Hail Mary

by Nicola Rendell

  Part of me realizes she’s probably going to say something like Slow down or Oh Jimmy, that’s so silly.

  But she doesn’t. She takes half a sandwich for herself, dips the corner in the ketchup, and says, “Maybe we are.”

  Fuck. I busy myself watching how they make rubber gaskets. I think she actually just said that. I think she just said we’re meant to be. I glance at her and then at Annie, at How It’s Made and at the cookies she also brought with her from the kitchen. “Were you okay with her?” I whisper. I can’t see her, because she’s snuggled up against me, but I can feel the nod on my shoulder.

  That nod, that sweet, enthusiastic nod. “I don’t have much experience with kids. But she’s special. I really wish she had better than she does.”

  Jesus. Me too. In every way and every day, I wish I were her dad instead of Michael. But I’m not, and so I have to take what I can get. “At least for tonight, she’s happy and safe.”

  Mary reaches out her hand and takes mine in hers, squeezing hard.

  My God. It isn’t just Annie that’s happy. It’s me too. To have her to come home to, that is happiness. That is safety. This is what I’ve needed. This was the empty place.

  Nothing fancy. Nothing crazy. Just her. This. Us.

  32

  Mary

  After changing the battle plan with Curtis again, and assuring him that no, he didn’t need to do some sort of special ops nighttime ball deflation maneuvers, thank you very much, the next two days are all Jimmy, all football, all the time. I report to Soldier Field at 9 a.m. sharp, and I work with Jimmy for two hours in the morning. We break for lunch, and we do another two hours in the afternoon. I learn his training routine, which is absolutely grueling. I learn that he can run forty yards in 6.4 seconds, and according to some metric that I don’t understand at all, that’s pretty slow. I learn that when he isn’t worrying about Annie, now back with her dad, he lives, eats, and breathes football. It is a nonstop, constant, near-obsession that could make a man absolutely insane. And he is ruthless with himself. For every caught pass, there’s a missed one he remembers too. For every touchdown in practice, he focuses on the interceptions.

  I’ve noticed a pattern, though. When he’s not thinking about the game, when he’s not stressed, when he’s not run ragged, he makes almost all the passes he attempts. If I can get him focused on anything else, I wonder what’ll happen. If I can get his thoughts out of the loop, I wonder if things will improve.

  After I finish helping him stretch his legs—as erotic as anything I've ever been a part of, because those thighs, my God—I follow him out onto the practice field. A handful of massive guys are thrusting themselves up against these big metal-and-vinyl contraptions. I try to pull up the Wikipedia page in my head. Sleds, I think they’re called. Maybe. Seems just nonsensical enough to be right. Standing close to him, I study his arm as he throws. I’ve got him with his shirt off now, and therapy tape crisscrossing the offending shoulder.

  “What do you think about when you throw?” I ask.

  He cocks his head at me. “Ummm. Making the pass?” He throws smoothly and easily to Valdez, who tosses it back. I watch his huge fingers grip the laces as he turns the ball around in his hand and then gets ready to give it another toss.

  “Stay there,” I say, and get down on the Astroturf, looking up his body.

  He pauses with the ball in his hand. “God, you’re sexy.”

  “As you were, soldier.”

  Then he smiles and tosses the ball in that smooth, easy, beautiful movement again. “Okay, now really throw it. Let me see those big guns.”

  He snickers a little and tells Valdez to “go deep.” Oh God.

  Taking the ball in two hands, he brings it back. I finally understand the meaning of washboard abs. His feet are placed perfectly, his shoulders squared.

  Just as he’s about to loose the ball, I tell him, “Championship point, Jimmy. It’s do or die…”

  And he totally blows it.

  “Well, that was a cheap shot.” He coughs and picks up another ball.

  But as I look up that body that I like so much, and look at that face that makes me melt, it slowly starts to occur to me.

  I don’t think it’s in his shoulder at all. He’s healthy and strong, and all the x-rays in his file show his shoulder healed perfectly after surgery. When he was just the backup quarterback, Bridget says, he could pretty much make every single pass, no matter how difficult. In a pinch, he was their man. But then he became the starting QB, and everything went to hell in a handbasket.

