Page 6 of Guarding the Star

“No. She'll make your life hell,” he assures me, shrugging.

“I've had worse clients.”

“Not like her, and that's where you need to be careful,” he warns. “She's charismatic. The kind of person who's much harder to protect because she makes you forget it's just a job. And you're going to spend a lot of time with her.”

I don't answer. I don't need anyone reminding me what my job is. But my eyes drift, just for a second, toward the photo where she's shirtless, celebrating that goal.

“Flight leaves tonight. First meeting tomorrow at nine with the player and the club staff at her hotel. The contacts for the head coach and the general manager are in the file. They're the only ones who know the truth.”

“Got it.”

“Paula.”

“Yeah?”

“This is an excellent contract. Don't screw it up,” he adds as a parting shot, pointing a finger at me.

***

At this hour, Seattle-Tacoma Airport is emptier than usual. Except for my gate. Two hundred people waiting for a flight that's already over an hour late. Gate B47, Orlando.

I pass the time watching planes land and take off through the rain-streaked window. Around me, families everywhere, small kids losing it, a group of college students who started drinking a while ago, a few businessmen, an older woman who fell asleep.

I take a deep breath before I call.

Two rings.

“Mija. How are you?”

My grandmother's voice makes me smile. It always does. Consuelo Delgado. Seventy-four years of pure character wrapped in a floral housecoat.

“Hi, abuela. How are you?”

“Here, waiting for my granddaughter to call. Have you eaten?”

“It's six in the evening.”

“And what does that have to do with anything? Have you eaten or not?”

“I had a salad with—”

“That's not eating, Paula. That's what rabbits eat. You need frijoles de olla, tamales, a girlfriend who'll cook you a proper meal.”

“Abuela, listen, I'm not calling to talk about food. I'm about to get on a plane. I'm starting a job that might go longer than usual and it could be a while before I visit. I just wanted you to know.”

She doesn't protest. She never does.

“Will you at least call me?”

“You know I will,” I remind her, and I can't stop a small smile from slipping through.

Over the speakers, they announce Group 1 boarding. A businessman shuts his laptop and stands. The older woman is still asleep. The families shuffle toward the gate. The college kids finish whatever they've been drinking.

“I have to board, abuela,” I say, while she reminds me one more time to eat real food.

***

Once we're in the air, I take advantage of the empty seat next to me to read some of the messages from the file.