The Penalty for Holding

by Georgette Gouveia

  Seven

  In a Twitter era, Brenna James still had newsprint in her blood when it wasn't smudging her nose and fingers. That was partly because she was the daughter of Mort James, who had risen from sportswriter to editor-in-chief of The New York Record, the city's most influential newspaper. But mostly it was because Brenna was obsessed with print—books, magazines, newspapers, maps, scores, anything that allowed her to turn pages. The computer, despite her facility with languages in any medium, left her cold.

  Terrified that she would wind up the slave to news and locker-rooms that her husband had been, Brenna's mother, the former Catherine van Duzen, had steered her daughter through convent school, Sarah Lawrence College, a PhD in art history at Harvard and an early career as arts editor of New York Rumours magazine, where Selina Day Novak—perhaps not-so-coincidentally another graduate of Sadie Lou—had been a legend. To no avail. When a sports job opened on The Wreck, as The Record was known, Brenna used PDFs of her writing, along with her retired father's still considerable influence, to wrangle an interview and then the job.

  "Nepotism is never a bad thing where talent is concerned," Brenna told Vanity Fair in its exposé on The Wreck as one of the print media's last hurrahs.

  She was equally frank about her love of art and sport. She had written her thesis on homoerotic influences in both.

  "I love them, because I love looking at beautiful men," she told Vanity Fair. "On the whole, I think they're the prettier sex though not the smarter."

  Such remarks, Mort James swore, led to his quadruple bypass and early retirement. Secretly, however, he admired the way his daughter gave everyone hell. As she was giving Smalley now.

  "Coach Smalley, Coach Smalley," she yelled, rapping on his office door. "I have a few more questions. I know you're in there. I can hear your labored breathing. You never answered my question about how you can ignore Quinn Novak when Lance Reinhart is playing so badly. Coach Smalley, Mark Seidelburg signed Novak with great fanfare. So the question remains—not to mix a sports metaphor here—but when will it be Quinn Novak's inning?"

  It was no secret that the press in general—and Brenna James in particular—was the bane of Smalley's existence. Her endless probing had led Smalley to contact The Wreck's current editor-in-chief, Cecil Walton, who had been brought over from The London Record, The Wreck's flagship, and knew little of American football but loved a good story—particularly if it carried a whiff of scandal.

  Unfortunately for Smalley, Walton was of an equally volcanic temperament, one that did not take kindly to anyone questioning his writers or his authority. Their shouting match—or at least Smalley's profane side of the phone conversation—echoed through the Templars’ locker room, causing Greg and Derrick to roll their eyes at Quinn, who shrugged.

  Brenna was an enigma to them, a self-possessed woman in a man's world.

  "So, how'd you do her, Quinn?"

  "Huh?"

  "How'd you, you know, do her?" Jeremiah wondered. "Me, I'd take her from behind. That big booty was made for some man love. You know what they always say: 'The bigger the cushion, the better the pushin'.'"

  Quinn was appalled not only by their sexism but by their vulgarity. But he laughed when he realized that in any romantic matchup between Brenna and Jeremiah there was no doubt who would come out on top.

  "I'd be careful if I were you. I think you might be the one crying 'Uncle,'" Quinn said.

  "No matter," Greg said. "A fugly guy like Jere has as much chance with her as I'd have with Rihanna. Now Quinnie here's another matter. Look, he's turning all red. I seen her look at you, Quinnie, and I seen you look at her."

  It was true there was something about her. Maybe it was the Venus de Milo figure—encased in navy stretch jeans, matching heeled boots and a form-fitting olive green pleather moto jacket—or the long fishtail braid of thick, auburn hair; or the wide cheekbones and pert nose.

  Brenna confused Quinn. He liked looking at her, liked imagining those high, well-shaped breasts in a tight corset set off by a thin, jeweled collar. (Greg and Derrick really had to stop trying to interest him in porn, he thought.) But he liked looking at Tam and Mal more. And she was, after all, a member of the press.

  "Forbidden fruit," Derrick said. "Just remember, Quinn, it would be like sleeping with the enemy, you know, like being a Nazi collaborator."

  "Yeah," Greg said sarcastically. "'Cause an American newspaper is really the equivalent of Hitler. Of all the dumb-ass things to say."

