I had to ask, though. “What do you care? You invade people’s privacy for a living, you aren’t my PR secretary. This is out of your sector.”
“I look after your dog,” she said, like that was considered more important. “And since you’re new to the game—”
“I’m not new.”
“To the National Football league, you are brand new. You are so clueless, its actually quite endearing. Do you do that deliberately?”
I cocked an eyebrow, leaning in. “Do what deliberately?”
Angela wagged a finger at me, gradually backing off. “Like you don’t know you’re doing it right now.” She gathered her work papers, draining the last of her wine. “You’re good, Rookie. Abnormally good. Lots of practice, I presume?”
“No comment.” I walked with her out of the bar, hovering in the foyer where I would go one way and Angela would leave through the revolving doors.
The tell-tale flush of alcohol rosied her cheeks, a glassy, unfocused sheen coating her eyes. “I could just stay at your place, so Dog doesn’t get lonely. No charge for the extra service.”
She had one hope, and that was none. “If I ever find you sleeping in my house, I’m taking my key back.”
Angela threw back her head, the tinkling of her laughter wheedling a smile from me, regardless I wasn’t messing around. “I mean it, Angela. Sleep in your own house.”
She saluted me, stamping one heeled foot. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
My roommate, Manning Cole, wasn’t in the room when I made it to the fourth floor. He was probably in the hotel gym or the pool. The underrated wide receiver took his game seriously, so he wasn’t likely to be anywhere putting his starting position in jeopardy. He’d been rehabbing his ankle for the last two weeks, and only a freshly laundered jersey hanging in his stall tomorrow would tell him whether he’d be doing anything more strenuous than warming the bench.
The first Sunday I’d walked into the locker room to see my jersey hanging up, I’d never felt anything like it. I’d pulled up a seat and sat staring at the jersey for a good ten minutes or longer. There’d been speculation at the end of training camp that I could be starting, but Marlon Good hadn’t outright confirmed it. Brody Palmer, last season’s starting quarterback, now this year’s backup, blamed his linemen. But I’d been watching old footage of Palmer since before the draft, when I knew Miami had first pick, and his timing was way off. His receivers were breaking free of the defense and he couldn’t get the ball down the field in good time. He threw enough interceptions during camp, against his own teammates, that it was all out there to play for.
Squeezing stray thoughts of Angel back in Los Angeles from my mind before they could take root and fuck with my head, I lay on top of the bed covers, flicking on the wall-mounted TV. Now wasn’t the time to go too deep into anything more strenuous than the game tomorrow. The Jets tallied the same number of losses as they did wins. Still, nothing was certain, and foreshadowing using statistics wouldn’t singularly bring home a win. Football was fickle like that. The shittiest team on the planet could pull off an unbelievable performance on a good day.
The latest NHL scores on ESPN rolled across the bottom of the screen and I whipped my phone from my pocket.
I see the Flames beat the Flyers 2-1. Were you watching?
He was born and raised in Boston, but Taj’s preferred team were the Philadelphia Flyers. Strange kid.
Taj: Gaudreau scored in OT. He’s really good for a small dude. Mom said I can come to the pub with her tmoro to watch your game. Gary even said he’d sneak me some of his Guinness
Just don’t get drunk
I thought about tucking my phone away, but I fired off a text to Angel. I tried not to go to bed without speaking to her, even if it was just to say good-night. If I had my way, there’d be no texts. She’d ditch Los Angeles and reroute to Miami.
Do you know the one thing I’d like to do after the game tomorrow? To blow off some steam…
Her reply came a minute later.
Angel: Is it me, by any chance?
Ten minutes before eleven a.m., I pulled into the stadium grounds, a scattering of Dolphins fans gathered at the entrance shouting my name and blasting outdated rap music. I gave a two-finger salute in acknowledgement and drove through to the private lot. The Dolphins’ East Division rivalry with the Jets meant there were fans from both teams congesting the streets, sporting two shades of green, and I was in no doubt there’d be trouble after the final whistle blew.
