Hail Mary

by C. C. Galloway

  “What do you plan to do?” Mary asked.

  “I’m not going to do anything. Being one hundred percent completely rejected once is more than enough for me.”

  Chapter 10

  The Magic Cookie Bars were sure to be the death of her, but what a way to go. As Mary putzed around the kitchen with yet another bar making its way to her mouth, she found her thoughts drifting to the recesses of her mind and the handsome subject that was never far from her thoughts.

  Michael.

  Had he thought about her? Should she call him? What was the protocol? Would he call her? She had become completely obsessed, off balance, anxious, but sometimes goofy and strangely elated when she thought about him. Was it any wonder single women in their thirties were viewed as neurotic?

  She was finishing off the rest of her bar when her cell phone started going off.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi.”

  A warm glow spread throughout Mary’s chest as Michael’s deep voice carried through the phone.

  “Hi yourself.”

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Crap. If she told him what she was doing, he’d think she was a cow. Mary was always eating. Always cooking. So, she did what any self-respecting woman would do.

  She lied.

  “Nothing much. Cleaning the kitchen. You?”

  “I just finished watching some game tapes for tomorrow. I’d like you to come over Saturday night. If you’re available.”

  The silence on both ends was pregnant, full of hope and anticipation on one and pleasant, sizzling surprise on the other.

  “I’d love to,” Mary said, doing her best not to gush and jump up and down in the kitchen. She wasn’t completely neurotic yet. Not that she was far from it.

  Michael was smiling so hard on his end that he thought his face was liable to break in half. He’d finally given in after unsuccessfully fighting his attraction all week. It was as though he had become an addict, hyper for his next fix in the form of one Ms. Mary Richardson. He was edgy, out of sorts, almost distracted thinking about her. Wondering what she was doing. If the rain was getting to her the way it was getting to him. What she’d made for dinner. How her juniors fared on their Trig mid-terms. If her apartment had adequate heat.

  His preoccupation with her hadn’t yet run interference with practice, but he didn’t want to chance it. He thought maybe, just maybe, if he had one more time with her, he could deal with his desire to know more about her. To know everything about her. Maybe if they had one more time together, he could excise her from his mind. And his cock.

  “Where do you live?” Mary asked.

  “I can pick you up.”

  “I should probably drive.”

  “Alright. If you change your mind, let me know.”

  ~ * ~ * ~

  The following Saturday night, Mary drove through the hills, trying to follow Michael’s directions while avoiding hitting any of the bikers, until she finally reached his condo. His unit was at the end of a long line of traditional brick townhouses. 1148 NW Towler Road was situated towards the end of the street with no discernible personal touches, the lack of which were all the more noticeable in comparison to his neighbors. No flowers lined the walkway. No planters flanked the door, nor were there any welcome mats or flags on the front porch. Nothing.

  Mary pulled up her Volvo behind Michael’s Jeep in the driveway and made her way towards his front door.

  Michael opened the door as though he’d been waiting and watched her drive up. He was all big and sexy in a black, long-sleeved t-shirt, jeans, and bare feet. His wasn’t quite a full smile, but it was thinking about it.

  As Mary approached Michael, she was slightly out of sorts. Should she hug him? Offer him her hand? The protocol eluded her.

  “I see you found it ok,” he offered, stepping aside, waiting for Mary to cross the threshold and enter.

  Michael took the confusion away by kissing her. Quick, light and soft. Gentle as a breeze on the lips. A “Welcome” kind of kiss. Just lovely, brief contact that barely lingered, but communicated a world of feeling.

  As they broke apart, he closed the door and she took in his condo.

  It was as sparse as a college dorm room in July. Functional furniture in a square living room faced a high def television mounted on the opposite wall. There were no photographs on the living room table. No books, no magazines, no pictures. A single leather couch. The neutral walls were completely bereft of any photographs or other artwork. It was spotless. Michael’s condo looked as though the maid express had completed a quick run-through before she arrived. The smell of Pine Sol indicated he not only knew cleaning products existed, but how to use them.