  "Hey, who are you calling dumb?" Derrick said. "I went to Ole Miss."

  "Where you majored in what? Shop? Home Ec? No, wait, basket-weaving. This chick went to Harvard. Harvard. Face it. Even if she weren't working for the enemy, and wasn't, like, you know, forty, she'd still be out of reach. Quinn at least went to Stanford and got a perfect score on the Wonderlic test. He's from another world, man, one closer to hers."

  "Hey, thanks for going to bat for me, so to speak," Quinn said when he caught up with her after another tough loss and testy Smalley press conference.

  "Now whose mixing metaphors?" she said with a laugh. "Anyway, I know how I'd feel if I weren't given a chance to write at The Wreck. You deserve a shot, especially with the way Lance has been playing—or not."

  "He's had some bad breaks," Quinn said, "no pun intended."

  "I know you have to say that kind of stuff. But we're not on the record now."

  She paused. "My mother and I went to the same school as your aunt. And I worked for the magazine she loved so. There wasn't a day that someone didn't mention one of her favorite sayings. Mine is 'Have courage, and life will meet you halfway.'"

  Quinn smiled at the memory. It kept him from weeping.

  "She used to tell me the same thing."

  "You must miss her," Brenna said. "Of all the stupid things to say. Forgive me."

  Sometimes when you lose something—or someone—it comes back in a different way, he thought. How could he tell her she was so like his aunt?

  "No, it's all right," he said. "I do."

  Eight

  Though Smalley often accused Quinn of courting the press—the New York Rumours' spread being Exhibit A—he didn't, not really. Reporters found him. And Quinn saw no reason to be unfriendly, particularly when it helped his causes, like the proposed orphanage and school.

  But, as with most stars, he had learned soon enough that cultivating the press was like trying to ride a tiger. There was no way to control it.

  "Novak, will your parents be coming for the big game?" a reporter asked after practice.

  "Oh, no," Quinn said. "They live in Indonesia, where they work for a big multinational company. It wouldn't be fair to tear them away. They sent their best wishes, though."

  It was all plausible. What it wasn't was particularly true. They could certainly tear themselves away, though it was a long schlep—twenty-two hours by air. But Quinn hadn't asked them, in part because he assumed they wouldn't want to. The one time Sydney and Chandler had seen him play, at the Rose Bowl, all she could say was, "I assumed it would be bigger."

  And sure enough, they soon sent their "Congratulations, sorry we can't be there but best of luck" wishes via email.

  In a way, he was relieved. He had enough stress at the moment without the strain of having to tease out a relationship with them under a New York microscope. He was glad he could rely on them not to show up.

  If only that were true of Aunt Sarah. Whenever there was good fortune to be shared, she could be counted on to exploit it.

  "There's someone at the gate here to see you," security informed him after the press conference. "Says you invited her, a Sarah Novak?"

  He never invited her. But then you never had to invite Aunt Sarah. Like the Devil or a vampire, she invited herself.

  "Yeah, tell her I'll meet her in the family lounge."

  "Hi, honey," she said, hugging him warmly. "Congrats. This is awesome."

  "Thanks, Aunt Sarah," Quinn said, looking around to ensure no one had se
en them. He tried not to be embarrassed by her, but he was.

  From a distance, she was a babe—blonde hair and form-fitting white leggings, turtleneck, boots and fur vest. All three of the Novak sisters had what passed for conventional beauty, but Sarah, the youngest, had a thicker nose, which gave her a little toughness, as did the smudged blue eye shadow, the unkempt hair, the chipped nail polish, the constant sniffling, the forays into her purse for Hello Kitty breath mints, which weren't mints, of course. Not that she was well-acquainted with mints, soap, shampoo, or deodorant. She often smelled.

  It didn't stop men from lusting after her.

  "Who's the hottie, Novak?" male members of the press would invariably ask after his high school games.

  "The lady is my Aunt Sarah, and I'll thank you to mind your manners."

  Politesse was lost on the paparazzi.

  "Hey, Sarah, are those M & Ms, or are you just glad to see me?" one yelled as she posed with Quinn in one of her skintight outfits after a Stanford win.

  "You men are disgusting," Quinn said. "Have some respect."