  So I stand up, I pretend to be busy with my clipboard. We talk about ordinary things. How my Wrangler needs new tires. How he’d like to buy me new tires. How I’m not going to let him buy me new tires. How we’ll just see about that. All through the conversation, only half-focused, he makes a series of dead-accurate, perfect throws, over and over again.

  That’s when I give him a little show. I bend at the waist and pretend to be doing something in my bag. But I can see him watching me. Making a sort of holy fuck face that positively melts me. Another perfect pass to Valdez. Sixty yards, easy.

  But then, between my legs, I see Radovic. He’s back in the Crocs because Frankie didn’t come with me today. He zeros in on Jimmy and crushes his can.

  Jimmy gets ready to throw, and I say, “Red Bull incoming.”

  He steadies himself, he focuses, he gets that look on his face that he doesn’t even have when he’s trying to stave off an orgasm. It’s his under-pressure throwing face, his focused face. The face he has when everybody’s watching him, and he starts to believe that he’s not going to make this play either…

  He lets it fly. And he blows it.

  One more experiment. “Do you want to have dinner with me?” I ask him.

  His scowl at seeing Radovic vanishes, and he gives me that huge, big smile. “Hell, yes.”

  Perfect throw.

  I nod and zip up my bag. Under pressure, with those old thoughts grinding through his head, he psyches himself out. Distracted, he nails it. Every time. I watch the spiral whizz through the air, seventy yards easy. “I’ll cook for you. Be at my place at 7.”

  He groans a little. “I like when you boss me around,” he mutters and tosses another perfect pass.

  I take my place next to him and put my hands on his shoulder, massaging it a little. Valdez tosses the ball back to him and he catches it, easily and smoothly. I feel his bicep bulge under my hand, and this time it’s my turn to groan.

  But then, he freezes. I watch his eyes widen and follow his gaze. At the far end of the practice field is a young guy coming through one of the entrances. I can’t see him that clearly, but Jimmy can.

  “Fuck me,” he says, palming the ball.

  “What is it?” I squint.

  The young guy, who can’t be more than 23 or 24, shakes Radovic’s hand.

  “That’s Sam Brenner, hot shot QB from Northwestern.” He closes his eyes. “Fuck.”

  One of the guys from the maintenance team goes up to him, and the kid signs an autograph.

  What in the world is a college kid doing here, I wonder? And just look at how cocky he is. Look at how he struts and acts like this place is his.

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s…” Jimmy stops short.

  Because that’s when Radovic turns, picking something up from a nearby table. He unfurls a brand-new jersey. Number four.

  Jimmy stares me hard in the eye. “That’s my fucking replacement.”

  33

  Jimmy

  I play it cool. I walk Mary out and tell her, yeah, I’ll see her at seven, and then head back into the locker room. There I find Radovic, waiting for me by my locker.

  “What the hell is that all about?” I ask, glancing out toward the practice field. “What is Brenner doing here?”

  As if I don’t fucking know already.

  Radovic sniffs and stands up from the bench. I notice a tiny hole in the seams of his sweats from his thighs r
ubbing together all the time. “Just signed his contract today.”

  Knew it.

  But it gets worse. Radovic says, “We’re taking him with us to Denver.” He glances at my shoulder and then my groin and then to my shoulder again. “He’s fearless, with an arm like a cannon. Doesn’t crack under pressure and is too young to be afraid of getting hit.”

  In other words, exactly the opposite of me.

  I once read that the ideal age for a guy to go to war is between eighteen and twenty-two, because they are full of testosterone and have no clue at all about things like consequences, have no responsibilities, and have only the vaguest idea of what I like to call the future. So Brenner, unlike me, is amped up, cocky, and doesn’t think too hard about anything. His MO is to throw the shit out of the ball and see what happens. Just Radovic’s kind of guy.

  He gives me a totally awkward pat on the shoulder, and then swish-swishes away.

