The Hot Shot

by Kristen Callihan

  The crowd whistles their approval.

  She nods, her curls bouncing. “The end is especially lovely. You remember it?”

  As one, we all shout, “You look good wearing my future!”

  Laughter rings through the small space.

  “Aye, so romantic.” The singer grabs her tambourine. “We’re going to play a little homage to Some Kind of Wonderful and Lick the Tins, who did a brilliant cover for the flick.”

  I’m smiling, but a niggling feeling begins to start up around the edges of my heart.

  The band begins to play a lively, Celtic version of “Can’t Help Falling,” and my heart clenches. Oh, God, I truly am haunted.

  Around me, people start to sing along, an utter wall of sound rolling over me, insisting that some things were meant to be. And I can’t stand it. I can’t stand that Finn isn’t right here with me, laughing in my ear, demanding that I take his hand, that we could be fools together.

  He’s been doing that since the beginning. He’s known. He’s been trying to tell me what we were to each other all along. I just hadn’t listened. He might be stubborn, and his refusal to give in a little still pisses me off. But he is mine.

  A sob breaks free. And I’m stuck between laughter and crying.

  James looks at me sharply. “What’s wrong?”

  “The song. Elvis. He’s everywhere.”

  James frowns, leaning in so we can talk over the ribald singing. “And that makes you cry?”

  I shake my head, tears running down my face. “I love him.”

  “Elvis?” Jamie asks, confused.

  “Finn. I love Finn. Doesn’t matter where I go…” I lift my hands helplessly toward the band. “He’s my fate.”

  James smiles softly. “Your perfectly imperfect.”

  “I have to tell him.”

  “You will.” James reaches across the table and puts his hand on my trembling one. “Do you want to step out and call him?”

  “He’s playing a game right now.” I wipe my cheeks. “I should do it in person.”

  “Okay.” James gives me a squeeze. “We’ll get you home as soon as we can.”

  Home. I need to go home. The heat of the room and the sound of the band press in on me.

  “I have to get out of here,” I tell James. “I can’t breathe. I need to see Finn. I have to…”

  “It’s all right,” James says. “Don’t panic.”

  My fingers are clumsy as I fish my wallet out of my purse and pull out some bills. “I’m going to take a walk.”

  James grabs my wrist. “You’re not going out alone.”

  “I grew up in this city, James. I’ll be okay.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he insists. “We’re coming with you.”

  He tosses some more money onto the table then sets his empty glass on the pile to secure it. But I can’t wait any longer; I’m halfway across the room by the time James and Jamie catch up to me.

  I stumble outside and draw in a deep breath of icy air. It burns going down but I suck in another breath. James and Jamie stand beside me.

  “You all right?” Jamie asks, resting a hand on my arm.

  “Yeah.” I give her a weak smile. “Sorry for the drama.”

  Beneath the lenses of her glasses, her eyes crinkle at the corners. “It’s pretty emotional, falling in love.”

  “I shouldn’t have left him. I should have stayed.”

  James pulls out a cigarette and lights it. “If leaving meant you finally realized without a doubt that he’s the one, then don’t punish yourself for it.” He takes a drag then lets out a puff of smoke. “Consider it time well spent.”

  “I hurt him.”

  “Something tells me he’ll forgive you.” James winks at me, then laughs. “My grumpy Chessie bear is dating the quarterback. Will wonders never cease?”

  “I think James is a bit jealous,” Jamie teases.

  “I’d like to point out that I had a crush on Manny before Chess met Finn, and before I met you.” James flicks the tip of his cigarette. “Now it would be too weird to keep him in the spank bank. I’d start picturing Chess’s disapproving face and…total bone kill.”

  “You’re not supposed to have a spank bank now,” I say. “You have Jamie.”

  “When I enter my bank, Jamie is always there to watch,” James retorts with an evil grin.

  “TMI,” Jamie huffs, pinching him. “You’re going to give Chess indigestion.”

  “Well, she’s killed prime fantasy material for me so we’re even.”

