Playing the Game (2 page)

I snorted in the darkness. He’d gone much
farther than me. The Racers' farm team had signed him before he
could even step foot on a college campus. He'd made his big league
debut shortly after his twenty-first birthday.

After a mostly stellar year, he'd had
problems with his shoulder. His sophomore season was not to be as
he spent his first Big League off season recuperating from surgery.
Last year had been his first full season back. I had occasionally
checked his stats online to see how he was faring. Last year hadn't
been stellar. This season was only a couple months old and I had
somehow managed to refrain from looking him up on the Indianapolis
Racers’ webpage. I was always afraid his bio would read that he’d
married or had a kid or something equally heartbreaking.

I squeezed my eyes shut in
hopes of dispelling all thoughts of Jess Rivers out of my mind. I
turned my focus to
American Star.
My mother was an avid fan and I watched it with
her out of obligation. I knew how it worked. The audience was
allowed to give their opinions online but it was the judges overall
who chose who would move on each week until they finally crowned a
new Star.

I smiled a little as I imagined standing
before all five judges, microphone trembling in my hand, as I
listened to what they had to say. I even imagined the dreaded
Marissa and the equally evil Richard telling me they had absolutely
adored my performance.

“
Fat chance of that,” I
murmured sleepily as I drifted off. But my
American Star
dream melted into one
that played out on a baseball field – the pitcher’s mound to be
exact.

Chapter Two

The next couple of weeks
flew by much too fast for me but not fast enough for my mother. She
was so excited that you’d think it was her audition. But
then,
American Star
was her version of Broadway or the Grand Ole Opry.

And Jess Rivers wouldn’t
stay out of my head, either. I could almost see his arrogant smirk
like he’d
forced
the thoughts of him into my brain himself. I wouldn’t put it
past him. He was nothing but an egotistical, manic
bastard.

So why do you keep
thinking about him
, I often asked myself.
I had no answer. And to make matters worse, I’d creep into the
living room while my dad was watching a game in hopes of getting a
glimpse of him. I’d even figured out the Racers’ five man rotation
and knew what day he'd be starting.

Yes, it was bad. So bad. But at least it
helped my writing. My new music was a little more soulful and
melancholy but it was good. My mother harped on me to come up with
something original in case I made it to the finals and they allowed
me to play my own stuff. So I’d sit on my bed against the wall with
my guitar in hand and pluck out chords until something made
sense.

I gave in, a little too willingly, to
temptation and turned my own television on a few days before the
auditions. There he was, looking still as a statue on the mound,
with the equivalent of ice water in his veins. He stared down the
batter and the empty glare in his eyes chilled me. It was the same
pose I remembered from his days playing in high school.

He went into his wind-up, delivering a fast
ball that the radar guns clocked at ninety-nine miles per hour
screaming past the hitter. My heart leapt as the umpire declared it
a strike. He caught the ball when the catcher tossed it back to him
and went back into his still stance. I was enthralled as he shook
first one pitch then another off the catcher. Finally, he gave a
curt nod and began his wind-up. His long leg kicked up and flew to
the mound as he delivered a curve that fooled his opponent, causing
the batter to swing nearly all the way around.

“
He’ll throw a breaking
ball next,” I said to no one in particular. “Watch.”

He didn’t let me down. But the hitter was
expecting it also and watched as it crossed the plate a little
outside. The ump called it a ball.

“
Come on, Jess,” I
whispered, mesmerized. He nodded immediately at his catcher,
throwing hard. The ball sailed past the plate and was called strike
three. Grinning, I clapped quietly. Jess picked up his rosin bag
and tossed it in the air a few times; a movement I had memorized.
He returned to the mound as I settled on my bed, far more engrossed
than I should be.

Lou Harding, manager for the Racers, removed
Jess in the seventh though I couldn’t see why - he still had
excellent command and they were leading by two runs. A quick camera
shot in the dugout showed the trainer taping a huge bag of ice to
Jess’s left shoulder and I winced in horror. Was he hurt? I hadn't
noticed any traces of pain on his face, and I’d been paying far
more attention than was healthy. For me that is.

