4. Sophie

four

Sophie

Blowing my rubbed-raw nose, I soak through another tissue and toss it at the white wicker waste basket I conveniently slid next to my childhood bed. In the bustle of my life imploding last night, I ended up confronting Rocco, and some nosy neighbor got it all on video—every tearful moment of him breaking up with me. Within moments the video of me went viral. All my biggest nightmares had come true. I did something reckless and canceled my last two concerts. I hate to disappoint my fans, but there’s no way I can perform right now. I don’t even want to think about the ticket refunds, or the backlash. I’m really hoping my manager can pull that around for me.

I just can’t do life right now.

After committing that potential career suicide, I pleaded for my pilot to fly me to my parent’s house in Mapleton, Vermont. I needed to go home to my mom.

My mom is so special because she’s more than a mom.

She’s always Mama, my best friend, and the only person in the world who will listen and not judge. I don’t have to act for her. Even if I tried, she’d see right through it.

With all the paparazzi trying to cash in on this viral story, I can’t go out in public, and Mapleton is the only place I feel safe. Everyone here saw me in diapers, and they don’t care about my fame. In fact, they are more impressed with that kid from my graduating class who became a meteorologist and now works full-time for The Weather Channel. They talk about him like his ability to predict the weather is a superpower. Yes, his name is Regis, but not that Regis. In Mapleton, there is only one Regis, and it’s our homegrown weather guy.

I rub my palms into my eyes, wringing out the tears. I can’t keep crying this hard. I’m seriously going to get dehydrated. At what point do the tears end?

How did I miss something like this?

My phone vibrates for the hundredth time. Everyone’s calling, requesting a statement from me about Rocco's cheating. Live-action breakup gone viral—I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. Crowds gathered, making a clean getaway impossible, and the rest is documented on every social media platform, and even translated into seven languages.

I’m no stranger to public humiliation, and that’s not what is upsetting me the most.

It’s my heartbreak.

I seriously thought I’d marry Rocco. We had one of those whirlwind romances that started fast, and overnight we both knew we were meant for each other. I rub the back of my neck, desperate to release some of the pressure in my head.

Maybe we both didn’t know?

Clearly one of us was confused.

I am jolted out of my thoughts by the sounds of someone knocking on the front door. Rapping echoes from down the hall, and I hold my breath while I wait for one of my parents or my brother to grab the door. I’m not expecting company, but small towns can be odd with neighbors stopping over uninvited. Usually it’s Norma, the lady across the street, wanting to drop off some baked goods or tell us about which neighbor we need to pray for this week.

The rapping grows urgent and louder.

I tip my head to hear better, but I don’t catch any footsteps going down the hall.

Where is everyone? If they think I’m going to answer that, they are out of their minds. I’m grieving.

Whoever it is, they aren’t giving up, and their knocking is almost becoming frantic. What if it’s an emergency or something? I want to scream for them to go away, but I’m worried that will feed the Mapleton gossip mill. If I’m unneighborly, my mama will surely hear about it, and she won’t tolerate disrespect. “Coming!” I huff while wiping my tears with the back of my flannel sleeve.

I use my shoulder to give my bedroom door more than a gentle shove to open it, as this old house settles in a not-as-functional way, especially in the cooler months. Then I rush down the hall, sliding on the wood floors.

“Coming!” I hiss out right as I grab the doorknob and whip the squeaky front door wide open.

Not Norma.

Two middle-aged men stand on my porch, dressed in athletic warmup pants and Granite Ice sweatshirts—whatever that is. If it’s a new church, I’m already sure I don’t want anything to do with it. “Hi.” I toss a palm out to wave. “No, thanks. I’m a Christian and have a church already.”

“May we please have one moment of your time?” The balder of the two gentlemen inserts his heavy black boot on the threshold, tucking it tightly against the door. That’s aggressive, and my gaze squirts to the side as I wonder if I need to alert the authorities. I never bring security to Mapleton, but maybe I need to start.

“Depends.” I tip my head, hoping this doesn’t take all day. “What are you selling?”

“Not a thing,” the other man says—this one has lots of hair and teal eyes—and he holds his hands up as if he’s under arrest. “We are here to help you get revenge.”

“Revenge?” My brows buckle down. “For what?”

“You’re Sophie Summers, right?” Baldy cuts in.

“Depends. How did you know I was here?” Suddenly I really want to slam the door. It hadn’t dawned on me before I whipped it open in welcome that it could be anyone but Norma. Note to self: check the peep hole before you open the door. Looks like small towns aren’t even safe anymore.

“We saw your private plane fly in last night over our arena,” Baldy says, as if that is supposed to be a comfort. “Our arena is south of town along Airport Avenue. Your situation is all over the news, and we’re awfully sorry, but here’s the deal. Your scum fiancé cheated on you, and—”

“Rocco wasn’t my fiancé.” I practically gasp. At least I hadn’t been sold that fake fantasy. I can’t imagine how hard this would be if I had been planning a wedding. My throat dries, and I cover my mouth with my palm, so grateful I got away from Rocco before this heartbreak could be any worse.

“Sure,” he quips and keeps going. “But we saw you get horribly embarrassed in front of the whole world, and we can help you get revenge.”

“The whole w-world,” I stutter. This guy is doing nothing to make me feel better about my situation. “I’m not trying to get revenge.” Feeling uncomfortable with where this is going, I try to push the door closed, but the door bounces right off the dude’s boot. Apparently, he planned ahead for sounding insane.

Are these two hitmen?

Is this how these things go down?

I scan the sky. Partially sunny but hinting of snow later in the day.

Not a good day for murder-for-hire.

Nor would any day be!

I swipe my brow, pulling my mind back to focus.