  I know Jamie is embarrassed on my behalf, but I also know James is trying to distract me. He’s doing a good job of it. We exchange a secret smile between us, one that’s gotten us through a lot of tough times. Gratitude fills me, and I want to hug my best friend. He gives me a little wink in silent reply.

  “I’d flip you off,” I say with false annoyance, “but it’s too cold.”

  I tuck my icy hands under my arms.

  “Come on.” James snuffs his cigarette on the side of the building then tosses the butt into a nearby trash can. “Let’s find a bar and watch your boyfriend play.”

  Three doors down, we find a bar that, no surprise to anyone, is showing the game on multiple TVs. Patrons are yelling at the screen and I see that the score is seven to fourteen, and New Orleans is down. Given that Finn’s team is playing against New York, everyone is ecstatic.

  We get our beers at the bar and then James finds us a seat by the door, facing one of the TVs, and we sit down as Finn and his offense trot back on the field. I can’t see his face behind the helmet he wears, but just the sight of the number ten on his jersey has my heart clenching.

  Although his team is currently losing, he moves with authority, bringing his guys in for a huddle. They’re on their home turf and the crowd chants for Finn. The commentator on the TV spews on about the offense not being at their best in games past and how Finn has struggled throughout the season to regain control.

  “That’s why our defense is gonna kick your ass, Manny,” a guy at the bar shouts.

  I know it’s not personal; it’s part of the game. But it feels personal. I want to yell at the guy to either put on a uniform and try it or shut the fuck up.

  James reads me well. “Easy there, tiger.”

  My fingers grip the edges of my chair. “I’m fine.”

  On the screen, the next drive begins. I don’t know much about football. Next to nothing really, but watching Finn makes my breath catch and pride swell through my chest. He is beautiful in the way rare and powerful things are.

  Finn catches the ball hiked to him by Dex, and then he dances back, his guys protecting him. To me, it’s a scramble, the defense scurrying around like mad ants trying to get him, the offense scurrying like mad ants running this way and that. All the while Finn remains the center of calm.

  He cocks his arm back and throws, heedless of the big barn of a guy hurtling toward him. The ball flies through the air like it’s on a string. But my eyes are on Finn. Unfortunately, the camera follows the ball as it shoots downfield toward Jake.

  The guys at the bar shout. Jake arcs in the air like a ballerina, catches the ball, and lands in an inelegant heap as a bunch of defenders tackle him. But he keeps the ball.

  “Right through traffic!” James slams his fist on the table in victory as the rest of the bar groans.

  I grin wide. The camera goes back to Finn who jumps once and then pumps his fist once. As Jake runs back to the huddle, Finn smacks him on the butt in congratulations.

  “Come on Defense,” annoying bar dude shouts, doing that annoying rapid clap thing.

  I ignore it and watch Finn. This time he passes the ball off to North who doesn’t get very far, much to the bar’s delight.

  Doesn’t matter. I can sense the difference in Finn’s game. He has a rhythm going, a confidence about him. He’s playing to win. I’m so proud of him that I have to bite my lips to keep from shouting my encouragement to the screen, because, really it’s not
like he can hear me. And yet, some small, shitty dark corner of my mind feels distress. Because he is playing better now. Without me in his life.

  It could be a fluke. But they haven’t lost a game since I’ve been gone.

  The announcer babbles on about Finn being in the zone. He is. This is what he does best.

  And you love him. And if he knew that, he’d be…

  My thoughts scatter because Finn has the ball again. This time he scrambles back, guys honing in on him.

  At the bar, the crowd shouts at the defense to take him down, knock his ass flat. But Finn isn’t an easy target. He evades like the pro that he is.

  My stomach clenches, my heart kicking my ribs. A lineman hooks Finn around his waist. My fingernails dig into the wood. But Finn swings around, somehow slipping out of his grip.

  James shouts.

  Finn zings a pass to North, who takes off down the end zone.

  James jumps to his feet. Somehow I’m on my feet too and we booth cheer as North races along.

  “Touchdown,” James cries, throwing up his arms. I laugh and pump a fist in the air.