  But all Sarah did was giggle and thrust her erect nipples, visible through her thin cotton sweater, out farther. It made him sad.

  Once Quinn overheard her tell a reporter that the secret to his success was that he had been a love child. After that, Quinn tried to shield her—and his private life—from interviewers. But she was unstoppable, an artist—at least that was what Quinn told anyone who asked. Not that she ever sold anything or even did anything, except a lot of sketches. She was very good at sketching and planning, as were all her friends. They were artists, too—aspiring novelists; actors on the verge of that big break—or professional mistresses who were arts patrons, hospital volunteers, animal rescuers; people always on the move, with no fixed incomes to accompany their lack of fixed addresses.

  "Whatever you do later in life, never lend your Aunt Sarah any money," his Aunt Lena had warned him. "A loan implies a return, and you'll never see a dime back from her. If she needs food or clothes, you buy them for her. But don't give her money."

  Aunt Sarah must've gotten wise to that for she started asking for more expensive things. It wasn't just a coat she needed; it was a Dolce & Gabbana coat, red and green floral on a black background. Kept on a tight budget by his agent and financial planner, Quinn found himself going without to give to Aunt Sarah. How fucked up was that? But then, we're a badly fucked-up family, Quinn thought.

  Aunt Sarah wasn't here for Dolce & Gabbana, not this time. She was looking for playoff tickets for herself and her friends.

  "You know they only allot you so many, Aunt Sarah."

  "Oh, come on, we're gonna have a nice, big cheering section for you," she said. "I just know you're gonna do great."

  Great, no, but very good indeed. And yet, it wasn't enough to defeat the Quakers. The Temps went down 21-20 as Quinn's Hail Mary pass just went wide. Still, no one blamed him except for Smalley and himself.

  "Had we more seasoning, fewer injuries," Smalley said at the postgame press conference, barely trying to contain his glee, "we might've pulled it out."

  Everyone understood that what he was really saying was that had Lance been in for Quinn, the Temps would've won, which wasn't necessarily so.

  "What about when the defense failed to contain the Quakers in the first half, Coach?" Brenna piped up. "What about the failure of the offense to capitalize on opportunities in the third quarter?"

  "The quarterback leads the team on the field and off, Ms. James," Smalley snapped.

  Quinn agreed. "Hey, I make that last play, we're AFC Championship-bound. I don't make it, we go home. I didn't make it happen."

  "But do you think you got the support this season you deserved, I mean, particularly from Coach Smalley?" a reporter from The New York Gazette asked.

  Quinn paused. He and everyone else knew the answer to that.

  "I think it was my fault we lost."

  Sarah was oblivious to all of it—the game's politics, Smalley's loathing of Quinn, Quinn's guilt, which was only partly about his sense of responsibility for and to the team.

  She had left somewhere in the third quarter. Quinn tried to reach her by phone afterward.

  "Oh, honey-bunny, I'm so sorry, but we wanted to beat the crowd. You were just wonderful. But, darlin', that team leaves a lot to be desired."

  "Yeah, well, you know, we're a work in progress. Still, to make it to the divisional playoffs when we started out so badly…"

  "Honey, I can hardly hear you."

  No surprise. There was a lot of music and laughter wherever she was.

  "I said why don't we meet for a late dinner," Quinn shouted. "I feel like I let the guys down, you know? I—"

  "Honey, honey, if you're gonna be in the spotlight, you're gonna have to learn to cut it short. Think tweet-size, you know?"

  "Oh, yeah, of course, I guess, I—"

  She had hung up.

  I'm a fool for caring, for letting my family hurt me. But I do and they have, he thought dully as he slipped into bed at the Mark Hotel in Philadelphia. He had asked GM Jeff Sylvan if he could stay overnight, using his family as an excuse. The truth was that he could hardly breathe for the pounding he and particularly his ribs had taken in the brutal third quarter. But he hadn't said anything, because, well, who else was there to call plays? Besides, he was afraid that if he ever stopped playing, he would not only lose his job but cease to exist. Now he could barely turn in bed.

  He dreamt his heart was pounding against his ribs, like the wings of a bird beating against a cruel cage until he realized someone was knocking on the door.

