans would be able to pick Andy “Mick” Atwater out on the street—or in first class.
A soccer player could literally get in several game fights like Andy apparently had, and it still wouldn’t make the stateside news cycle. Nothing but the most niche American sports gossip sites, that only people like Dwayne read had picked up the story about Mick enjoying a romantic holiday with an unknown American in Paris.
But the story about an American being strung along by a famous British soccer player after being publicly cheated on by her American football player ex?
Well, that caught traction.
All over the world.
Eff. My. Life.
Just a few days after my return, clips and posts about me slapping “The A.M. Volcano” in the Tourmaline lobby from just about every angle had caught fire online.
I found out the hard way that a news story like that would definitely get picked up by everybody.
By the time I returned to work the following Monday after my supposed “vacation,” I could barely walk through the office under the weight of my coworkers’ pitying stares.
Had I thought I knew what humiliation was when Suzie showed me footage of my boyfriend making out with a reality star on an afternoon gossip show? Ha!
That had just been a little prick. The fallout from the Paris fling had come with humiliation that felt like getting stabbed in the chest.
The Monday night after my disastrous return to work, when I headed toward the garage to put in a long overdue load of laundry, I even caught my parents and my college-aged brother watching Gary Berry, their favorite late-night host, send up the argument during the 8:35 p.m. east coast feed broadcast of the L.A. Based show.
“As a huge Suns fan, nobody was more shocked than me that the Wisconsin Bears made it into the division slot for the Big Game,” Gary Berry told a live audience during his top-of-show monologue. “Frankly, I thought they were in the Playoffs Choke Club like us! It kind of felt like they were just pretending to be a team that had absolutely no chance of going all the way. I actually have footage of me confronting tonight’s guest, Wade Winters, in the green room about it. Watch!”
In the clip, Gary, dressed in the exact same head-to-toe Suns gear and crossbody canvas anti-theft purse I’d been wearing that fateful morning in Paris, walked into the green room with the show’s band leader, who sported football tights, athletic shorts, a Suns thermal, and a huge sideline cape like Dwayne.
Together, they confronted Wade Winters, the handsome quarterback of the Wisconsin Bears.
“Let me explain, Gary,” Wade pleaded.”
“Why? So you can lie to me some more?” Gary spread his arms just like I did during that confrontation.“I should’ve known never to trust a pro athlete!”
The argument went on from there with an almost line-for-line parody of the one I had with Andy Atwater in the Tourmaline lobby.
My parents watched in grim silence, but Stevie laughed throughout the bit. And he just about fell out when Wade yelled, “Yeah, Gary, I lied. I’ve been lying this whole time. Cuz, Gary, I knew… I knew that if I told you everything, you wouldn’t understand that I was the exception to the choking during the playoffs rule!”
Steve raised the remote and paused the show there to inform my parents with a snort, “Yeah, I can tell you right now, that’s definitely gonna go viral!”
“Do you think we should warn her?” Mom asked worriedly.
“She doesn’t want us talking with her about it, Nita,” Dad pointed out. “How many times has she already said that?”
“I know, but I’d hate for her to see it onli—oh, honey, we didn’t see you standing there!”
My parents and my little brother turned on the couch to stare at me wide-eyed. Like a chicken had just walked in on them devouring a bucket of KFC.
Dad snatched the remote from Stevie and quickly hit the power off button.
The picture of the three men on TV disappeared, and Mom turned her attention to the laundry basket in my hands.
“Did you want to do a load of laundry?” she asked with an apologetic wince. “I just put one in for your little brother. But the washing machine should be free in an hour.”
I blinked. Numbly.
Then I said to my brother. “Don’t forget to come back on Saturday with your truck. The thrift store opens at 10 a.m.”
“Honey, you’re not really going to go through with that, are you?” Mom glanced at the huge Je T’aime Tourdin box that had been sitting in our living room since some international delivery service dropped it off while I was at work. “I mean, you didn’t even open it, and you’re just going to give all those clothes away to some thrift store?”