  “Man, shut up,” someone says behind us. We ignore him and wiggle our hips.

  Finally, they show Finn on the sidelines, helmet off, as he sits on a bench next to Jake and they laugh about something. Sweat slicks his hair and his cheeks are ruddy. But his smile is big and infectious. He’s so damn gorgeous, my fingers ache to touch him. It hurts my heart to look at him, but I don’t dare blink.

  It nearly kills me with they cut away to the other team.

  “Here comes Baylor,” annoying bar dude says, clapping. “Kick some ass, Battle.”

  “Is he any good?” I ask James as New York’s quarterback takes the field.

  “Yeah.” James looks disgruntled. “He was Manny’s rival in college, you know. Finn was drafted the year before Drew Baylor. And you should know this, missy.”

  “We don’t exactly talk about football all the time.”

  James grins. “Right. Too busy licking his fine—”

  “James!” Jamie gives his arm a slap. She’s been quiet up until now, clearly not in her element. “Stop it.”

  He cackles but then gives her a swift kiss. “I’m just messing with Chess.”

  “You’re being a pig.”

  “Yeah, that too.”

  Unfortunately, James is right. Drew Baylor is good. He reminds me a lot of Finn in the way he moves and in the size and shape of his body. The main difference seems to be that while Finn has a more playful demeanor, clearly joking with his offense and even the defensive linemen who try to tackle him, Baylor is all gruff business.

  I don’t like watching him play, because it means Finn might lose. Part of me wants to leave now, go book a flight home and just be there. But it feels like a betrayal not to watch Finn finish this game. He has no idea that I’m watching, so it shouldn’t matter but it feels like it does. As if I’m supporting him, even though I’m nearly two thousand miles away.

  I hate that distance.

  New York doesn’t manage to score and, after a nice punt return, Finn is soon back on the field. They’re tied now, and tension coils in my gut. Please win. He needs this. I need this for him.

  For three plays, I sit on the edge of my seat, as Finn and his offense battle their way down field, gaining some yards, losing others. Another drive, and I’m fairly twitching. The ball snaps. Finn catches it, steps back, he pump fakes one way and then, as if on cue, lets it fly. James screams as the ball soars.

  Guys at the bar scream too, lamenting.

  It’s to Jake again. He jumps high, his body stretched to its limit. I bite my lip hard. Jake catches the ball and, in the same instant, a safety slams into his lower half. Jake flips head over heels, still clutching the ball. He lands head first onto the field, his head snapping towards his chest.

  He crumples. And doesn’t get up.

  My heart stops so hard and fast, the room spins. Refs blow whistles. Medics rush onto the field.

  “Jake.”

  I know this man. I’ve laughed with him. Eaten with him. He is Finn’s best friend.

  Finn, who, when Jake doesn’t get up runs over to be with him. His helmet is off and he stands far enough back to let the medical staff work. His eyes never leave Jake, who lies lifeless in the end zone, his arm still wrapped around the ball.

  I stand in the middle of the bar, my fists balled at my side, thinking he’ll get up. It will be like Jerry McGuire, and Jake will soon be dancing around in the end zone. But he doesn’t. They call for a stretcher.

  Finn grasps the back of his neck with both hands and begins to pace. The camera zooms in on him. A strangled sound leaves me. Because the look in Finn’s eyes has ripped open my heart. Although his expression is tightly controlled, I know him. Terror, agony, helplessness, it’s all there, swimming in those blue depths. He’s crumbling inside.

  I grab my coat, slinging it over my shoulders. “I have to go.”

  James rises. “Chess.”

  “No,” I shout, then take a breath. “No waiting. He can’t be alone like this. I won’t let him be alone anymore.”

  James nods. I don’t wait to see if he and Jamie follow. I run straight out the door. The night is bitterly cold. My breath leaves in white puffs that obscure my vision. A cab comes down the block on the opposite side of the street. Without pause, I whistle high, lifting my arm.

  It starts to slow, and I run to meet it.