  Sarah, it's got to be Sarah, he thought. Or the police. She was a breaking news story waiting to happen.

  But it wasn't Sarah. It was Mal Ryan, his molded features ripe with drink and lust.

  "Called some PR guy named Sofa or Softy or Selfie or something under the pretense of congratulating you on your efforts only to find out you were still here in Philly," he said, bursting into the room and shutting the door with the finality of one sealing a crypt. "God, how I want you."

  He embraced Quinn roughly, tugging at his clothes, inhaling his scent and covering him in kisses until the two fell awkwardly back onto the bed, and Quinn was naked.

  "God, look at you. You're gorgeous," Mal said.

  Quinn scooted back near the headboard and drew his knees up instinctively, hugging them.

  "Aw, come on. Don't be bashful," Mal said. "I'll show you mine," he added, stripping off his clothes in a few seamless movements to free his erect cock.

  There was something faintly ridiculous about men's bodies, especially their penises, Quinn thought, even when those bodies were as Michelangelo-perfect as Mal's. Women's sex organs conjured images of seashells and flowers with all the promise of secret beauties to be revealed. Whereas men looked like they were sticking their tongues out—way out.

  And yet, there was nothing ridiculous about Mal's confident stance or Quinn's own pounding need.

  Kneeling on the bed, Mal slinked forward on all fours with the power and grace of a panther, then doubled back, moving forward again. Quinn laughed and Mal followed suit, despite himself. But humor didn't suit him, and the lighter mood didn't last for long. Mal took Quinn in his arms, gulping his mouth as if he were dying of thirst—or drowning.

  "Shouldn't we talk, get to know each other first?" Quinn asked when he could come up for air.

  "What are you, a girl? I'm not interested in foreplay or a relationship or anything but the fierce hunger of now. I'm not that way, you know—gay. It's just something I need from time to time, something that I do privately, quietly, no questions asked."

  "It just seems so sudden."

  Mal pulled back and made as if he were gathering his clothes to leave.

  "Your call," he said, as he narrowed his focus on Quinn. "In or out."

  Quinn understood instantly that this was one of those moments that would somehow determine the course of his life. "In," he said,
as Mal covered him like the night.

  Contrasts, Quinn thought, concentrate on the contrasts—the hardness of Mal's desire, the softness of his own yielding; the cool of the sheets, the heat of their bodies; the excruciating initial pain of Mal thrusting deeply into his voluptuous buttocks; the exquisite pleasure as he fondled Quinn's swollen cock—stroking the spongy spot where it met his balls in rhythm to the thrusts and the ebb and flow of his ragged breath and grunts against Quinn's damp neck.

  Quinn only hoped that he himself wouldn't come too quickly. Indeed, he wished he would never come at all but live in this state of heightened, almost unbearable anticipation.

  As he strained to hold back, Quinn focused on Mal as the Eros to his Psyche, a secret lover in the dark whom he could neither ignore nor acknowledge. What kind of crazy love was that?

  Afterward, Quinn thought how different everything would be now. Before he was a virgin; now, no longer and ultimately changed. He was giving Mal something that could never be regained. And yet there was a part of Quinn that couldn't be breached, that remained one-in-himself, that would always be secret, sealed off, inviolate, ever new. Then why did feel so sad, so lonely?

  Perhaps because they slept apart, or at least Mal slept—muttering, even crying. Quinn longed to hold and comfort him but sensed it wouldn't be appreciated. You didn't cuddle a cougar. In truth, Quinn wasn't sure what he should do or how he should feel. He had never had a lover before. Maybe this was the way they all were. So he tried to rest his aching ribs, which he had forgotten about amid their orgasmic exertions and waited until Mal nudged those painful ribs unwittingly, saying, "I have to have it again, baby," in a low voice that nonetheless pierced the darkness and later the dawn.

  Then Quinn watched him dispose of the used condoms carefully and, freshly showered, dress just as deliberately, as if he could wash away the scent of him and the memory of the night.

  "I'll be in touch," Mal said, kissing him and peeling three crisp bills from a fat silver Tiffany money clip with the letter M. "Buy yourself something real nice."

  "I'm not a whore," Quinn said, trying to rise, his chest throbbing as the door closed, and he wondered if Mal and the night had happened at all.