  I close my eyes and hang on to the door of my locker. Hang on so hard I hear the hinges groan. From a strategic perspective, it makes sense. They scooped the kid before the draft. His dad was a Bear, also number four. What it means for me is that now, waiting in the wings, is a legacy quarterback gunning for my job. Fantastic.

  That’s the thing about this league. You can win a game, but you’ve got to keep winning them until there aren’t any more to win. It’s not enough to turn it around with one more game. It’s a streak or it’s shit.

  Brenner comes strutting into the locker room and gives me a chin flick.

  “Hey, gramps.”

  Motherfucker.

  “Glad to have you with us.” I can’t even force a smile. I pull my sweaty shirt off over my head and toss it into my locker. In the mirror at the back, I see Brenner eyeing the tape on my shoulder.

  “That doesn’t look so good,” he says. And, of course, adjusts his balls.

  “It’s fine.” I put on a fresh shirt and then a hoodie.

  “Yeah? You think? Not from what I hear.”

  This little shit. I am not going to stand here and defend myself to him. I will not. I've been in this league too goddamned long to have to stand up to little pimple-faced assholes in jeans that come down their ass. I grab my bag, hurl it over my shoulder, and head for the door. If I get shit for leaving early, I get shit for leaving early. That’s a whole lot better than leveling this little dickwad with my fist.

  As I’m leaving, Radovic passes right by me, as if I don’t even exist, talking to Brenner about getting him a locker and checking out his equipment and getting him on the roster for Sunday.

  Fuckers. I’ll show them. I will. But in the meantime, I need to calm the hell down. I need to find my Zen.

  I need to go to Costco.

  Sometimes I wonder what would happen if they hooked me up to a heart monitor when I walk into the front doors of Costco. Would my heart speed up, or would I kind of go into a trance with one beat every three seconds, like I’m sleeping? Because I fucking love this place. The smell, the shit they try to sell you, the samples. The rotisserie chickens. All of it. I show my card to the guy at the front. I come here so often they don’t even notice me anymore, which is pretty much fantastic. I head into the front section, past the shovels and the ice melt, and stick my wallet back into my pocket. Pushing my cart along, I try to calm down a little. Of course they hired Brenner. They’d be stupid not to. Of course they’ll bring him on the road. Right now, the third string QB is even worse than I am. Really, I should be surprised that they didn’t hire some hotshot sooner. I should be. But I’m not. I’m pissed. I grab a 90-ounce tin of peanuts and drop it in my cart.

  I hate this game sometimes. I just fucking hate it.

  So I focus on the good things going on right now. On Annie, who’s doing well in daycare, in spite of her dad. And on Mary.

  The minute I think of her, I feel okay. Like it’s all okay. Like football isn’t the only thing that matters. Because now I’ve got her. A place for all my attention.

  I push my cart toward the towels and notice a nice women’s robe, Turkish terrycloth, in light pink, $39.99.

  I pick it up and hold it out in front of me and think about it. What would she do, I wonder, if I started buying her shit at Costco?

  Fuck it. I’ll find out later, I think, and drop it on top of the peanuts in my cart. As I work my way through the aisles, the calming influence of bulk products passes through me. I pass the books, grab a copy of Lyndon Johnson and the American Dream, and keep on going.

  The thing is, I don’t need much. I’m well-stocked, but by the time I make the loop, I’ve got all kinds of shit in my cart that I didn’t think I needed. A ream of printer paper, because Annie likes blank white pages for coloring. Seven hundred markers, also for Annie. I get three tubs of body butter—coconut, vanilla, and mango—and tuck those in next to the robe for Mary.

  And then I get to the checkout, loading all my shit on the conveyor.

  The checker rings everything up. I recognize her, and she doesn’t treat me any differently than the lady who was in front of me. I box up my stuff and we talk about the weather, about a storm that’s supposed to be coming in soon.

  Then I hand her my debit card.

  She hits TOTAL. And says, “Sorry, sir. It’s declined.”

  “What?” I ask her, staring at the card. “That can’t possibly be right.”

