Page 23 of Elite Player
Jealousy.
Inferiority.
Because that’s all I’ve ever felt, so it’s about time she understood.
“Bye, Bucky Beaver,” she spits before ending the call, and I’m still flying high enough not to let the old nickname bother me.
In fact, it makes me pull out my makeup bag. I haven’t worn any since the day of the accident, and even though I don’t have to go anywhere, it always makes me feel better.
Growing up, I was never confident. I hid behind anything I could, but I didn’t really learn how to do makeup until I moved here. Until I was out of the shadow my younger and prettier sister cast over me.
Anytime I attempted makeup at home, someone would comment. Lizzie would tell me I did it wrong, that it made my lip disappear or nose look bigger. My mother said the shades were wrong, my foundation never matched. My brother told me I shouldn’t even try because “you can’t put lipstick on a pig.” And because my own family said it, that meant everyone else had license to do the same. Kids in school whispered behind my back. Hell, sometimes not even in whispers. Old ladies at the market stopped to tell me that I would be prettier like my sister if I wore my hair differently or put on different clothes or covered up my breakouts. People all around town thought they were being helpful, when all they were really doing was tearing me down, piece by piece.
Until there was nothing left of me.
There was only one boy in the school and town—the entire world—who stuck up for me and always treated me kindly, which was why I was so madly in love with Waylon Jones. I used to practice writing my name as Josephine Jones all over my notebooks and thought, for once, I could have something good.
Now, I know I can have good things. I only had to realize that I wouldn’t have them in West Virginia. I needed to find more…different.
I needed a new home and place and people.
I needed to learn how to shape my eyebrows and correctly use contour. I needed to join a gym with a step class that is so hard and fast I don’t have time to be self-conscious. I needed to find artists who don’t care about whatIlook like, only what my photographs look like.
I used to pray every night to wake up in a different body, with a different face, but living in Philadelphia has made me understand I had to find peace within myself. Most days, I still wish I didn’t look as if Pablo Picasso was in charge of my features—picking random ones to mash together so none of it fits—but I am confident in the life I’ve made for myself.
My tiny apartment, my work, my friends, including Gregory, the man who sleeps by the bus stop and always prays over me when I give him a sandwich. I’d rather have his prayers and hugs than anyone else’s from back home—these are all things I’ve chosen.
Andthatis what makes me happy.
I can’t change what anyone thinks or says about me, but I can choose not to think or say them about myself.
At least that’s what the Post-it on my mirror in the bathroom reminds me, and after I finish my makeup I put on just because, I smile at my reflection, then lift my left hand up, the gold of my “engagement ring” glinting.
I may be Bucky Beaver, but Nico Tremblay thought I was good enough to be his pretend fiancée.
CHAPTER 8
JO
Sean had givenme a whole week off to recuperate, and between doctor appointments that Nico insisted I keep him updated on, I spent most of my time working on my personal photography, knitting, and opening more gifts than I ever could’ve expected.
It can’t be said that Nico is not trying to court his fake fiancée. From food deliveries to Iron merch, he’s spoiling me rotten, including custom pajamas with his face all over the set. That day, I ignored his daily text and called him instead. He answered immediately, almost like he was waiting to hear from me. As silly a notion as that is.
We talked for a long time, about the most random things until he asked about going public with our relationship, but I immediately changed the subject.
Because while Nico’s making this whole fake engagement easy, I still don’t know if it’s a good idea. I don’t know if it’ll be believable. Aside from my family’s constant curiosity, I’m not sure anyone in his orbit would accept us as a couple.
Though, I’ve run out of time and excuses because he told me in no uncertain terms this morning that we had to officially come out tonight. No big statement, but enough of a show to proveNico was changing his tune. He promised me it would be easy, and that going out for a beer with a couple of his teammates after their last preseason game tonight would be no big deal.
When I balked, he said, “One beer. That’s it. Then I’ll take you home.” I hemmed and hawed, and he turned on that Nico charm. “Come on, Jojo, be a good little fiancée. Let me show you off for an hour or so, and then I’ll take you home and tuck you in. Say yes for me… Two little words: Yes, Nico.”
Even though he couldn’t see it, I bit back my smile and gave in. “Yes, Nico.”
Which is why I’m currently attempting to make myself look busy while waiting for him at the mouth of the tunnel, where I stood with my camera mere hours before, snapping photos. Now, I’m here as Nico Tremblay’s fiancée.
“I thought you’d have gone home by now,” Sean says, touching my elbow for my attention.
I stuff my cell phone in my pocket. “I, uh… I’m waiting for someone.”
