Page 9 of Hot Shot Rock Star
Chapter 4
Jazzy
The game gives me chills like it always does and I stand to shout and whistle when Ben makes a pretty pass in front of the net before Hal pulls me back into my seat.
“Save it. We don’t want to waste your voice on yelling at a hockey game. We need to take care of those vocal cords.” I yank myself from his grip and hope to God Ben doesn’t catch him in the stands with me. If he looks for me, he probably won’t see Hal, who’s slouched in his seat scrolling his phone and paying no attention to the game. He’s short enough not to be noticed and I insisted he wear the team’s hat that I bought for him.
It’s bad enough he made the condition for getting out early tonight be that I take him to the game with me. I swore a blue streak, but in truth I had no one else to take the second ticket, and I hate sitting alone in the friends-and-family section and having strangers talk to me like they know me. Of course, now they’ll gossip about me showing up with Hal, some stranger as far as they know, and they’ll tell Ben. But he was going to find out after the game because, if I know Hal, he’s not going to leave quietly.
I sit down and heave a sigh as I watch the replay on the jumbotron over center ice. When it shows the crowd in my section, I glance down to see the cameraman.
“Shit.” Ducking down like I’m going to crawl under the seat, I wonder what my chances are of fitting there.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Hal reaches down, grabbing my arm again to haul me up and I smack him.
“Stop manhandling me like you have a right. Ben’s right, you are a prick.” I’m done playing nice because I know it’s useless and I stare him down.
“Oh, but I do have a right, sweetheart. I own your contract and you need to be nice to me.”
“Fuck that.” I stand with my back to the camera and push past him to exit the aisle. We’re attracting attention. The lady sitting next to me gives me a wide-eyed look, the kind that warns me she’s about to intervene, to come to my rescue. But I don’t need rescuing and I scowl back at her. Shit. I should probably be polite because she’s probably with someone on the team and I’ll run into her at some team thing with Ben and be humiliated when she gives me the cold shoulder, or worse. Meanwhile, Hal laughs at me as I slide past him.
“Where are you going? Is it time to leave this horrible place finally?” He makes to stand and follow me when I get past him to the aisle, but I shove his shoulder, not above doing some manhandling myself. Why don’t I just totally revert to the barely civilized witch that I was two years ago?
“I’m going to the ladies’ room. Relax.” If I could spend the rest of the night in the ladies’ room listening to the game over the speaker and get away with it, I would. But Ben loves to run through the plays with me like I’m some aficionado. He calls me his clueless sounding board and enjoys teaching me like I’m a first-grader learning how to spellcat. It’s annoying and adorable in equal parts. The part that’s adorable is his excitement. I can’t get enough of pleasing him.
What’s annoying is my brain’s refusal to accept hockey into the vault. I’m not a stupid person, but I may be doomed to remain hockey illiterate no matter how much schooling I get. But watching the games is fun, the speed and the violence oddly satisfying, and it’s exciting watching Ben fly around the ice and sometimes score or hit someone hard. The only thing I don’t like is when he gets hit or when the ref blows the whistle at him for something or other and he ends up in the penalty box.
Stretching out my visit as long as possible, I’m pissed when I miss a goal and rush back to my seat, hoping uselessly that Hal’s given up on me and left. He’s still sitting there with his head down thumbing his phone when I get back. There’s a half a period left.
“Move over. I’m sitting on the aisle.” He absently complies and I thank whatever poor soul he’s preoccupied enough with not to bother me until the game ends. When the crowd breaks into a chorus of “hey, hey, hey, goodbye”and theairhorn sounds, Hal looks up.
“It’s over? Did we win?” I smack him and laugh.
“Don’t be an ass. Of course we won, and, for the record, I am never taking you to a game again.” I stand and head for the stairs that take us down to the locker room area. Forget the friends-and-family room. I never go near it because it would be like putting a target on my back for curious people. Hal’s right on my heels and drapes an arm around my shoulder.
“We going to see Ben now, sugar?”
“No. We aren’t. You’re leaving unless you want a kick to the balls. The contract goes both ways you know, Hal. Now that I’m signed you need to—”
“Don’t start acting like a prima donna prematurely, Jazzy. No one knows who you are.”
“Your boss does,” I tell him. He smiles. I don’t really want to get into this with him because he’s actually working hard to get my album put together and get me meaningful gigs, sending out demos to name singers and groups that I might be able to open for.
“My boss is under the impression you’re free and single, and that’s the way we’re marketing you. Please keep that in mind. And you may want to mention it to dear Ben. Sooner than later. You have an appearance coming up on a morning radio show and—”
“What does that have to do with anything?” He shrugs.
“You’ll be selling your persona, and that girl is a sexy, single musician who’s a little flirty and a little wild.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly who you are—who you sold to us, who you are deep in your soul. You have a crazy abandon about you, a way of letting loose emotionally that runs down to your bones, and don’t even try to deny it. Truth is, no one owns you and no one probably ever will. Though Ben thinks he has a handle, best he can hope for is a part-time rental.”
My hand lifts and I smack him across the face. Hard. Shock runs through me because I haven’t done that in over a year. Not since I slapped Ben. Because he’s the only one who ever got under my skin enough to make me that wild. I stare at Hal and he stares back, equally shocked. But only for a beat. Then he smiles like the shark he is, like a know-it-all, the kind of kid who probably got beaten up on the playground.
His words strike me deep and fast, cutting into my core and bringing up an eruption of denial and chaos. My heart beats wildly now as if I’m about to run far and fast, to outrun the possibility that he could be right. Because I want him to be absolutely fucking wrong.
He is wrong. Of course he’s wrong. He’s spouting nothing but nonsense because that’s what he wants to believe, because he wants to sell me a bill of goods. And since when am I so culpable to the cons trying to take advantage of me? Because that’s who Hal is, and I need to keep that fact front and center.
