Once Marc has posted the photo of the three of us, I look over Meredith’s shoulder as she goes through the photos Marc has posted. What the hell? Half of the time, I didn’t even know he was taking the photo.
“Aw, it’s like he’s your stalker,” Meredith tells me. “Do people know it’s you posting for him?” she asks Marc.
“Only when the captions are making fun of him.”
“Why do I have Instaspam?”
“It’s Instagram,” they both correct me.
“Whatever,” I mutter.
“Because fans like to see what their favorite players do off the ice. Granted, I started it to make fun of you without you knowing, but then the team had to tweet about you being on it, so I had to straighten up a little bit since people think it’s you posting directly and not me.”
“Delete it.”
“No, don’t do that, Marc. He’s right, you know,” she says, turning to me. “It’s good to have. Marc can give me the email and password he used. I can help and monitor his posts. You know you can trust me with it.”
“Are you saying I’m not trustworthy?” Marc asks, pouting and holding a hand over his heart.
“Yes,” we both answer.
“Oh, Meredith, you wound me. Here I thought we were tight. I’m going to have to get drunk now.”
“You’ll be okay.” She pats him on the shoulder. “Text Noah the login info.”
“We need drinks.” I grab her hand and pull her to one of the many mini-bars set up around the room.
“What?
??s so wrong with having social media?” she asks after we order.
“I don’t care for it, and I don’t have anything to say.”
“You have always been a bit on the anti-internet side. It is a good thing to have, though.”
“What’s the point of having it? No one cares what I do.”
“Your fans do. Lots of sports fans want to know what their favorite players do away from the game.”
“Yeah, and I don’t do much. I’m with you, out with the guys, or at home in Pittsburgh during the summer.”
“And people want to see you with your girlfriend, out with the guys, and see the world through your eyes. You’re keeping it. Marc can post for you when it’s work stuff or on road trips, and I’ll cover it when you’re with me.”
“Do you have one?” I ask.
She gets quiet. “Haven’t posted anything since my injury.”
I nudge her elbow with mine. “Your fans want to know you’re okay, too, Mere.” She shrugs, glancing away. “Let’s take a picture of ourselves. You can post it on your Insty thing.” She looks like she’s about to object, so I add, “You have a lot of young fans, right? Don’t you think they want to know that there’s more to life than tennis? Or that there’s a happy life without it?”
“Maybe.” She glances down at herself. “But this isn’t exactly a young-girl friendly outfit.”
Marc is walking over to us, so I take Meredith’s phone from my pocket and hand it to him. “She’s going to post one of us on her own. Take it for us, yeah?” Before she can protest, I stand behind her, wrap one arm low on her waist and the other over her chest with my hand on her shoulder, conveniently covering up her cleavage. I rest my chin on my hand and my head against hers.
“Say ‘boner,’” Marc says, making Meredith laugh, which makes me smile. He takes the picture and returns the phone to her. “It’s good. Should definitely post it.”
Meredith glances at me, and I nod. It is a good picture. She should post it. One of these days, I’m going to get through to her that just because she isn’t playing tennis doesn’t mean that she can’t associate with it anymore. That shit is in her head because of Vance. It’s not an all-or-nothing situation. She should know that already since she’s an assistant coach and will hopefully start offering private lessons, but it’s not connecting with her for some reason. She’s still insisting that she can make a comeback.
She posts the picture.