by Lynn Shurr
“Boned up on your classics while you were convalescing, I see.Tale of Two Cities, right?” the commentator said brightly.
“It was spoon fed to me along with my pudding,” Connor acknowledged, still unsmiling.
“This has got to be the best of times, then, for Connor Riley.”
Riley did not respond. He turned from the camera and the reporter, who sidled quickly over to Revelation Bullock.
“Rev, great game for you, too.”
“Yeah, man, it was a good move for me to sign with the Sinners. We giving each other just what we need.”
“And what’s that?”
“A ticket to the Super Bowl, man.” The Rev’s round brown face filled the screen. He bared a grin you could bounce sunbeams off.
Jackie finished her drink. “Well, I’ve had enough of this crap. How about you, baby doll?” Stevie buried her face in her arms on the bar.
She mumbled a few words.
“Got to pick your head up, babe. I can’t hear you.”
“Our children would have had blue eyes.” Stevie’s tears rolled down both cheeks.
“For God’s sake, I can’t stand a sloppy drunk.” Despite her comment, Jackie blotted Stevie’s face with cocktail napkins. “Can you walk?’
“I can walk,” Stevie claimed sliding from her bar stool, missing the bottom rung and falling back against the counter. “The important thing is that I cannot drive, not to Atlanta, not nowhere.
Tomorrow, he’ll be back in Naw Orlins, you see.”
“Yeah. I do see. Let’s get you out of here.”
Chapter Seventeen
Joe Dean Billodeaux rang the bell at Connor’s place. No answer. He pounded on the oak door. No one came. “Shit,” he muttered and tried the latch.
The door was unlocked. Being as noisy as possible, he moved down the hall. No one wanted to come up on Connor suddenly these days. The man might have a gun, and his temper had gone off the charts lately.
“In here, Joe,” Conner called in a raspy voice.
The game tape played in the den, but no hall lights burned. Eula Mae and her mother were nowhere and the house seemed too still. Connor sat tilted back in a leather lounger, eyes on the big, flat screen dominating the far wall.
The only lights shining were the tracks that usually highlighted his trophy cases but now illuminated the two full-length posters of Stevie Dowd wearing mostly sand in one and mostly nothing in the other. The pictures hung on either side of the television screen. Certainly more exciting than watching the Sinners smash the Falcons again, but maybe not as healthy.
“Hey, man, let’s get some lights on in here. My mama would say you’re gonna ruin your eyes. A wide receiver with bad eyes retires early, no?” Without waiting for an answer, Joe flicked on a few more lamps and took a seat in another lounger.
Connor squinted in the brightness. “Sorry, didn’t hear the bell ring. This game was a blowout, but there are still a few things we could have done better.”
“Tell you what, bro. We got a bye-week coming up and we played good ball yesterday. What say we go down town? There’s always some action in the Big Easy even on a Monday night.” Joe waited for a positive answer. He was disappointed.
“I thought you were doing the celibacy thing so I could play ball. What is it, six weeks, and you’re giving up? I held out through most of the playoffs.” Connor shook his head in disgust.
“And then, along came Stevie. Hey, I can still drink and attract the babes for you. Let’s go.”
“Along came Stevie,” Connor repeated as if he had not heard the rest of Joe’s sentence.
“This is no good, man. Look, let me take down those posters. Every guy knows there is only one cure for getting over a woman. More women.” Joe Dean moved towards the photos of Stevie.
“Don’t touch my posters, Joe. I warn you, hands off!” “Okay, okay, bien. I’m going to do you a big favor, bud. I have here Joe Dean Billodeaux’s little black book just chock full of names of willing women who I can’t satisfy right now because of my vow.
Every time one comes on to me, I whip out my book and say, ‘Sugar, I made an oath to stay celibate for the season, but you put your name and number in Joe Dean’s book and he will get back to you come spring.’ Good for me spring comes early in Louisiana.” With a big grin, Joe tossed the address book to Connor.
“Not interested.” Connor tossed it back.