What am I thinking about here?

These guys are insane and need to leave before they drag me into their insanity, because I’m obviously not thinking clearly. “ I’m sorry but I’m not interested in any revenge.” I raise my index finger, tracing backwards as if to physically point to an earlier spot on the timeline. “Remember earlier, I led with I’m a Christian.”

“Just give us two more minutes, and then we’ll leave you alone.”

“We will?” Blue Eyes locks the other guy in an eye trap. “Two minutes isn’t very much, is it?”

“It’s an expression.” Baldy dismissively waves his hand. “I’m the owner of Granite Ice, a brand-new and up-and-coming AHL team based right here in Mapleton, Vermont. Our issue is that we need more fans. Ticket sales haven’t been the best, and we have this one player who’s a pain in the—”

“He’s a great catch,” Blue Eyes cuts in, as he scratches an itch on his cheek. “He’s such a gentleman, and we’re hoping we could talk to you about an arrangement where you could work directly with him for some PR opportunities.”

“PR?” I echo. “You want me to sing in a commercial or something?”

“It’s more like acting,” Blue Eyes clarifies.

“I can act a little, but you’ll have to talk to my agent.” I toss a look down both sides of the street, thinking how odd it is to have these two guys show up, expecting to hire me like this. Everybody knows you have to go through management. “Her name is Bailey, and she’s great. I’ll give you her number.”

“No agent,” Baldy commands, his voice getting deeper. “This needs to be off-the-record.”

“You know . . .” Goosebumps spiral up my spine, and I’m getting the total heebie-jeebies. “I’m fine. I’m not currently looking for any work.” I shove on the door again, but it won’t budge because that guy's mammoth foot is still wedged in the door. “Do you mind?” Losing patience, I point to it, motioning for him to move it. “I listened to your pitch, and I’m not interested.”

“Maybe you need to see a photo?” Blue Eyes blurts out, frantically scrolling his phone. “Trust me, I’ve had my heart broken plenty of times, and the best way to move on is to get revenge. All you have to do is show up to a home game, pose with our star center, and accidentally let it slip that you’re dating—”

“What?” I snap, this conversation getting worse by the minute. “You want me to lie about dating someone? Why on earth would I do that?”

“Revenge, remember?” Baldy inserts his stubby index finger in the air between us. “On your cheating ex-fiancé.”

“Not my fiancé .” That word literally digs at my soul. The hurt and pain stabs at my heart, over and over, ensuring I’ll never heal from this trust betrayal. At this point, I wish these two were actually pastors of a new church. Sign me up to host coffee and rolls committee even! I can make a mean Jell-o salad for a potluck. Anything is better than hearing them call Rocco my fiancé.

“Right, but don’t you think it would be nice to see Rocco’s smug, arrogant, and haughty face when he sees you snuggled up next to our star center?” Coach slides his phone in front of me. A photo of a super tall man wearing a blue and orange jersey flashes in front of my face. His crew-cut hair is dark and wavy at the tips, which is enough to send my eye sliding down his square jaw, and an electric zap slaps my heart as soon as I land on his pouty lips. My eyes pace his bottom lip back and forth like they are stuck on the bottom loop of a roller coaster. I’ve never seen a pair of lips that luscious before, and I struggle to keep my jaw from hanging open.

“Excuse me.” I exhale, a flush of warm energy rising through my chest. “You want me to take a photo with this nice -looking man?” My tongue gets in the way when I say the word nice, and I screech all the while I’m stuck on those lips. These two guys really know how to build an argument. This man in the photo is seriously gorgeous, and I have to admit they are right. I’d love to see Rocco’s conceited smile wiped right off his face when he sees that I’ve rebounded so fast.

“Yeah, we’ll work out all the details, but that’s the basics.” Coach pushes the phone a little closer to my face, and the closeup sends another flush of heat to my cheeks.

“I’ll do it.” My eyes don’t move from the photo. I mean . . . way to sell an argument. “For the sake of revenge,” I blubber, “I’ll take a photo with your baseball guy.”

“Hockey,” Baldy interrupts. “We are the sport that plays on ice.”

My lips form an O, but I don’t make a sound. I try to steal another look at the photo, but Blue Eyes drops it to his side.

Baldy adds, “I’m Bill Baker, by the way. I’m the team owner, and this is our coach, Kurt Carlson. We know we have the right guys to win, but winning doesn’t always make you money. We need help getting some fans because they are the ones who buy tickets.”

I wasn’t arguing as I was still a little confused about how they even devised this plan. “I’m not sure how long I’m going to be in town.” I pause and wait as an old dually truck races down the road, letting all the neighbors know he’s tough, and the scent of diesel gas wafts through the air, irritating my nose. It gives me just enough time to think about this offer, and a shiver runs down my spine. I scan the skyline and think of the oncoming snow. That must be the reason for my tingles. As the engine noise declines, I set my eyes back on the coach. “When do you need me to work?”

“How about tomorrow?” Bill suggests. “You can come by the arena after morning practice.”

I nod. “I’ll be there, and say—” I hold up a finger, pausing. “Can you forward me that picture?” The coach’s eyebrow hikes north, and I tack on, “I want to make sure I can remember what he looks like. You know, to make my acting believable.” Coach’s smile slowly spreads on his face, as if he knows he’s struck a chord somewhere inside me.

He can’t really know that, though.

Because it didn’t happen.

I wave as they stroll back down my walkway, and then I can finally close the front door, confusion swirling in my brain about what just happened.

But one thing is pretty clear.

I’m not crying anymore.

And I know another thing.

I really do wish I could see Rocco’s arrogant smirk deflate when he sees I’ve moved on with someone that hot.

And maybe I really do want revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge.