“Why didn’t we do that last night?” she asked breathlessly.
“I was just thinking the same thing. Missed opportunity, I guess,” King said. He kissed her on the cheek and set her back on the floor. “Maybe in another life, yeah?” He walked over to where Sam was waiting by the door with a big grin on his face.
“If we’re lucky,” she called out and waved back at them as they walked out. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the whole thing. She’d just watched the best night of her life walk out the door, but she knew that was how it had to be. After all, knowing they would leave in the morning was the one thing that had made last night possible. At least for her. She grinned and hugged herself, but her grin crashed when she realized that now she’d have to go back to real life and sober, responsible, dependable Jane.
The door opened and Margo came in with two coffees in a carry tray. “Holy shit,” she said quietly with wide eyes. “You really did do them both! I want to hear every detail.” She sniffed. “This room smells like kinky sex.”
Jane laughed, blushing madly, and turned back to the bathroom. She needed a shower, stat. “Eat your heart out. I’ll leave it to your imagination. But believe me, there’s no way that whatever you’re going to imagine could ever be as good as what really happened.”
“Spoilsport!” Margo called out as Jane closed the bathroom door.
—
Sam was quiet in the seat next to King as he drove back to Birmingham. Too quiet. “Brah, tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I think that I wish I’d broken my dry spell with a different woman.” Sam’s answer surprised King.
“Why?”
“Because there is no way in hell I’m ever going to find a woman as good in bed as Jane,” Sam said, turning to King with a wry smile. “Once you’ve had the best, it’s going to be hard to settle for the rest.”
“That’s some truth,” King agreed. “Man, I never thought she’d be like that when I picked her up in the bar.”
“You picked her up?” Sam asked. “You asked to walk her home. That’s not exactly a bar pickup.”
“Well, it turned into one,” King argued. “You weren’t getting anywhere with her, and I could tell you liked her.”
“Didn’t you?” Sam asked, frowning.
“Hell, yeah,” King said. “A lot. She was nice even before we got her clothes off.”
“Girl next door,” Sam said, nodding. “I always liked that type.”
“Exactly. Which is why I was shocked when she turned into a porn star.” Sam punched him in the arm.
“She’s not a porn star. Don’t say that.” He sighed. “I’m glad she got to live out some fantasies, too. I mean, I didn’t want it to be all about me.”
“It’s the quiet ones,” King said knowingly. “They always surprise you. Are nurses always so hot? That must be why it’s big in role play.”
“How do you know what’s big in role play?” Sam asked. “I’ve never seen you do that.”
“So far you’ve only seen me get a blow job,” King told him. “You don’t know what I’m into.” He watched Sam’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. He figured they had to talk about it or it would become a big deal and might come between them.
“Not gonna lie,” Sam said. “That kind of freaked me out. But it was kind of hot to watch her do it. Like live porn.”
“See?” King said, laughing. “Porn star.”
Sam shook his head, but he was smiling. “I’m kind of sorry that it was just a one-night stand, you know? I mean, she seemed like the kind of girl I could go for.”
“You did go for her, too many times to count,” King teased him. “But trust me, it’s better this way. How do you know that you really liked her and you’re not just, I don’t know, fixated on her because she’s the first sex you’ve had since Afghanistan?”
Sam’s hand immediately went into his pocket, and then he pulled the picture of him and his unit out and stared at it. It was creased and torn. “I need a new copy,” he said. “Do you have the copies you made for me?”
“Not here,” King said with a sigh. “At home.”
“Good,” Sam said absently. “And the original?”
“Still in the safe-deposit box.”
“Good.” Sam put the picture face down against his leg. “You’re right. I’m still too screwed up in the head to get involved. I’m glad nothing happened when I had the dream. Was she scared?”
“You are not too screwed up for a relationship,” King said, frustrated that the night with Jane hadn’t accomplished all he’d hoped. “I was just saying you don’t have to fall in love with the first woman you fuck.”
“Was she scared?” Sam asked again, more forcefully.
“No. She was fine. Amazing, actually. She tried to wake you up, but then she just sort of played along with the dream and let you grab her and haul her in close and then, like she said, she just, I don’t know, brushed your head with her hand and said everything was under control and we’d take care of it, and you just rolled over and went back to sleep. You were even snoring, man.”
“What? I don’t snore.” Sam snorted in disbelief. “I must have been faking it.”
“Really? So how come you don’t remember it?” King said.
“Whatever.” Sam turned to look out the window again. “She was something else, wasn’t she?”
“She sure was,” King agreed. He tried not to let his worry show. Had he set Sam up for failure by finding him the perfect woman right out of the gate? He sure hoped not. He’d hate for last night to backfire like that. It had been too good.
Chapter 7
OCTOBER
“Nice game, King,” Rebels team captain Cass Zielinski said as he passed by their lockers. “You’ll get the hang of the new playbook, Sam,” he added as an afterthought, already moving on to talk with the new left tackle, Kitt Doyle. Cass turned back around, walking backward. “Hey, Sam, maybe you and Goodman could work on it together. He’s having trouble, too.” He didn’t wait for an answer. By the time Sam was ready to give one, Cass was already clapping Doyle on the back and congratulating him on a great game.
“I already know the playbook,” Sam mumbled, throwing his shoulder pads into his locker. He and Goodman didn’t even play the same position. Sam was a linebacker and Malachai Goodman was a defensive end. But it was true that Goodman had no clue what was going on. Mal was a good kid. Maybe Sam should have King find out what was up with him. King was good at that kind of stuff, and as the nose tackle, he worked more closely with Mal than Sam did.
“New season, Sammy,” King said, sitting down next to him. “You’ll turn it around.”
Sam stared at the picture of his team in Afghanistan, the one he always carried in his pocket. Berkovitch was always smiling. During practice and games he set it up on the shelf in his locker. Sam sighed. He wasn’t so sure he’d ever turn it around. It was nice to have King cheerleading in his corner, but the fact was that he was playing the best he could. He didn’t have any more gas in the tank. Maybe the Cowboys had been right. Maybe he was too old and too jacked up in the head to play pro ball.
“You are not too old,” King told him, reading his mind again. Sometimes Sam liked that he didn’t have to talk for King to know what he was thinking. And sometimes, like now, he wished that King wasn’t so perceptive. “You didn’t sleep last night.”
“I never sleep,” Sam said, shrugging. “So that shouldn’t make a difference.” King frowned.
“Since when aren’t you sleeping?” he demanded. “Have you seen the new team psychologist?”
“No,” Sam explained patiently. “Because I’ve seen a fuckload of psychologists and I’m still not sleeping.”
“Have you talked to Carmina about it?” Carmina De La Cruz had moved to Birmingham to be closer to Sam. King wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It was good for Sam to see that she was okay on a daily basis, but the two of them were always holed up together at Sam’s, playing v
ideogames and watching movies, and generally avoiding the rest of the world.
“I don’t think she sleeps, either,” Sam said. He grabbed a towel and rubbed his wet hair. “I need a shower. Badly. Playing like shit gives me flop sweat.”
“You didn’t play like shit, mate,” Nigel Locke, the new British kicker said. “You played like a huge pile of stinking shit. But then, so did I.”
Sam winced. Locke had missed a thirty-five-yard extra point that would have locked down the game for the Rebels in the third quarter. They’d won it in the fourth, but it was close. “You made that last point,” Sam said, staying positive. “So your shit didn’t stink as bad as mine.”
“Thanks,” Nigel said. He pulled a nicotine patch off the backing and slapped it onto his arm. He was still sweating and it hung there, half on and half off. “I’ve got to get out of this dick showroom and have a smoke. Cover for me.” He reached under the pile of clothes on the top shelf of his locker and felt around. He got a funny look on his face and yanked the clothes down, searching the corners.
“Looking for this?” Assistant coach Marian Treadwell stood behind him holding a pack of Marlboros. Nigel was a hardcore nicotine addict.
“You stole my fucking fags?” Nigel said with a sigh. “Seriously?”
“No smoking means no smoking,” Marian told him. “You’re already wearing a nicotine patch. Isn’t there some sort of limit to the amount you should have or something?”
“You Yanks are crazy for the not smoking,” Nigel complained. “I’m not forcing my secondhand smoke on you, you know. I was going out to the parking lot. Banished for love of tobacco.”
“I’m more concerned about your physical well-being and preparedness,” Marian said. “You were huffing and puffing on the track yesterday.”
“I don’t run the ball,” Nigel explained calmly. “I kick it.”
“Does smoking make you kick the ball harder?” Marian asked curiously.
“No,” Nigel said, sounding testy. “Not smoking does. I imagine the ball is some fucking Yank who won’t let me smoke.”
“Watch it,” Cass growled over Marian’s shoulder. “Language.” Cass was at least a foot taller than Locke, but the kicker didn’t seem concerned.
“I wasn’t cursing your girlfriend,” Nigel told him, sitting down and pulling off his shoe. “I was cursing the assistant coach who won’t let me smoke. Completely different. Back me up here, Sam.” Sam felt like a deer caught in the headlights as they all turned to look at him. “Should I be allowed to smoke?” Nigel asked point-blank.
“Well,” Sam said, thinking fast. “I think a man should be allowed to do what he wants.” Nigel smiled smugly at Marian. “But,” Sam continued at Marian’s glare, “not where he’s not supposed to.” He sighed. “Look, just smoke where she can’t see you. It’s a compromise,” he said helplessly to Marian.
“Totally,” Marian said drily. She crushed the pack of cigarettes in her hand and Locke whimpered. “See the trainer about the cessation program, Nigel. Again.”
“You are a sadist,” Locke told her. He gestured at Cass. “I get what he sees in you. Two peas in a pod.”
“Three,” Marian said, pointing at her other boyfriend, tight end Beau Perez, who was even bigger than Cass.
“Smoking will kill you,” Beau said, shaking his head. “We’re just worried about you.”
“About me?” Nigel said, shock on his face. “I can take care of myself. See these?” He pointed to the identical scars on his face, one on each side, curving up from the corners of his mouth to midcheek. They made him look like the Joker. Sam had wondered about those. Nigel had the curly blond hair and cherubic face of an angel, and the scars seemed so out of place. “A bookie decided to give me a Glasgow smile when I was late paying a debt. I survived that, didn’t I?” He glared at Marian. “But you? You might kill me.”
“I think you need to see the team psychologist,” Marian said, a little pale. “Someone actually did that to you?”
“What did you think they were?” Nigel asked.
“I don’t know. Like a birth defect they had to correct or something. Like a cleft palate.” Sam had thought the same thing.
“You people,” Nigel said in disgust. “What sheltered lives you’ve led.” He jerked his head to the side, toward Sam. “If I have to go to the psychologist, so does Sam.”
“Me?” Sam said, alarmed. “Why me?” Did everyone know he was crazy? He glared at King, who shrugged defensively.
“Well, you and I are the only ones here that people have tried to kill,” Nigel said logically. “Aren’t we? Hey,” he hollered out to the locker room. “Raise your hand if someone has tried to kill you.” He raised his hand and waved at Sam to do the same. To Sam’s surprise, Dominique Reyes raised his hand, too.
“What?” Reyes asked belligerently. “I grew up in the hood, man. Fuck you.”
“Okay,” Nigel said. “You’re not really a surprise. I can see wanting to kill you.” He ignored Reyes’s raised finger and looked around. “Anyone else?”
“Does your old lady count?” linebacker Esmond Southern asked.
“My old lady tried to kill you?” Nigel said in horror. “When?”
“Not yours, mine,” Esmond said.
“Oh, well that makes much more sense,” Nigel said, nodding. Esmond threw a towel at him and Sam laughed along with everyone else.
“All right, Marian, my dear,” Nigel said. “Sam and I will go see the psychologist tomorrow.”
“Wait, what?” Sam said, alarmed again. “I still don’t see why I’m even part of this conversation.”
“Someone else has to suffer with me, mate,” Nigel explained. “It’s called a team.”
“There’s no Sam in team,” he mumbled.
“That’s the spirit,” Nigel said. He reached down and pulled a cigarette out of his boot and grinned at Sam as he put it in his mouth. He jerked out of the way when Marian tried to grab it. “Hold off,” he said. “I’m not lighting it. I’m just savoring the flavor.” Marian walked off with a huff of displeasure. “So, Sam,” Nigel said. “What’s with the haircut? I’ve been meaning to ask. Did you lose a bet or something?”
Did you lose a bet? Sam could hear Jane asking him that same question a few months ago. “King made me do it,” he said with a sigh.
“Sam looks edgy,” King said, making some sort of movement in the air that Sam supposed was meant to represent edgy but looked more like a bad Soul Train impression. “It’s hot. The chicks love it.” The only chick he’d been with was Jane, and she hadn’t loved it. Although it hadn’t turned her off, either. The truth was Sam still had the stupid haircut with the shaved sides because it reminded him of their night together. And if he ever ran into her again he wanted her to recognize him. Which was stupid.
Right then, linebacker Jo Jo Jones swung onto the bench beside Sam. “Sam, my man,” he said. “Coach Casey has decided us linebackers need to have a special jam session tomorrow morning. You good with that?”
“Before or after I talk to Dr. Sweeney?” Sam asked in disgust. He knew it was just an excuse for them all to work with Sam. Jesus, he really stank today. He’d allowed the Titans tight end to slip past him like a greased pig. The Titans had scored on the next play and that was entirely on Sam’s shoulders.
“You’re going to see the head doctor? Good deal,” Jo Jo said with a big smile. “I think that will be a big help to you.” Jo Jo slapped him on the back as he stood up and headed over to his roommate, Kitt Doyle. It was clear that Doyle was going to have a career season.
“Here comes the press,” someone called out as the chattering of voices grew louder at the locker-room door.
Right then Sam wished he could smoke, too.
Chapter 8
“Hey, Sam, come on in.” Mark Sweeney was in his early forties, an average-looking guy with light-brown hair going gray at the temples and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked exactly like what he was, a psychologist. If Sam had seen him sitting in a r
estaurant, he’d have guessed he was a doctor of some kind. He’d stopped wearing a tie to work, at least. He was even wearing jeans today, with a blue button-down. Just one of the guys, sitting in his comfortable armchair like they were buddies and were just going to shoot the shit. Didn’t matter. He made Sam nervous as hell. It was nothing against Sweeney. Sam had never liked any of the therapists they’d sent him to after he got back from the sandbox. Just talking to one made him feel crazy.
“Hey, Doc.” Sam stepped through the door and rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. He shoved his hands into his pockets and fiddled with the picture he always kept there. It calmed him. “How’s it going?”
“Isn’t that my line?” the doctor said with a puzzled grin.
“Ha,” Sam said without much humor.
“Ouch. Was it my delivery?”
“Look, Dr. Sweeney—” Sam started to say.
“Call me Mark.”
“Mark.” Sam sighed. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
“Are we breaking up?” Mark said, genuinely puzzled. “I didn’t know we were a thing. My wife will be disappointed she missed it.” He waited a beat. “That was a joke.”
“Ha,” Sam said again.
“Close the door,” Mark said. He waited until it was shut. “Okay, I apologize for interrupting. Go ahead and finish your thought.”
“I don’t like therapists.” Sam tried not to sound too defensive. “I’m here because everyone from my best friend and teammates to my one-night stand thinks I need to see one.”
“Wow. Okay.” Mark blinked at him a few times. “There was a lot in there that I need to process. Why was she, or he, a one-night stand?”
“That’s the first question?” Sam asked, disconcerted.
“Well, the first one that popped into my head.” Mark indicated the other big, comfortable armchair in his office. “Sit down. You’re making me nervous.” Sam dutifully sat. Damn, these chairs were comfortable. “Now, answer the question. What you tried to do was deflect it. That tells me something, too.”
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