“Come on. I gar-run-tee you me, there is not one dog in the pack. All lovely ladies who don’t know a quarterback from a wide receiver. They only want to sleep with a football player. We can perpetrate a kind of quarterback sneak on them. What do you say?” Joe threw Connor an encouraging look accompanied by a little grimace to show it hurt a little to make the offer.
“Joe, the Rev said I’m grieving, and I got to get over Stevie in my own way. This is my way.”
“The Rev also said you shouldn’t be alone during your time of trial. So, I’m here for you, bro.” Connor, sunk in his misery, declined to say thanks. “See that third touchdown pass you threw.
Real careless. If I had been shorter, that would have been an interception.” Connor froze the tape at a point showing him leaping above an opponent to catch the ball higher in its arc.
“So we would have won 28-17. If it has to be football, can we just have a beer and watch the Monday night game?” Joe Dean settled in his chair.
“Fine with me.” Connor stopped the recording and switched the screen to the game. “But don’t touch my posters. In fact, don’t even look at them.”
****
Joe Dean was doing some light weight work the next day when one of the office staff came bearing a message. “Sorry to interrupt you, Joe, but I got a strange one on the phone.”
“Another one of my honeys saying they’ll commit suicide if I don’t give up being celibate? Take the name and number and say I’ll get back to them in the spring.” Joe wiped the sweat off his hands.
“Nope. I think this is a guy. Someone named Jackie says there is an emergency situation concerning Stevie Dowd. I thought she was with Riley. Did you take his girl? Is that why Connor the Barbarian has a thorn in his ass this season?” the paper-pusher asked in a whisper because Riley worked out nearby. With his thinning hair and skinny body, Milt lived vicariously by taking messages to the players, as Joe knew very well.
“Hell, no! He’d never catch another pass for me again if I messed with Stevie, but I don’t know about this Jackie guy. Bring me the phone.” A phone appeared immediately. Joe Dean wandered casually out of Connor’s hearing range.
“This is Joe Dean Billodeaux. What’s happening?”
“This is Jackie, Jackie Haile, the pro golfer,” a low but not quite masculine voice said. “Stevie is traveling with the LPGA tour.”
“Damn, I told Connor that Stevie might swing both ways,” Joe burst out a little louder than he meant to. The wimp of a clerk who hovered nearby waiting to return the phone perked up, but Connor did not take notice.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Billodeaux. I’m not having any luck that way, but Stevie is hurting really bad. She got drunk on Sunday so she wouldn’t drive over to Atlanta and throw herself at Riley. Tell me he had an orgy after that game with six women.
Tell me something I can use to help her get over him. She says you’re one of his best friends. You ought to know something bad about him.” The low voice got a little deeper.
“If I did, I wouldn’t be telling you. Things aren’t any better on this end. He plays a great game Sunday. Everyone’s slapping him on the back, smacking his butt, and all he can say to me is ‘Do you think Stevie was watching?’ It’s sickening. The guys are calling him Connor the Barbarian because he’s always in a bad mood, real touchy, and it carries over on to the field. I can tell you there is more than one defensive player who is sorry he got in Riley’s way this year. Even I get tired of being around him.” Joe blew out a breath.
“I hate myself for suggesting it, but maybe we should try to get them back tog
ether. We’re playing at The Woodlands this weekend. Stevie will be there,” Jackie said.
“We have a bye-week. Maybe I can get over.
Talk to her. Don’t know what I can say, but it’s worth a try. Let me put your number in my book.
We’ll think up something. Get back to you later.” Joe held out his hand for a pen from the waiting phone bearer and took down Jackie’s cell number.
Now that was a good one, Jackie Haile’s number in Joe Dean Billodeaux’s little black book.
****
When Joe Dean Billodeaux, wearing a fitted black T-shirt and black jeans that showed off the well-developed muscles of his rear, walked on to the terrace at The Woodlands, conversation stopped.
One of the amateur players, a girl barely out of high school, gaped at the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. He was well aware of the effect he had as he sauntered across the space.
Top golfer, Connie Parks, craned over her husband’s bald spot and muttered, “Would you look at the devil who just walked in?” Her good-natured man replied, “Honey, I’m sitting right here. That’s not a devil. He’s a Sinner.