  Mary wasn’t quite sure where to plant herself, but checked out a couple of the bar stools flanking a kitchen island and figured it was as a good a place as any. As Michael followed her, he asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “What have you got?”

  As he turned his broad back to her, a gentle flush crept up his neck.

  “I ah, have light beer.”

  Her smile was automatic. “Perfect. That’s my beer of choice.”

  He uncapped the bottle and handed it to her.

  “Would you like a glass?” he offered.

  “Not at all. I’m a girl who drinks straight from the bottle.” Mary put her words to the test by taking a long pull on the bottle as she surveyed the kitchen. There were no lamps, no hot pads, nothing on the counters. Although something in the oven tempted her taste buds.

  Mary smiled to herself. He’d noticed what she drank and bought it especially for her tonight. Lovely to think he’d noticed such a minor detail and made sure he had her brand of beer when she came over.

  “You still not drinking?” Mary asked.

  Michael shook his head as he leaned down on the island directly across from her and crossed his arms in front of him. Which was the perfect angle for her to study him. His throat was strong, not thick, but a perfectly defined column. His short, dark hair looked slightly wet, as though he’d showered right before she arrived.

  “No. It’s not really my thing. Especially not during season,” he responded with a shake of his head.

  “Have you always been like this? Or is this a more recent development?”

  “Not drinking during season?” Michael shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Did you ever drink at Wisconsin?” she continued.

  He shrugged his broad shoulders again. “Not really.”

  “How does a football player at Madison actually get away with not drinking?” Mary teased.

  “The good thing about playing on a big team, especially when I was younger, was that I could fly under the radar. No one noticed me. By the time they did, I was a junior and none of the seniors gave me any grief about it. I don’t know. It was never my thing and not much of an issue.”

  Mary smiled at him while sipping her beer. Springsteen came from somewhere inside the house, but she couldn’t detect where. She hadn’t noticed a stereo on her way in, but then again, she hadn’t been focused on the furnishings.

  “And that carried over to when you moved to Portland?”

  Michael took his forearms off the island, leaned back, and stood against the kitchen sink while he tucked his hands inside his armpits. He cleared his throat a couple of times before he answered.

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said, shrugging shoulders that stretched the confines of his black t-shirt. “I don’t know. I guess, I mean, a lot of players fuck up their careers by showing up hung-over for practice and on game days. They don’t only let themselves down, but by pulling that kind of shit? It lets the entire team down.”

  “You’re the ultimate team player, huh?” Mary teased as she imitated his stance and leaned back in her bar stool.

  “I wouldn’t say that, but yeah, we work as a unit. Most days it’s hard enough to play as it is, firing on all four cylinders when it’s everyone’s job on the other team to
make sure you don’t succeed at your own job. Why people willingly decide to begin any game at a disadvantage because they like their liquor a little too much is beyond me.”

  ~ * ~ * ~

  Michael’s unease heightened the longer Mary remained quiet. Shit. He shouldn’t have said that. He sounded like a Grade A capital dork. It was evident she enjoyed her beer. She probably thought he was the lamest guy on the planet. Ever. Why couldn’t he have simply said it wasn’t for him? Because then that would lead to a whole lot of questions better left unasked and unanswered.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he was this nervous. Maybe his first professional game he started against Chicago? NFC Championship game two years ago? Those games had nothing on the dance his nerves were doing right now, all up and down in his stomach, making him want to throw up. Or run away. He’d barely been able to sleep the night before, mentally running all the calls and all the plays that could possibly come up during Sunday’s game in a vain effort to block Mary from his mind.