In the locker room, my stuff was laid out ready, and I grabbed the game-day program. I read the entirety of it before heading into the training room to do some stretching, where most of the guys were on massage tables or in the middle of getting braces fitted.
Players from the bottom end of our fifty-three-man roster were suiting up today, curtesy of a string of injuries from both defense and offensive sides. But every man’s planned for today, and no one here was about to walk out onto that field and not know they’re job.
The athletic trainer taped me up and I strapped my iPod to my bicep and walked out to the field to warm up before kickoff.
Second and four in the second quarter and down by nine points, the center snapped me the ball. Dante Brown, a behemoth six-seven defensive end for the Jets, broke through the line, sparing me all of one second to figure out where to put the ball. The play was memorized in my mind, worthless with no open receivers to get the ball down to. Readjusting the play on the fly with Coach screaming in my ear, I faked a handoff to my running back, James Neal, and sprinted with the ball while Dante made a run to tackle Nealy. Blocked by the fullback, I cut to the outside as Carlion became uncovered, and I pulled my arm back and threw the ball. It sailed through the air and into Carlion’s hands. He rolled to the ground and straight into the end zone, spiking the ball for a touchdown.
His celebration was as over the top as he was. But after a field goal, we were still two points behind, and our luck didn’t improve when the ref blew the whistle on a supposedly fumbled catch by Masters.
“There’s no fucking way.” I jogged down the field, and I wasn’t the only one calling the suspect penalty. “That ball didn’t touch the ground,” I said to the referee, breathing hard through the grate in my helmet.
The ref’s head shook defiantly, one black and white striped arm out to placate the sea of pissed-off offense closing in on him like predators. “He’s out of bounds.” He marched off the field for the video review, a scant and wary glance over his right shoulder when Carlion stamped his foot in warning, snarling with bared teeth.
Coach Good threw up his hands, cussing at anyone who came within a foot of him. He flipped down the mouthpiece from his headset and shouted into the face of the QB coach, fists bunching at his sides. The ref strode out onto the field and announced to the stadium that after a full review, the decision had been overturned. It was a clean catch. The crowd cheered and horns blared.
Gathering up my offense, I called the play and we lined up. No sooner was I in the pocket with the ball in my hands, an NY defensive back made a surprised blitz on the inside. Closing in on me, my throw was forced, and I’d successfully pulled off my first interception of the fucking season. The reverse play died where it started, and I unfastened my helmet, snatched up a water bottle and poured its contents over my face and into my mouth, slumming it on the bench while the Jets’ restless offensive line swarmed the field. I mopped the sweat from my face, flicking it from my fingertips and spitting onto the turf.
I didn’t usually hear the fans, but behind the bench the choice words rang out with unmistakable clarity. A few of the guys up there weren’t happy I’d lost us the ball, and they let me know by yelling if I hadn’t been taking it up the ass all night, I’d be more on my game today. I turned around and copped a grin. I always did appreciate a good heckle.
“Chin up, Rookie. It was bound to happen sooner or later.” Carlion skirted the sideline, sidestepping from font to back. Pausing for one of the staff to sq
uirt water in his mouth, he tipped his chin up and winked at someone who wasn’t in my eyeline. “Nice skirt, Ang. You beating the bush for my exclusive? I know you liked that touchdown.”
I faintly heard Angela’s laughter but missed whatever she said back to him. His interest shifting to one of the tablets floating by, Carlion swung up onto the back of the bench, throwing a towel around his neck as he replayed the last quarter. I sat forward with a cup of Gatorade, squinting through the low afternoon sun to concentrate on the Jets’ offense moving steadily down the field, winning another down. Alec Tella, QB, broke free with the ball, dodging our defense foot for foot. Linebackers and defensive tackles hit the ground like boulders, and my eyes narrowed more as Tella took chase from Jared Lees, his run curving wide, heading straight for the sideline.
I dropped my cup and jumped from the bench, one arm hooking Angela’s waist to yank her from the passageway of a major collision. She lost her footing under me as both players came hurtling at full steam over the white paint and charged through the spot she’d just been standing.