  Call it sixth sense, call it self-preservation, but the second I step out onto the street, my body tenses all at once. I feel the danger before I see it. Or maybe I hear it.

  Someone shouts my name, unhinged and desperate. But I don’t turn that way. I turn towards the rushing sound at my side. All I see is a blur before impact. Something hits me so hard, my brain registers it as sound: shattering light bulbs, dropping from a great height. Stars sparkle behind my lids.

  I think of Fred slamming into me in a smoke filled hall, and for a second I don’t know where I am.

  Finn’s frowning face flashes in my mind, and then there is nothing.

  * * *

  Finn

  * * *

  What the fuck just happened? What the fuck just happened!

  The thought cycles through my skull as I pace the halls in the bowels of the stadium. It had been a perfect pass, a sweet forty yard spiral straight into the end zone. Jake had caught it. Perfect catch. A thing of poetry.

  That ball had landed in his hands, and I swear I felt the contact. We’d been connected in that play, one mind. Fucking poetry.

  And then he went down.

  Panic skitters up my throat. I can’t breathe. I’m going to be sick. I halt and bend over, resting my hands on my thighs as I take deep breaths. We deal with injuries all the time. Pain and football go hand in hand.

  But neck injuries, spinal damage. It’s the thing you don’t even want to think about. Not just career ending but life altering. He could die.

  The ground beneath me sways. I grip my thighs tight.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  A door opens with a squeak. I don’t look up as footsteps approach.

  Charlie stops beside me. “Been looking for you.”

  I’d done my part. Finished the game. Bucked the fuck up and buckled down to win it. Nothing less would satisfy any of my guys. The fact that Jake had been joking at halftime about a “Win one for the Gipper” speech, almost made me lose it a couple of times.

  But I’d held it together. Kept my game face on after the game, through the post game interviews where reporters clamored to know how Jake was doing. I’d wanted to know too. It fucking killed me, not knowing, waiting to hear what the doctors had to say.

  Was he paralyzed? Would he play again?

  “You hear anything,” I ask Charlie, as I stare at the floor.

  “I don’t know much. But they think he’ll be okay.”

  My knees sag. “Okay?”

  Charlie knows what I’m asking. “No spinal
damage.”

  I let out a gust of air. “Okay. Okay.” Standing straight, I face Charlie. And then I’m hugging him. He pounds my back, and I pound his, both of us breathing too hard. I let him go with a final squeeze then step back and rub my eyes.

  “Coach wants to see you,” Charlie says when we turn and head back toward the locker room.

  “Now? Jesus.”

  I find Coach Calhoun waiting for me. “You hear about Ryder?” he asks without preamble.

  “Charlie told me.”

  He nods, the relief in his eyes clear. “We need to talk about a few things. Got a minute?”

  It’s not really a question, just Calhoun’s way of being polite, which is rare in and of itself.

  “I was planning to go see Jake.”

  “He’s under sedation.”

  “That’s good. He needs the rest.”

  “Nobody but family is getting in to see him tonight.”

  “I’ll get in.”

  His eyes narrow. “We’ve put guards to keep everyone out. You’re not getting in.”

  Our stare stretches. It’s a delicate thing, saying no to your coach. If you don’t have a good reason for it, you’re accused of not being a team player. Management does not find that amusing. Press gets wind that you’re being uncooperative—and somehow they always find out— and suddenly there’s talk of “problems” between the player and the coaching staff.

  Politics suck. But there’s also respect. I respect the hell out of my coach. Enough that I can wait a few minutes more to go see Jake.

  My shoulders lower. “Your office?”

  Appeased, he relaxes too. “Won’t take too long.”

  I haven’t taken a step when my phone rings. I reach to turn it off, but it’s Chess’s ringtone. Until now, I haven’t let myself think of her; it’s hard enough worrying about Jake. But the wall is crumbling. I need to hear her voice, to see her. Hell, I need her.

  Calhoun shoots me a glance, as Cindy Lauper’s Goonies song plays on. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the call. It feels fundamentally wrong to do it. But twenty minutes isn’t going to kill either one of us. Twenty minutes, I promise myself.