Goodbye, My Superstar

My flats padded against the thin carpet of the private terminal. I bypassed the VIP lounge and took a seat near the boarding gate. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the team’s chartered jet idled on the tarmac.

Usually, I would be in the passenger seat of Anson’s SUV right now. I would be handing him his protein shake, reviewing the opposing team’s defensive stats, and managing his social media updates.

Today, I left his bags by the front door and called my own cab.

My phone vibrated in my palm. The screen flashed Anson’s name. It was his twelfth call in half an hour.

I swiped the green icon and brought the speaker to my ear.

"Where the hell are you?" Anson barked.

"Gate four," I said, my voice flat. "Boarding starts in twenty minutes."

"Gate four? You’re at the airport?"

"That is generally where boarding gates are located."

"Don't play smart with me, Barbara. We ride to the hangar together. Every single game day for five years, we ride together. I’ve been pacing the kitchen waiting for you to come downstairs."

"I had advance work to do," I said. "I needed to get to the terminal early."

"You don’t do advance work on game day. You’re my manager. You travel with the talent."

"The talent has a GPS on his phone. You can find the airport."

A heavy sigh crackled through the speaker. "You’re punishing me."

"I’m doing my job."

"You’re being petty," Anson snapped. "I explained last night. The PR campaign requires sacrifices. You storming out of the house and abandoning my pre-game routine is unprofessional."

"Unprofessional," I echoed. My grip tightened on the plastic armrest of my chair. "You think my scheduling is the problem here?"

"I need you in the car, Babs. I need to go over the press talking points."

"Talking point one: throw the ball. Talking point two: score points. You’ll be fine."

"Stop it. Just wait there. I’m getting in the car now. We can still walk onto the tarmac together. The cameras always catch us boarding."

"They catch you boarding," I corrected. "They catch me carrying your duffel bags three steps behind you."

"Barbara—"

"Who are you talking to, baby?"

The voice was muffled, but the bright, nasal tone cut straight through the line.

I stopped breathing for a second. My jaw locked.

A bitter laugh scraped the back of my throat. I stared out the window at the gray morning sky.

"Is she there?" I asked.

"Babs, wait, listen," Anson stammered. The aggressive edge in his voice vanished, replaced by a frantic scramble. "It's not what it sounds like."

"You used that exact phrase last night. Get some new material."

"She just showed up," he insisted. "I didn't invite her over."

"Right. She picked the lock."

"I’m serious! I walked into the kitchen and she was just standing there."

Rustling noises echoed through the receiver. Someone grabbed the phone.

"Barbara? Hi!" Max chirped.

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Put my husband back on the phone, Max."

"Oh, don't be like that," she said, speaking with exaggerated sweetness. "I actually came over to the house to apologize."

"To apologize."

"Yes! Face to face. Woman to woman. But you were already gone."

"At seven in the morning," I said.

"Well, I know you management types like to get a head start. I wanted to catch you before you left. I feel just terrible about last night. We really need to clear the air."

I opened my eyes. The terminal around me felt perfectly still.

"Are you apologizing from my side of the bed, or his?" I asked.

Max let out a high, ringing giggle. "You're so tense, sister. We aren't even upstairs. We're in the kitchen."

"Fascinating."

"I brought coffee and pastries," Max continued. "I thought we could all sit down and talk about the media strategy for today's game. Since you abandoned him."

"I didn't abandon him. I relocated."

"Same thing. He was so stressed out when he couldn't find you. Poor guy was pacing holes in the rug."

I heard a faint, wet smacking sound through the receiver. Anson groaned softly in the background.

My stomach twisted into a hard knot.

"Looks like you found a way to relieve his stress," I said.

"I always do," Max purred. "A good pop star knows how to support her quarterback. I had to calm his nerves before the big game. You know how much pressure he's under."

"Make sure he stays hydrated."

"Oh, I'll take great care of him. You just focus on your little clipboards and spreadsheets."

"Give the phone back to Anson," I demanded.

"He's a little tied up right now," Max said. Her voice dropped an octave, turning husky. "Literally."

"Max, stop," Anson muttered in the background. His voice sounded strained. "Give it back."

"Hold on, baby," Max told him. She spoke directly into the receiver again. "See you in the owner's box, Barbara. Try to wear something nice. The cameras will be everywhere."

I pulled the phone away from my ear and pressed the red button.

The line went dead.

I dropped the phone into my lap. My hands shook slightly. I pressed my palms flat against my thighs to steady them.

They were in my kitchen. Less than twelve hours after I caught them in my bed, she was back in my house.

A gate agent in a crisp navy suit walked up to the podium. She picked up the microphone.

"We are now boarding all passengers for the charter flight to Miami."

I stood up. I grabbed my carry-on bag, the wheels rolling smoothly over the carpet.