Apologies from two football players twice her size were mumbled, and Tella and Lees jogged back onto the field. When the haze cleared, Angela looked up at me, then turned her face away in untamed laughter, her body shaking from the rush.
“Did I hurt you?” I asked. Her fingers tore into my jersey and I held her by the waist. One of her shoes lay on the grass from where’d I’d savagely grabbed her. “You can take it from here?”
I dropped my hands when she said in an unsteady voice, “Just about.”
She dusted off her blouse and pants and I picked up her phone, recorder and notebook while she retrieved the lone shoe. Nudging her in the arm with a wide grin, my eyes scanned the amused bystanders over the top of her head. “You almost got nailed.”
“Uh huh.” She took her things, distributing an embarrassed smile to the concerned faces within a one-mile radius while she slipped on her shoe, completing the pair. All cameras in the stadium were focused on us, televising the live cock-up. Angela pointed to the strip of turf below the packed stands and I wiped the smirk from my mouth with my hand. “I’ll be way, way over there for the rest of the game. Nice looking out, though, Rookie. I didn’t have you pegged as a hero.”
“Wrong guy,” I said, walking back to the bench. “I’ve never done anything heroic in my life.”
Angela laughed, her footsteps slowing and her nose wrinkling. “Modest, too.”
I patted my chest and one of the coaches handed me my helmet. “Down to the T.”
Not even a séance could’ve resurrected the mood in the locker room. Monday was shaping up to be a long one, rehashing what went wrong for us today before moving on to the Buffalo Bills and forgetting the loss ever happened. Reporters and cameras descended on my locker after my shower, and I dutifully answered their questions.
“You showed us from the sideline that you can catch as well as you throw. Is the sports reporter okay after all the excitement?”
“Ah, yeah,” I said, smiling. “She was en-route to getting plowed, huh? I think she’s okay, though. She wasn’t hurt, just shook.” I hadn’t seen Angela since it happened. And she wasn’t in the locker room, where she should be post-game. I’d already made up my mind I’d track her down before I left the stadium, to see for myself she really was okay, and I hadn’t fractured any bones. I’d caught her hard, resulting whiplash wouldn’t be that weird.
The male reporter chuckled, his recorder bobbing in the air. “And all thanks to you. Would you suggest the NFL start issuing pads for all those unprotected bystanders that crowd the field?”
“It’s not a bad idea.”
Answering questions after a loss is never fun, and as I left the locker room after meeting with the trainers to get iced-up, play after play sheeted my mind and I couldn’t stop obsessing over my fuck up. Angela had fallen off the grid, too. I hadn’t been able to find her, no one I asked had seen her, and her phone was sending my calls to voicemail. I didn’t leave answerphone messages.
Outside the stadium, I signed autographs that seemed to last forever, and as some of the other guys left with their families or girlfriends, I left alone, plugging my phone when I was in the car and getting Angel on the line.
“Are you driving?” she asked.
“Pulling out of the stadium now.”
“I watched the game. I’m sorry you lost, and I know you’re beating up on yourself but, turnover aside, you should’ve won today.”
“Should have. But we didn’t.” In a game situation, I couldn’t ask for more than to be blocked for and my receivers to be open. When you’re given all of that and you’re the reason the opposition takes possession, you don’t let it go. You take the blame, harboring it like your life depends on it. “How’s your day been so far?”
“I’m still in my sweats and I haven’t brushed my teeth. That about sum it up for you?”
“You alone?”
“Yeah, I didn’t feel like company. Although, I did watch the game with a family size bag of Cheetos. It’s empty now. Am I grossing you out?”
I switched on the AC and clipped my phone to the dash as I drove. “You wouldn’t know how to.”
“How’s um… what’s her name? She took a pretty nasty hit. From you.”
“She was seconds from taking worse.”
“Julian?”
“Yeah.” I set the AC level, lowering the dial so I could hear Angel clearly. Her tone sounded off.