  He’d jumped out of bed at six a.m. and hit the ground for a seven mile run. When the run failed to exhaust him, he’d putzed around his condo all day. Double-checked his cell phone with the repetition worthy of a serial texter to make sure Mary hadn’t cancelled. Wiped down countertops that needed no attention. He even straightened his bathroom towels for Christ’s sake. Towels. Straightened. By him.

  And now Mary was here.

  If she only knew the whole not drinking rule had less to do with football and everything to do with his childhood. Those were memories better left forgotten, especially on a night like this.

  “That makes sense,” she responded. “I mean, my body certainly doesn’t metabolize beer the way it did when I was twenty-one and my job’s pretty sedentary. If my body was my career, I’d want to take good care of it too.”

  “Looks to me like you care for your body just fine, Mary,” he stated. His eyes held hers in the kitchen light as he allowed the right side of his lips to lift. Mary made him want to smile.

  Mary’s laugh sparkled like pretty wind chimes--melodious and breezy. “Well, the light beer usually treats me right,” she replied, beginning to peel the label away from the body of the bottle, an unconscious habit she thought she’d kicked years ago. “So, what’s for dinner?”

  “Ahh, enchiladas…” His response made it sound as though it was more of a question and less of an answer. “And salad.”

  “Terrific. I love Mexican food. You make them?”

  “Not quite,” he hedged.

  “Not quite? What does that mean?”

  “It means while I may not have rolled them together, they are heating up as we speak in the oven. It shouldn’t be much longer now.”

  “Good to know you’ve got oven skills.”

  “Elephants restaurant makes it easy. The enchiladas came with instructions. As did the salad. Refrigerate until ready to eat.” He shook his head as though he couldn’t believe it.

  “I love Elephants. I haven’t been there in awhile. You ever try their grilled cheese and tomato soup?” Mary asked as she continued peeling the label off her beer bottle.

  “Can’t say that I have,” Michael replied, his mouth twitching.

  “Sheer heaven.”

  “I’ll have to try it. If I’d known your preferences, we could have had that instead. Until the next time, the enchiladas will have to suffice.”

  “Perfect. As I said, I love Mexican.”

  “Good. That’s good I, ah, thought it’d be okay if we stayed in tonight. I’m not into crowds.”

  She raised her right eyebrow.

  “Excuse me? You have a problem with crowds when Silverston Field packs in 107,000 screaming fans on any given Sunday?”

  He turned and tilted his head. “I know. It’s one thing when I’m on the field. It’s another when I’m out.”

  “Can’t deal with the public eye, huh?”

  Michael chuckled. “I don’t know how much the public eye gives a shit about me. All I know is I wanted to have you all to myself tonight. No interruptions.”

  Her pulse took a giant leap and landed somewhere in the vicinity of her head.

  Michael removed the tray of enchiladas as they hissed and sizzled in their pan from the oven and placed it on the hot pad perched on the island countertop. “Can I get you another beer?”

  Mary smiled. “I’m okay for now. Can I help you with anything?” she offered as she stood up from her stool and started moving around the island and towards Michael.

  “No. I got it.” He turned to the refrigerator and pulled out a big, black bowl of salad and placed it next to the enchiladas. “Elephants gave us a choice of ranch, bleu cheese, vinaigrette, or honey mustard.”

  “Give me ranch or give me death,” she joked, all the while watching Michael remove the plates from the cupboards and silverware from a drawer.

  He was opening up a variety of drawers and was becoming increasingly more agitated.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He exhaled a long breath and didn’t meet her eyes. “I, ah, I don’t have those things you get salad out of the bowl with.”

  “You mean tongs?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s no big deal. You have a fork, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a big serving spoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Give me a fork and the serving spoon and I’ll serve up the salad for both of us.”

