Save Me, Sinners

“Oh, stop it and just tell me why you're called Dazza!”

“Well... back home, everyone has to have a nickname. So when I was a young boy, my uncles and my grandfather used to come and watch me play for the local team. So one day, after a pint or three, my grandfather said that watching me play on the field dazzled him. Of course, then all the lads started teasing me by calling me dazzler. Soon the word spread and everyone in the neighborhood was calling me dazzler too. It was embarrassing, especially with the birds... I meant the ladies. Then someone shortened it to Dazzle and then Dazz and finally it settled on Dazza. Thankfully the press hasn’t picked it up.”

“That’s not embarrassing… that’s kinda sweet.”

“Would you like to go everywhere and be addressed as Dazzler?”

“Probably not,” I laugh.

“Exactly!”

“I know what you mean... Dazza!”

“Dear God! Not you too.”

Going to bed that night, I think back on the wonderful day I spent with David. It feels funny now to think of all the resentment I had for him. He’s been nothing but a perfect gentleman since the day I met him at Jon’s restaurant. In fact, he’s been a lot more; charming, considerate and surprisingly intelligent.

Most of all, he’s nothing like how that model, Ana, had described him. I’m starting to feel a strong sense of guilt at the article I wrote, under pressure from Max. Like a dishonest person who colluded with all of these people who cared for nothing but personal gain.

I owe David an apology. No—I owe him more. I can help him show his true side to the world. The person he really is, underneath the dazzler.

Chapter 88

These last two days have been the most pointless days I’ve spent at work since I joined Coyote magazine. Max is still not back, while my other superiors haven’t bothered me since in their minds, I’m busy writing the David Adams story. The British superstar, however, was out of town for an away game and that’s giving me plenty of time for myself.

I got a haircut, nails done and even paid a short visit to my mother. She was the only gray cloud in the otherwise two sunny days that I’ve spent without worry. No matter how much I tell her to have faith, my mom has made it clear that if the last loan application also gets rejected, then she’s going to sell Dad’s bar.

All I can do is pray that it works out. The idea of losing Dad’s bar, where I played as a kid and worked as a teen, is too heartbreaking. It also makes me sad to see my mom at a point where all the fight has left her and she’s ready to give it all up for an easier life. She was a strong woman once, but now, she’s a shadow of her former self.

David is back today from the East Coast and he called to invite me over to his house for lunch.

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sp; It’s funny. I’ve known him only for a week or so and already I’ve gone from resenting him to feeling eager to see him. With a spring in my step, I speed through downtown Los Angeles on my way to David’s Bel Air mansion. Gone is the anxiety and the nervousness that I felt the first time I was going that way. Today, I’m just anxious to see him.

The coach went easy on him and put David in the starting lineup. David repaid that faith by scoring not one, not two, but three goals. I was pretty excited to watch my first ever soccer game live on TV and cheered loudly every time David scored. I even felt giddy every time the camera focused on David or Willie, who was funny even on the pitch, playing with a perpetual smile on his face.

This time I don’t have to talk to anyone to get in. I press the buzzer and the gate automatically opens. I smile at the familiar site of the steep, curved driveway that leads to the main house. The same place I cursed last time round. The place looks much more spacious now that there aren’t all those cars parked around, like on the day of the party. As I park my own in one corner and make my way inside, David greets me.

“My, my, don’t you look the bee’s knees,” he smiles.

“Er... English please?” I raise my brows, unable to keep a smile off my face.

“You look lovely.” He comes forward and kisses me on the cheek. His scent, a mixture of Old Spice and pure masculinity is pleasantly overwhelming. The way his strong arms hug me make me feel safe and cared for. As he breaks away from the hug, I find myself wishing he wouldn’t.

“You look quite spiffy too, but that’s to be expected after you score three goals, I guess.”

“Well, well. Looks like somebody has taken up an interest in football.” Now it’s his turn to raise his eyebrows. I find it cute that David refuses to call the game soccer. He insists on referring to it as football, the way they call it back in Europe.

“Interest? Nah. That’s going too far. I call it an occupational hazard,” I tease. David laughs that full hearty laugh of his, the one I love the most. And here I was under the impression that all Brits are supposed to be snooty and uptight.

“Come on in. Willie’s cooking and that heavenly aroma has been making me ravenous, but I wanted to wait for you,” he says, smiling warmly. My heart melts. When was the last time someone waited so they could eat with me? Never.

“That’s very sweet of you David,” I say, melting.

David leads me to the pool area and there, dressed just like a professional chef, stands Willie Bryant, busy working at the barbecue.

“Willie cooks! Who would’ve thunk,” I laugh in amazement.