There was a formidable dose of silence from her end. “Nothing. Just wishing I was there with you. Certain days are easier than others, you know? Then you’re up there on TV and it sucks that that’s where you stay. I mean, it’s nice, and I appreciate that I can see you. But it does make me want more.”
I’d happily give her more. All I needed was the go-ahead. “Live with me. Miami has good schools—we have ice rinks.”
“Please stop it. This is why I don’t like saying this stuff do you.”
“I’m not going to apologize for wanting my girlfriend to share the same zip code as me.”
“Then don’t apologize, just stop pressuring me.” She was annoyed.
“You tell me you miss me, and you want more, and I just keep quiet about it?” I drove by a Burger King and my stomach clenched, reminding me to eat. I wouldn’t touch the fast food joint, but I’d refuel once I got home.
“Tell me you miss me, too.”
“Because that never gets boring.”
“We agreed—”
“And things change.” I wasn’t following a structured pattern here, I let spill what I thought. Fuck the consequences. “Marry me? Is that what it’ll take? It’ going to happen at some point. Why not now? Would that ease your doubts about moving?”
The smile was back in Angel’s voice. She thought I was being funny. “I’m flattered by your sweet and forced proposal, but I think you’re more than aware it wouldn’t. Me choosing to stay here doesn’t revolve around financial security.”
“Fine, I give up—for today. Enjoy the rest of the night in your sweats.” I overtook the car in front, speeding along the expressway. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Do you still love me?” she asked.
Did I still love her?
“More than I did ten minutes ago.”
I stared blankly at Dr. Saskia and she looked back at me with an expression even blander, waiting for me to acknowledge how she’d just torn down another seam of my fragile world. “Pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“No,” I dumbly managed to say.
“I’m sorry, I can see this isn’t what you wanted to hear.”
No shit. This couldn’t be right. “Are you sure?” I asked. “I’ve had periods. I thought this was like a water infection or something. Could you check again?”
Dr. Saskia’s tone softened. “There’s no need for more tests. I’m ninety-nine percent sure of your condition.”
“Only ninety-nine, huh?” Coercing a smile was h
arder than I thought it would be, and I felt more inclined to breaking down into tears. This was too much for me. Sitting here in this cold, air-conditioned room, stifled by the worst news I could have been given. In my eyes, in my head, as I sat there backed into an emotional corner, a death sentence wouldn’t have upset or shocked me any more. This felt like the end for me.
This was not good news. In any way.
This was waking up in the middle of a nightmare only to find you’re still trapped in it. But it did explain my groggy moods and fatigue.
“Angel, are you okay?” The concern on the Doctor’s face brought me back into the room. Back to confront what I thought I’d never have to. At least, not for many more years.
“I can’t have a baby,” was all that I could say. Because I couldn’t. That just wasn’t on the cards for me.
“You should go home and think about this. Give the news time to sink in.”
Should I? Would thinking about it change my mind? Drive me insane seemed a more appropriate outcome.
Ruefully, I said, “Okay.” It was robotic sounding, my mind cramped with worries and concerns I wasn’t strong enough to handle or organize. How did I go about processing this? And what was I going to tell Julian?
I looked up at the nurse. I must have been wearing my searing distress on my face.
“Go home and relax. I’ll schedule a follow-up appointment with the obstetrician-gynecologist.”
“For what?” It was such a ridiculous question, but my brain was whirring a mile a minute.
“We’ll need to carry out a scan to accurately track how far along in the pregnancy you are. And to generally make certain that baby is well, and so are you.”
My pregnancy.
My God, was this woman really talking to me?
“Do you know when this could have happened? The last time you had sexual intercourse?”
I frowned as I worked to slot the pieces in place. “No,” I eventually said, factoring in the periods I’d definitely had. I distinctly remembered the cramps that accompanied them. “Not that often, really. My boyfriend lives in Miami and we don’t see each other regularly. I take my birth control pills every day.”
Losing Seven (Falling for Seven Book 2) Page 12