I loved my parents. And it wasn’t their fault that they’d raised a too-trusting idiot for a daughter and a grown son with a shared apartment and truck who still came over every Monday to have Mommy take care of his laundry.
I knew that they were doing their best under the very weird circumstances. But I just couldn’t tonight.
“I’ll come back in an hour to put in my load,” I muttered to Mom before returning to my room without a word.
However, I ended up falling asleep before the hour was done. That night, Mick showed up at our door with a smug soccer player who looked exactly like him to explain that Paris had all been a big misunderstanding. Of course, he hadn’t lied to me. Mick truly was a power company electrician who loved me. And Andy, the soccer player, was just somebody who looked exactly like him.
But, of course, it was just a dream…
I woke up at five a.m. the next morning in the same bedroom I’d had all my life and a burning need to get to work early.
Anything to fill up this endless expanse of time.
Unfortunately, though, I was all out of laundry, having not put in a load since, like, a week before the trip my father refused to let me skip.
Which was how I came to find myself back in the living room at the crack of dawn, grumpily opening the Je T’aime Tourdin box with the sole intent of grabbing a top and bottom. Just one outfit to get me through until I washed my clothes that night.
But the sight of the box’s contents stopped my heart.
There weren’t just a few outfits for work but an entire wardrobe on a standing rack.
The bottoms were pretty much what I’d seen on the runway: fashionable trousers, ponte pants, and pencil skirts, but the mostly black offerings had been swapped out for winter shades I’d never tried before, like electric blues, quilted emeralds, and deep amethyst purples.
In my shopping life, bottoms had always been a sturdy purchase. I only bought standard colors that could match anything. But I could immediately tell that these eye-catching shades would pair well with any of the colorful tops hanging on the rack alongside them.
The blouses and shirts were even more vibrant—a colorful array of perennial trends like peplums, tie fronts, and scoop necks. They were all more than appropriate for work but could easily be dressed down for play, too.
I stared open-mouthed at the collection—all tailored to my measurements—and suddenly understood the true meaning of couture.
Even before I donned a frost pink jacquard top and paired it with a velvet plum skirt, I knew that I’d look like a million bucks in anything I wore out of this box of perfect-for-me clothes that Mick had handpicked himself.
And I wasn’t wrong. A few minutes and one shower later, I found myself in front of my back-of-the-door full-length mirror, staring at a woman who was outwardly smart and capable with a happy personality.
Usually, I settled for wearing brightly colored underwear beneath my otherwise drab work clothes. But this outfit felt like a reflection of my true personality. The real me.
Was this how Mick had seen me? Even as he was using me all along?
I knew that if I told you everythin’, you wouldn’t understand that I was the exception to your new rule.
Mick’s words from the Tourmaline argument whispered through my mind, breaking through the wall of numb I’d constructed around myself since returning early from Paris.
But then another voice invaded my mind.
“When you think about it, it was really quite brilliant. He shows up in Paris with this unknown woman and acts like he’s completely in love with his holiday fling. The French press goes crazy. Meanwhile, he’s showing the AS Paris Triomphe two things: One, he can fit in with their club’s culture—he’s not an antisocial psychopath as he sometimes comes off as here in England. And two: he can attract media and fan interest. With this holiday fling story, he was basically showing Paris Triomphe: Look, The Atomic Foot might be creeping up on thirty and heading into his sunset years, but he’s a great player and a right interesting media personality who can put bottoms in stadium seats. Definitely worth that massive payday he’ll be receiving from the French club…”
That was as far as I had gotten in the clip of an English sports program in which three hosts were debating—but mostly praising—The Atomic Foot’s ruthless business strategy for attracting a deal that would put him on the list of the top five most well-paid soccer players in the world.
But that was all I’d needed to hear—all I needed to remember.
I was a pawn, I reminded myself, turning away from my reflection. And “Mick” was a player in every sense of the word.
This outfit meant nothing. It was just a consolation prize for so naively falling in line with his ruthless plan.
I snatched up my phone from the charger and texted my brother.
10 am sharp on Saturday! Don’t forget!
Then, I grabbed my keys and headed to work.