The city lights of Portland twinkled below, the entire panorama of Kris’s bedroom windows filled with tiny sparkling orbs. They glowed orange and white in the night sky, stretched out for miles in every direction.
Kris sat in a straight backed chair covered in black leather, his feet propped on a matching ottoman in front of him. His elbows rested on the arms of it, his fingers beneath his chin.
Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the pop-shot Dumari had lobbed his direction six hours earlier. Playing through pain was something he had always prided himself on. More than just a suck-it-up bit of male machismo, it was a maxim that had been instilled in him for as long as he could remember. His father had insisted from day one that if he was going to play, he was going to have to endure some bumps and bruises along the way.
In almost thirty years, Kris had missed four games. Hardly enough to warrant the comment from Dumari, even if his goal was to use the injury as a scapegoat to bring in a new quarterback.
“How long was I out?”
Kris flicked his gaze up at the windows in front of him to see the reflection of Kirby approaching. The black satin sheet from the bed was wrapped around her, the makeshift gown held in place by a hand pressed to her chest.
“Not long,” Kris replied. “Maybe an hour.”
“Damn,” Kirby said, her bare feet silent against the floor. “I have to get back to the hospital soon. Everything alright?”
She turned sideways and lowered herself onto Kris’s lap, her bottom flush against his thighs. She positioned her shoulder into the crook between his chest and arm, the sheet spreading atop both of them.
“Yeah, just thinking,” Kris said, allowing her to get comfortable without doing much to assist.
“About?”
“Just something that prick Dumari said earlier,” Kris replied. “Something about breaking in a new quarterback.”
Kirby turned her head to look up at him, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You know, just because we’re doing this doesn’t change my status as your doctor. I can’t suddenly...”
She let her voice trail off, the end destination implied.
“I know,” Kris said. “That’s not what I meant.”
He pulled his attention away from the lights below and stared at the reflection in the glass, seeing their intertwined bodies cloaked in shimmering black satin. His gaze swept over their silhouette for several moments, his mind trying to formulate how to best approach what he was thinking.
“How would you describe yourself?”
Kirby turned her head towards him a bit, resting her ear against his shoulder. “What do you mean?”
Kris paused again, wanting to best arrange his thoughts before proceeding.
“I mean, when you look in the mirror, when other people look at you, what is the best summation of what is seen?”
Kris realized even as he was asking it how awkward the question sounded, but hoped she picked up on his train of thought enough to be able to follow anyway.
“I don’t know,” Kirby replied, her gaze focused straight ahead, not really locked on anything. “Hopefully I’m a good person, a good doctor. A sister, a daughter.” She paused, allowing herself to come back into the present. “Why? What is your best summation?”
“A quarterback.”
There was no pause, no hesitation. There was only one possible answer to the question, the same answer as there had been since Kris was just a child.
“Since I was eight years old,” Kris said, keeping his attention on the windows before them, not looking down to match Kirby’s gaze, “I have been a quarterback. In high school, in college, here in Portland.
“I’ve never been Kris-the-neighbor, or Kris-the-guy-at-the-coffee-shop. I’m Hop, or Kris Hopkins, quarterback of the Portland Warriors.”
Kirby snaked a hand out from beneath the sheet. She slid it along his forearm and down to his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“There’s a lot more to you than that.”
Kris didn’t try to pull back his hand, but he didn’t attempt to return the squeeze either. Instead his focus remained outside, his thoughts square on the conversation at hand.
“Is there?” he asked. “Do you think there was any chance that man and his son at the steakhouse even glance our way if I couldn’t throw a football?
Kirby paused a moment, stopping to consider his question. Her head shifted a bit against his chest, rolling from side to side in agreement with his assessment.
“No, I guess not,” she conceded. “But is that such a bad thing? To be known for something that millions of people would love to have?”
She pushed herself up a few inches and turned to face him, a hand pressed into the chair back holding her in place. Her gaze focused tight on him, earnestness gripping her features.
“Think about how many little boys like Ernie wear your jersey because they want to be just like you. Or how many dads get to sit with their sons and watch you play on Sundays.”
“I know all that,” Kris said. “I’m not sitting here and trying to complain about any of it. The point I’m making is, what happens when it gets taken away?”
Slow realization spread down Kirby’s face, the crux of his thinking settling in on her. Her mouth drew into a small circle as she rolled her head back, processing.
“Then you get something even more people hope for,” she said. “You get a second chance at life. You can reinvent yourself, become whatever you want.”
Kris matched her gaze for several long moments before shifting back to the lights of Portland below.
Kirby remained in place a moment before lowering herself back down against his chest. “I mean, there has to be something else you want to be besides just a quarterback, right?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Kris pulled into the parking lot, making a face as he stared up at the dilapidated structure before him. Wedged into a strip mall between a dry cleaning shop and an electronics store, the entire façade was done in a retro-style combination of orange and yellow. An oversized decal was plastered to the front window of it featuring a caricature of an Italian chef with a bushy moustache carrying a pizza box on his shoulder.