  His relief was evident in his long exhale but completely at odds with such a minor issue as a simple lack of salad tongs. As she eyeballed the rest of the kitchen, Mary was again struck by the lack of countertop clutter she was accustomed to, both at her own apartment and every other person she knew. The surfaces were pristine in their barren state. Sparkling clean, but empty. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he’d only recently moved in. Like, last week. No toaster. No coffee pot. No napkin holder. No cookie jar. No mug full of cooking utensils, like tongs or soup ladles. No vitamins. No knife block. No cutting boards. No clock. No notepads for grocery lists. Even as a single man, Mary expected something that demonstrated he actually used his kitchen.

  As she served up their salad into a couple of dark blue bowls, Michael placed several piping enchiladas on matching plates. “If you don’t want another beer, would you like something else?” he asked.

  “Water would be great. Tell me where the glasses are and I’ll help myself.”

  “Behind you and to the right of the sink. There’s some bottled water in the fridge.”

  The water bubbled out of the bottle and into the glass as Michael situated their plates, bowls, and silverware on top of the island where Mary had been seated.

  “I don’t have a dining room table so we’ll have to eat at the bar, if that’s ok. If not, we can eat in the living room like we did at your apartment.” Michael looked sheepish, the red at the height of his cheekbones standing out in contrast to his dark skin.

  “This is perfect. I prefer to have a surface for my plate when eating dinner.”

  His grin transformed his face from a late twenty-something man to a young, bashful man. “Me too,” he said, waiting until Mary had hopped up on her stool before he sat down in its twin to her left.

  “Oh my God. I’d forgotten how delicious these are,” Mary murmured as the spicy combo of meat, cheese, beans, and tortilla hit her tongue and set off her taste buds like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

  “How was practice?” Mary asked.

  “It was fine.”

  He coughed, clearing some non-existent junk in this throat. Took another sip of water. Then another.

  “Actually, it wasn’t fine. It pretty much sucked.” Mary’s eyes widened slightly, but she remained silent.

  “We didn’t have a game last week and our coach has some serious attitude regarding how screwed teams are after being off for a week, both during the regular season and during playoffs.”

  “He took it out on you?”
/>   “Not me specifically, but yeah, he busted our balls this week. He ran our asses off doing suicides and more fucking drills than I can ever remember.” Once the words departed his mouth, Michael was embarrassed. “Sorry.”

  “For what?” Mary seemed honestly confused.

  “I shouldn’t have used that expression. Not with you.”

  “Which one?” Mary asked, washing her last bite full of enchilada down with a long sip of ice water.

  Michael let out a low chuckle.

  “Well, ‘busting our balls’ isn’t exactly nice language.”

  “Would it make you feel better if I dropped a couple of ‘motherfuckers’ during our dinner tonight?” The twinkle in Mary’s eyes lit her up from within.

  “It might.”

  “Okay. Give me a few minutes and I’ll try and work in a few,” she promised, shooting a sideways smile his way as he mimicked her action with his own water glass to wash down his remaining bites of salad.

  “Are you still hungry? There’s plenty more,” he offered, gliding off the stool and around the island to pile some more enchiladas onto his own plate.

  “Nope. I’m good,” she answered, feeling giddy and excited just by looking at him and watching him. His big hands were tan, fit, and self-assured as he secured the extra cheese with his fork that was oozing out of the enchilada onto his plate. He’d pushed the sleeves of his long t-shirt up to expose equally dark forearms that could function as balance beams for the United States Gymnastics team. Mary flushed remembering exactly where his hands had been the last time they were together. And she wanted them to make a return trip so she too could return to happy happy land. Being around Michael, in his home and listening to his voice as he opened up to her about his job stirred her emotions somewhere north of her stomach around the vicinity of her heart. Hearing him talk and the slightly awkward chuckles he occasionally let out, were sounds she could get used to. For a long, long time. And wanted to hear more of.

  “No salad either?” Michael prompted, looking up before he returned to his stool.

  “Nope. No more greens for me,” she responded, wondering if her giddy excitement had manifested itself in her face, hoping and praying he didn’t interpret any silly expressions on her face as Mary being some half-witted idiot who was turned on by Mexican food.