Sighing, I shut off my television. My mother
would be home soon and I was certain she’d have tons of things for
me to do.

***

My mother paced the backstage waiting area
of the Channel 4 Indianapolis studio with other eager parents,
spouses, partners, etc. My lips curled into a wry smile as I
realized the only people in the room who had a little more control
of their emotions were the ones who actually had to perform.

Even though I appeared calm, my nerves were
jangled like the strings of Christmas lights my father cussed each
year – tangled and knotted. When my name was finally announced, I
ignored my mother as I strolled confidently behind the man with a
headset onto the stage. I’d been through this before so the lights
glaring in my eyes didn’t bother me in the least. The group of
people in the front row of seats, however, they scared the hell out
of me. All five of them had made a name for themselves in the music
industry somehow and now they were all staring at me, waiting to
judge whether or not I was worthy to come back tomorrow for the
final cut.

I cleared my throat and smiled.

“
What’s your name, honey?”
Chelsea Miller, perhaps the sweetest of them all, asked.

“
Aubrey Quinn,” I replied,
holding in my smirk. My mother would fume that I hadn’t inserted my
middle name but there was no way I would be known as Aubrey Rose if
I did make it to the televised competition.

“
I see here that you’ll be
singing
Somewhere over the
Rainbow
,” Marissa Castle, the wicked witch
of the show snarled. I knew it was her least favorite because
unlike my mother, I watched the specials on the making of this
show.

“
Yes, that’s true,” I said
sweetly, smiling like the good little girl I am. Take that, I
thought.

“
Show us what ya got,” Big
D, probably my favorite judge on the show, urged.

So I did. I put every emotion and feeling
into every note and heard my voice echo off the auditorium walls,
bouncing back to me like a faithful hound. I finished to a short
burst of applause from three out of five of the judges. Of course,
Chelsea was smiling. Marissa, on the other hand, nodded grudgingly.
She turned to her equally evil partner in crime, Richard Daniels
who lifted a shoulder. It was as good as a ‘yes,’ though I wasn’t
ready to celebrate.

“
Lovely, Miss Quinn,”
Marissa said. She glanced down at her panel who all nodded. “We’ll
see you tomorrow.”

“
Thank you,” I said
politely with another dazzling, dimpled smile. I almost curtsied
but thought that might be a little over the top. Instead, I
strolled just as confidently off the stage and into my mother’s
overexcited arms.

“
You were so wonderful,”
she gushed, kissing my cheek.

“
Thanks, Mom,” I muttered.
“Can we get out of here now?”

“
I have to find out what
time tomorrow,” she said, flagging down the man with the headset.
He handed her a paper after scrawling my name at the top. He
flashed me a quick grin then hunted down the next
victim.

***

The next day was pretty
much the same except I chose to sing a Whitney Houston number – one
that didn’t require me to hit as high a note as she could. Yeah, I
could sing but
nobody
can sing like Whitney. I’m talking the pre-Bobby Brown
Whitney. The one I also knew Marissa adored. Maybe Gwen was rubbing
off on me.

And it worked, much to my
beaming mother’s delight. I was dubbed an official contestant
of
American Star: Indianapolis.

Now I was nervous. Live TV. Marissa and
Richard snarling at me. Although I was of legal age, I didn’t drink
but I had a feeling I’d turn into a raging alcoholic by the time
this ordeal was over.

As I sat backstage with my co-competitors,
we received our instructions. I listened carefully although it
probably wasn’t necessary. My mother was there, after all, soaking
in every single word.

And then Miguel, the head set guy, sprang
the news on us. I tried to keep my posture the exact same, not
wanting to clue my mother in the least how I absolutely loathed
this idea.