Beside him the words Gino’s Pizza were written in oversized script.
“This must be the place,” Kris said, climbing from his SUV and heading inside.
The smell of garlic and oregano hit him full in the face as he entered, encircling him in a cloud. To the right were six tables, half full with clusters of high school and college aged students grouped up around pizzas and plastic cups of soda. None of them even bothered to look at Kris as he walked in and stood behind a sagging counter with the same orange and yellow color scheme as the front windows.
“Just a second,” a voice called from the back, the top of its owner’s head visible through the open window into the kitchen. A moment later he appeared, dressed in jeans and a Gino’s t-shirt, a white apron tied around his waist. He was busy wiping his hands on the apron as he approached, shaggy hair falling down into his eyes.
“Help you?”
“Yeah, I need to pick up an order for Craig please,” Kris said.
The young man turned and checked the orders lined up below the window, reading through two others before picking up the third. He whirled and set the matching pair of large pizzas down on the counter, snatching the receipt away and holding it out in front of him.
“Two large Carnivores. That’ll be thirty-eight even.”
Kris extracted a money clip from his pocket and peeled two twenties off the outside, handing them over.
“Out of forty,” the young man replied, taking two singles from the register and extending them towards Kris. Halfway there his hand stopped, the money still clutched between his thumb and forefinger. “Holy shit.”
A familiar bit of dread coiled in the pit of Kris’s stomach as he slid the pizzas an inch or two back off the counter. He’d seen this scenario play out enough times to know how it was goin
g to end, an eventuality he wasn’t quite in the mood for.
“You’re Kris Hopkins.”
A flush of blood pressed to Kris’s cheeks, bringing with it a thin sheen of sweat. Most of the time dealing with the occasional fan was something that just came with the job.
But not now, not with his status up in the air like it was.
“Naw, I think you have me confused with someone else,” Kris lied, backing away another half step.
The young man jerked his orange Gino’s t-shirt up to reveal a black Warriors shirt beneath it, the sleeves cut away. He smiled broadly as he did so, nodding in confirmation of his spotting.
“Like hell I do.” He turned over his shoulder towards the window and yelled, “Hey Lou! Get out here!”
A clatter of pans could be heard in the back, culminating in a short guy in his late-thirties emerging from the kitchen. He bore a strong resemblance to the man on the front window decal, with a bushy moustache and sideburns, a mop of curly dark hair on his head.
“What in the hell is so...” he grunted, stopping himself mid-sentence at the sight of Kris standing behind the counter, pizzas in hand. “Is that...?”
Kris glanced over, noticing that every table had stopped eating, many of the patrons turning in open curiosity to see what was taking place behind them.
“Kris Fricking Hopkins!” the young man said, his excitement pent up behind a red face and oversized smile. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet as he spoke, synching the movement with his words. “In our shop!”
Lou stood with eyes wide for a moment before snapping himself awake. He waved a hairy arm at Kris, jamming his other hand into the front of his apron. “Come on, you’ve to take a picture with us. The guys will never believe this.”
Who the guys were or why they wouldn’t believe it didn’t concern Kris in the least. The last thing he wanted to do was pose for a picture in a greasy pizza while his team was getting their ass kicked in Albuquerque.
Still, he knew better than to say no. There were too many people watching, no doubt all with cell-phones carrying video capability.
“Aw, I don’t know guys,” Kris said, knowing even as he said the words it was in vain. “I really need to be going.”
“Just take a second, really,” Lou replied, shrugging off the attempt and circling around the counter. He extracted an iPhone from his apron and walked directly over to a young girl in a hooded sweatshirt supporting a local high school soccer team. “Miss, do you mind?”
“Not at all,” the girl replied, looking at her friends and giggling. She stood and held the phone in front of her, looking out through the screen.
Kris remained rooted in place as the young man took a spot on one side and Lou on the other. He knew this picture would no doubt end up in an ad or on the wall somewhere before long, that even trying to put the pizzas down would only prolong the process.
Instead he remained rigid as Lou threw a sweaty arm around his shoulder and the young man gave a thumbs-up, both smiling as if Kris was Miss Universe instead of a middle-aged man.
“Alright, on three,” the girl said. “One...two...three.”
The girl snapped the picture and held the phone out in front of her, offering it back to Lou. He released his grip on Kris’s shoulder and took the phone back, the young man joining him to make sure they got a good shot.
Seeing his opening, Kris stepped backwards towards the door, pressing himself against the glass and out into the night before either had a chance to ask for another one.
He didn’t even bother to collect his change back from the young man still clutching it. The two dollars just weren’t worth it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The sound of the doorbell echoed through the house, followed a moment later by the heavy click of a deadbolt being unlocked. Kris stood back a few feet from the door, pizzas in hand, a ball in the pit of his stomach.
This was his second unannounced stop in as many weeks. The first had not gone so well, but he was hopeful that the peace offering in his hands might go a long way in helping along the second.
The door pulled open to reveal Emily standing before him wearing a pair of sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt. She glanced down at herself a moment before looking back up at Kris, a hint of embarrassment on her face.