The New Orleans’ quarterback. He was on TV last weekend when we were at Mount Vintage. Let me get an autograph to save for my girls. This guy is hot.” “I’ll say,” agreed Connie, her American girl freckled face pinking up a little.
Joe heard the brief conversation and the patter of Farley Parks’ feet as the fan rushed over to pump his hand and offer a paper napkin and ballpoint pen.
“Say, Farley, that’s F-A-R-L-E-Y, right? Could you tell me where Jackie Haile and Stevie Dowd might be hanging out?” He signed the napkin using the man’s back as a writing surface.
“I think they went that a way. Jackie finished out of the money today same as my wife. She wasn’t in a very sociable mood when we asked them to join us. But, come meet my wife, Connie Parks. You might have heard of her.”
Joe took a moment to grasp Connie’s hand. He looked into her pale blue eyes and said,” A pleasure and a privilege, sugar.”
The teen golfer seated two tables over gave out a warbling sigh. Joe flashed a smile her way, saw she was jail bait, and excused himself to go look for Jackie.
He found her sitting close to Stevie in a dim inside corner booth. The setup was perfect. He sure hoped this worked because he did not relish making an ass of himself for nothing. He strolled to their table and caught Jackie’s quick wink in his direction.
“Well, well, Stevie Dowd. Long time no see,” he greeted.
Stevie startled. “Joe, whatever are you doing here? How is Con—”
He cut her off. “Now I guess I know why you walked out on my best friend.” Jackie stood up and put a protective arm around Stevie. “She’s with me, jerk. So let her alone. We’re a couple now. Get lost.”
“Jackie, no! Don’t do this. We’re only friends,” Stevie sputtered.
“That’s what they all say,” Joe Dean insinuated.
“It’s the truth!” Stevie frantically shrugged off Jackie’s strong arm, but it descended to her waist and pulled her closer. “Don’t tell Connor—”
“What, that you’re a lesbian? Go back to New Orleans and tell him yourself if you want to give Connor a message. I’m out of here.” He oozed disgust and almost blew it by smiling.
Maybe he could act someday when his football career was finished. He turned on his heel to leave, but Jackie, carrying the ploy one step further, grabbed his arm to spin him around. “You don’t talk to my woman that way, you stupid jock bastard,” Jackie snarled.
She was overacting, Joe Dean thought. Nerves.
Probably explained her double bogey on the ninth hole and her failure to recover from it. He’d been watching the match and waiting to perform.
Joe straight-armed her into Stevie who fell back into the booth. Jackie swung at him and connected solidly with all the force of her fireplug body behind it. “Hey, not my throwing arm, you dumb dyke,” Joe shouted.
A camera flashed. Joe turned on the photographer, but the man hot-footed it toward the doors of the clubhouse.
Stevie struggled to her feet. “No, this isn’t happening. You are both my friends.” She clutched Joe’s bruised arm and moved away from Jackie.
“Stop it!”
“I’m telling Connor everything so he can stop crying in his beer over you, Stevie—unless you get to him first.”
Joe Dean wanted to finish this and charge after the paparazzo. He knew where pictures like this ended up; he’d been on the cover of enough of those scandal sheets with various women and in occasional brawls, all of which he had given up this season. This is what trying to be a friend got you. He would probably be fined by the team if word got out.
“Tell Connor Riley she’s mine,” Jackie bellowed.
“I’ll do that, bitch.” Joe turned on his heel.
Stevie trailed him. Maybe she would get in the car and come back to New Orleans with him for a happy reunion with Connor. No such luck. The paparazzo leaned out from behind a pillar and snapped Joe walking away from a pleading Stevie.
Jackie Haile tried to pull her back, asserting,
“You’re staying with me, baby doll.”
“I can’t, not if you act like this. I can’t,” Stevie wailed.
“Then get your things and come back to New Orleans with me,” Joe told her.
“I can’t. I can’t bear it if he gets hurt again. I can’t watch him play.”
“Sure you can. It’s his job. And right now, he’s hurting on the inside more than the outside.
Everyone’s calling him Connor the Barbarian because he’s such a grouch.”
“Not Connor. He’s always so kind, so laid back.”