“
This season, we will do
something new to promote the show. We are going to allow the
viewing audience a chance to vote for their favorite to sing the
National Anthem at the Indianapolis Racers game on Memorial Day. As
you are eliminated, your name will also be eliminated from this
contest, so whoever receives the most votes out of the survivors
will get to sing at the game.”

He looked so proud of himself that I wanted
to take his clipboard and smack him upside the head. I scanned my
co-competitors again, praying for a sexy, busty blonde or a hot guy
– someone that would send the viewers into a lust-filled frenzy and
crash the server in their eagerness to vote. However, everyone
looked pretty normal. I amended my prayer and asked God for a very
talented make-up person instead. Not for me but for one of the
others.

I could
not
step foot in that
stadium nor could I stand just feet away from the dugout and sing.
I’d die first. Or lose, which was worse in my mother’s
eyes.

***

The show started the second week of May and
would eliminate two of the original twenty-five competitors each
week for ten weeks until the finals. The last five would compete
for a record deal.

I have to say I did fairly well my first
time on television. I only threw up afterwards. Much later, on the
phone, my sister told me how green I looked and that they should
have used more make-up. I told her to…copulate with herself. That
only amused her further.

My mother, naturally, chose my music –
Mariah Carey- and it definitely wouldn’t have been my first choice.
I am not extremely comfortable singing in that pitch. I prefer
something a little lower with a little more bite to it. Being the
good girl that I am, I went along and stepped out on the stage. As
my knees knocked into each other, I was afraid I’d fall and the
microphone would somehow get lodged up my nose.

Surprisingly, I managed to avoid that sort
of incident. When the music started, I managed to only flatten two
notes but I chalked that up to nerves. I couldn’t get my feet to
move much as they were frozen to the floor as my terrorized eyes
watched the cameras follow my every breath. I was happy when I
finished and was allowed to flee backstage.

The next day, I had to reappear for the
results show. It was rather annoying. They lined us up to face the
firing squad (judges) who picked apart our performances. Then, they
would choose five competitors and give them a chance to perform
again. The two that failed to impress were booted.

When my name was called, I stepped forward
to receive my critique. First in the line was Stephen Cashmain,
lead singer for one of my favorite bands. He winked and I couldn’t
hold in my smile.

“
I liked your selection,
Miss Aubrey,” he began in that raspy voice that I always had to
close my eyes when listening. Dangerous when driving, definitely.
“Mariah Carey is not the easiest. But you nailed it, sweetheart. I
say you move on.”

My grin widened as I looked to sweet
Chelsea. “Oh I agree,” she gushed which was her fashion. “Your
voice is amazing! I can’t believe your range. I vote that you move
on.”

Yay, I thought. Next.

Big D grinned. He looked dangerous but I
knew he was a softie. I watched the specials, remember? “Girl, not
only do you look good but you sound good. Keep on.”

I thanked him and took a deep breath to face
Richard. He studied me, head cocked to the side. “I agree you have
the voice but you haven’t made any of the songs you’ve done for us
yours. I’ll move you on but you’re going to have to insert your
style if you want to make it to the finals.”

Not too bad. I nodded and turned to the
always evil witch Marissa. She, of course, agreed with Richard.
“You hardly moved. You need to get into the music. Pretend that you
wrote it. Sing it with more feeling. I’ll allow you to move on only
because I know there were worse performances than yours.”

“
Thanks,” I said with my
dimpled smile and stepped back in line. The things I muttered to
myself about Marissa were things I was certain my mother wouldn't
approve.

Finally the ‘worst five’ performed and two
were booted. I groaned for one of them was a young man I thought
had potential to woe the largely female audience. I'd hoped he’d be
a shoo-in for the National Anthem thing.

Of course that was not to be. Not with my
luck. As Memorial Day raced closer, my popularity on the show and
online grew. After the second show, someone dubbed me The American
Sweetheart and the name stuck. My mother absolutely loved it. My
father grunted in his recliner. My sister laughed hysterically. Me,
I puked.