  “Let me try again. We’ve had so much trouble with these new chip readers.” She types something in with her long purple fingernails. Scans it again.

  And the little blue screen says: Declined.

  I stare at my stuff, all boxed up in a hothouse cucumbers box that I got from the pile. That can’t possibly be right. I think back, mentally going through my bank account. I have thirty thousand in there if I have a penny.

  Behind me, a long line is forming. It’s not busy in here, but Costco is a well-oiled machine; there’s no slack in the system for shit like this.

  The checker waits, watching me. I reach into my wallet and pull out my credit card, which goes through without a hitch.

  She’s super nice about it, but I can just tell she’s thinking, Is Jimmy Falconi broke?

  Christ.

  I push my cart out of the way, next to the little restaurant area, and lean on the wall. I take out my phone, pull up my Wells Fargo app and log in. I’m so flustered I fuck up my password the first time, but I get it right on the second try and wait while the little spinning in-progress wheel goes around and around over the PLEASE WAIT WHILE WE RETRIEVE YOUR ACCOUNT INFO screen.

  Primary checking account balance: $0.91

  “Fuck,” I say, clicking on the account info.

  And there, in transaction after transaction, hundreds of them, are the words INTERNET GAMING AND BETS–GRAND CAYMAN.

  Michael got into my account.

  “That motherfucker.”

  And cleaned me out.

  34

  Mary

  After doing a few rounds with Manny himself at the gym, which is a little bit like fighting my grandpa—if my grandpa was a welterweight bareknuckle boxer from Mexico City—I come home to a dark, quiet apartment and a note from Bridget that reads: At my parents’ fixing their stupid wifi. Again. I'll raid their wine cellar and see you in the a.m.

  I tear off my sweaty clothes, throw them in the hamper, and then jump in the shower. This time, I even dry my hair, which, little does Jimmy know, pretty much puts him in the elite dating ranks since blow-drying the curls takes so long that I have to carve out a chunk of my afternoon to do it. But he’s worth it. He most definitely is.

  At a quarter to seven, I hear the thump-thump-thump of footfalls coming down the hall, and I freeze. There aren’t that many people in this building, and none of them sound like the abominable snowman. It has to be Jimmy.

  I look out the peephole, wiping my hands on my apron. There he is, waiting patiently. I open up the door, but it gets caught on the lock. “I didn’t know you heard me. I was just going to wait until it was time.�
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  “The glasses shook in the cabinets.” I shut the door slightly to undo the chain and then open it wide.

  He steps inside. I can see right away that something is very, very wrong

  “What happened?”

  He takes off his coat and hangs it on the peg over mine. “The worst fucking day of my life.”

  I stare up at him. “Please don’t tell me you have to leave. Not yet. You won last week, and you’ll win again. That college kid has nothing on you.”

  His gaze gets dark. “If you can believe it,” he says, walking me backward against the coats and scarves, “that wasn’t the worst part. But I don’t want to talk about it.” He pushes into me. “I need you. Right now. I need to forget all about today.”

  Behind me, I can hear the pasta water starting to boil. I can smell the meatballs, which need to be turned. “But I have dinner…”

  He stops me with a glance. A piercing, hard, greedy stare. “Mary. Seriously. I need you. In bed. Right now.”

  Yes, sir. “Dinner can wait.”

  “Fuck. That’s what I need to hear.” He pulls at my pants with his huge hands. He leans down and brings his lips to my ear. “Is Bridget home?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. She went to see her parents. She’ll be gone for the night.”

  “Good,” he says, pressing into me and pulling me into his body at the same time. “Because it’s been three whole fucking days since I’ve been inside you, and I’m not going to wait one second longer. Meatballs or not.”

  My knees are weak, and if not for the coats and scarves behind me, I think I’d slide right down to the ground. “Whatever you say.”

  “Good girl. And I’m going to need your vibrator.”

  In my bedroom, with only the strange pinkish light of the winter night sky coming in from outside, he lays me on the bed, stroking himself and looking down at me. “I fucking missed you.”