“Just out driving around again?”
A small smile grew on Kris’s features. “Yeah, something like that.”
“At least you remember our last conversation this time. That’s improvement.”
The smile on Kris’s face faded a bit. “It is. I even remembered you saying that the Carnivore from Gino’s was you guy’s favorite, so I thought I’d drop a couple off.”
Emily’s jaw fell a fraction of an inch. For a moment her trademark wit vanished, surprise spreading across her features. “Oh. Wow. That’s very...nice of you.”
“You don’t have to sound quite so surprised,” Kris said, raising his eyebrows.
“Well,” Emily said, forcing out a laugh as she regained her bearings, “I kind of am. Unfortunately, Kyle’s not home right now.”
“Oh,” Kris said, disappointment and relief fighting for top position within him. “Okay. I can just drop these off here then.”
He took a step forward and extended the pizzas towards Emily, holding them away from his body.
She looked down at them a moment, seeming to debate something, before raising her gaze back up to Kris. “He shouldn’t be long. Would you like to come in?”
“Oh,” Kris said again, lowering the boxes back against his thighs. “Sure.”
Kris followed her inside, the living room exactly as it was a week before when she claimed it to be a disaster. The only difference of any kind Kris could detect was the scent of cinnamon had been replaced with apples, the effect much the same.
Emily closed the door behind Kris and headed back to her perch on the couch. Kris waited until she was seated before setting the pizzas down on the coffee table and dropping down into the same recliner. Once again the oversized item seemed to swallow him whole, enveloping him in puffy softness.
A far cry from the appointed furniture in his home for sure.
“So, what’s Kyle up to this evening?” Kris asked.
“Practicing with his band,” Emily said, adding a heavy eye roll to help convey her thoughts on the matter. “They have a gig coming soon they’re getting ready for.”
On the word gig she used air quotes, flexing her index and middle finger on either hand. It was the same move she’d been making since Kris first met her, one that almost made him smile before catching himself and holding it in.
“Still playing the guitar?” Kris asked.
“Bass,” Emily corrected, doing her best not to make it too obvious.
For the second time on the evening a flush of blood rushed to Kris’s face, coloring his cheeks. “Right. Are they any good?”
Emily squinted with one side of her face and said, “They sound kind of like old Garth Brooks.”
“Nice,” Kris said, his eyes widening a touch. “That’s pretty good.”
“I think they’re going more for Pearl Jam,” Emily said, leaning forward and nodding as if sharing some sort of insider secret.
“Ouch,” Kris said.
Silence fell between them for a moment, both staring off at nothing, processing what was at hand.
The two had met at a pep rally in Kris’s sophomore season, less than a day before he would make his first start for the Sooners. Emily was semi-local, a freshman cheerleader from Tulsa.
It wasn’t a conventional storybook love-at-first-sight type of thing, or even the romantic movie staple of them both hating each other and slowly realizing it was love. Instead it progressed the way most real-life romances do.
They started by attending the same football functions. Over time they got used to seeing each other’s face and started to notice when it popped up at parties or on campus.
It took over a full year for Kris to ask Emil
y out, another two months for her to say yes.
“Man that smells good,” Emily said, twisting her head down to stare in longing at the pizzas not two feet from her.
“Go right ahead,” Kris said, extending a hand towards them.
Emily bit her bottom lip for a moment, her gaze flicking between Kris and the food. Slowly she reached out and lifted the corner of the top box no more than an inch, peeking inside. A plume of aroma seemed to emanate from it the second it was opened, engulfing them both.
Just as fast Emily smashed the lid shut, her fingers still resting atop it. “I don’t think he’ll mind if we start, do you?”
“Not me,” Kris said, waving a hand in front of him, “but you? Please, have at it.”
That seemed to decide whatever internal discussion was happening inside Emily’s head. In one flip of her wrist she tossed the lid back, revealing an eighteen inch pie loaded with pepperoni, Canadian bacon, Italian sausage, and salami.
“Oh no,” Emily snapped, “this is your chance to try a Carnivore. None of that training diet crap tonight.”
Eschewing plates or napkins Emily went straight in, pulling away a large triangular slice. Grease dripped down her fingers as she held it in front of her, looking it over before going in after the tip.
Kris remained entrenched in his spot in the recliner, eyeing the pizza with suspicion. “That looks like a lot of pork.”
“It is,” Emily said, her words stilted from the heaping bite of pizza in her mouth. “And salt, and grease. Now shut up and eat.”
Kris raised his eyebrows and watched Emily eat a moment before smirking and sliding himself forward to the edge of the chair. Pressing his fists down into the arms, he lifted his backside just a few inches and twisted around, lowering himself down onto the end of the couch.
With his left hand he reached into the open box and extracted the smallest piece he could see, the thin crust drooping beneath the combined weight of the meats piled atop it.
He held the crust in his right hand and used his left to support it from the bottom up, eyeing the slice.
“Oh, come on,” Emily said, already halfway through hers. “What happened to the guy who used to eat ribs by the rack?”
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