“Yes, Connor. The man you love?” Joe put it to the question.
He thought it made a nice touch. He forgot about the paparazzo until another flash went off. He whirled in that direction. This would not be the first camera he had smashed. The man backtracked hastily and sprinted through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
A waitress coming the other way with a tray held high fell to the floor as the photographer smashed into her. A salad course for six spewed into the air. Joe jumped over the server, slid on an avocado slice and landed on his side. By the time the quarterback scrambled up on the slippery footing of a bed of lettuce, the photographer had run through an exit and jumped into a waiting car.
Flicking avocado slime from his jeans, Joe returned to the women. “Sorry I couldn’t catch him.
Are you coming with me, Stevie?” Jackie hung her head in great sorrow. “I guess I lost out to that big, blond Viking, huh? Alone again.” She sighed and actually shed a tear. Joe would have been more impressed if he hadn’t seen her pluck out a nose hair.
“Both of you leave me alone. Just leave me alone.” In tears, Stevie ran from the building.
After she cleared the doors, Jackie looked at Joe.
“Do you think we overplayed it?”
“We were great, too great, I think. But, if she shows up in New Orleans, it will be worth the trouble,” Joe figured.
“I’ll miss her. She was a friend, a really good friend. I don’t have that many. You know a lot of the other girls on the tour are jealous of my abilities,” Jackie confided.
“Yeah, I know how that is, cher. I know just how that is.”
Chapter Eighteen
The scandal sheet came out just before the Sinners played the Panthers. The regular hype about the game on the sports pages went on and on about both quarterbacks being from the Louisiana bayous, Chapelle being only forty miles from Carencro. How Joe and Johnny Delacroix had played against each other in the parochial league, though Joe was a little younger. The media dubbed it The Battle of the Deux Cajuns - Bad Boy Versus Altar Boy. Joe reveled in the notoriety. Good stuff for selling tickets. The Super Dome sold out, and every sports bar between New Orleans and Alexandria packed full to overflowing.
The general management shrugged off the full color spread of Joe’s esca
pade at The Woodlands in the less than merciful tabloid. Just more free publicity for the game garnered by their trouble prone quarterback. However, Coach Buck personally took a piece out of Joe Dean Billodeaux. The team mumbled about a fine when they saw the bruise on Joe’s throwing arm and the stiff way he turned to the side. Connor Riley would not talk to him at all.
The banner on the tabloid screamed Sinners’
Quarterback fights Lesbian Golfer for Best Friend’s Lover. The chosen picture showed Jackie Haile punching Joe in his throwing arm while Stevie looked on tearfully. Inside the cover, another shot portrayed Stevie supposedly imploring Joe Dean to
“make me not a lesbian.” While personally Joe had confidence he could convert any lesbian back into heterosexuality, Connor had not taken the article well. “What the fuck were you doing in Texas with Stevie?” Riley asked tersely when Joe finally prodded him into speech.
“Trying to bring her home to you, asshole. And look what it got me—a bad arm, a possible fine, who knows what other misery.”
“I told you to let him grieve, Joe,” the Rev intervened. “These two will either come together their own selves or get over it.”
“We were pretending it was an intervention. You know, me saving her from Jackie’s clutches. Then Stevie, she was supposed to run home to you. I guess she didn’t, did she?” Joe asked hopefully.
“I don’t know where she is now. Before, I could record golf matches and sometimes see her in the background, know she was okay. Now I don’t know where she is. Thanks a bunch for screwing with my life.” Connor stalked away. He had not said a word to his quarterback since.
The game did not go any better. The first half turned into a defensive slug fest with no score but enough close calls to keep the crowd riveted to the seats. At halftime instead of enjoying the performance of the flashy Southern band, the fans waited in lines a half a mile long for the restrooms.
Second half, Joe couldn’t make it out of the pocket, and he was sacked twice by a particularly aggressive nose tackle. He completed a few short passes to his running back, but none that even got them into field goal range. He swore to Coach Buck the bruise on his arm had nothing to do with it, but Coach did not cut him any slack. Finally, they agreed if Joe could shake free, he might try a few long passes to Riley. Connor nodded to show he had heard the plan.